Oh, how cruel he was to deny that she was beautiful when Wakefield had so positively said that she was!
Wakefield was asking—“Is that the one you have eleven photographs of, Renny?”
“Yes. She was always being photographed.”
“Ah, then I have you,” said Wake. “You admit that she was a beauty. Pauline is beautiful. There is a great difference.”
Renny threw Finch a delighted look, as though to say— “See how this young one is coming on!”
Finch looked glum.
Pauline peered down at the three, scarcely able to breathe for the pounding of her heart. What if she were discovered? She would never be able to face them again. She saw the faces of the two younger, each feature clear in the morning light. But Renny’s face she could not see clearly. She saw it distorted as though through tears.
Clara Lebraux appeared from the stable, carrying on her back a sack filled with straw. She wore a man’s overall, and her cotton shirt, open at the neck, showed her rounded throat and chest as brown as mahogany. Her hair was the colour of a straw that was caught in its short denseness. Her round eyes regarded her visitors with an expression of confident friendliness.
She threw down the sack and shook hands—an agreeable smell of clean straw and warm clean flesh coming from her person.
“What have you there?” asked Renny.
“Litter for the cubs.”
She looked appraisingly at Finch. “You’ve improved,” she observed in her brusque way. “I hear you’re becoming famous.”
He blushed. “Heavens, no!”
“Well, you’ve given recitals in London.”
“I’ve a long road ahead before I become famous.”
“Are you giving any here?”
“I hope to.”
Renny said—“He is going to rest and play about for a while first. I’ve brought him over to see Pauline.”
“I thought she was out here,” answered Mrs. Lebraux. She glanced up toward Pauline’s accustomed seat, glimpsed her warning face and turned hastily away. “We’ll go indoors and find her,” she said, moving in the direction of the house.
Finch, too, had seen Pauline and followed the others, amused and curious.
They went into the shabby dining room, and Mrs. Lebraux produced a bottle of Scotch and a syphon of soda. Both boys refused a drink, but Renny mixed one for himself and another slightly weaker for Clara Lebraux. With hers in her hand she went to the foot of the stairs and called—“Pauline!”
A voice answered from above and in a moment the young girl appeared, tall, pale, her skirt much too short for fashion, revealing her thin straight legs. She had the look, as Renny had said, of a startled foal, and Finch’s first thought was one of disappointment that she had not developed more. Then he saw her beautifully shaped eyes, her smile of a proud child, and thought—“She’s not what Wake said, but she’s fascinating.”
Her eyes searched his face, for she was afraid that he had seen her. But he successfully hid his knowledge and gave her a gently reassuring look. He held her long cool hand in his a little longer than was formal.
Renny said—“I’ve been showing Finch the sight of Vaughan’s subdivision.”
“I hope he was properly horrified. We think it a great shame,” said Clara Lebraux.
“He was so horrified that he is inclined to buy the land from Vaughan and become a bulwark of Jalna.”
“He’s the moneyed one of our family, you know,” put in Wakefield.
“What a splendid idea,” said Clara Lebraux.
Finch laughed uncomfortably. “My brothers are joking.”
“Of course we are,” agreed Renny heartily, and turned to talk in an undertone to Pauline.
Clara said to Finch—“Renny is more deeply disturbed by this talk of subdividing and building bungalows than he shows.”
Finch nodded sympathetically, but could not agree as to Renny’s reticence.
“I’m afraid nothing can be done,” he said, a note of firmness, of self-defence, in his voice.
“No. Nothing can be done. First it was the trees. And now this. It’s hard luck for him.”
“I think all the family feel it,” said Finch.
“Of course.” But her glance in Renny’s direction said— “He is the only one who matters to me.”
“I’m sorry for the Vaughans too,” she added. “They feel that they must do it, and yet they feel guilty.”
Wakefield had gone to a gramophone that stood in the small bay window and was looking over some records. Finch had a sudden vivid recollection of him as a small boy investigating the contents of the cabinet of Indian curios while his elders were too busy with their talk to notice him.
Wakefield said—“Let’s have a dance. I’ve brought Finch over especially to see what a lovely dancer Pauline is.”
“At eleven o’clock in the morning!” exclaimed Clara Lebraux. “You forget that Pauline and I are farm hands!”
“I am panting,” returned the boy, “to dance with you in your present costume. Do let us be merry, as my grandmother used to say, for in fifty years or so we die.”
Pauline looked eagerly from one to the other. “Whom shall I dance with?” she asked. “Mummy needn’t pretend that we don’t dance at this hour, for we do. She and I do tangos at any odd moment.”
“Listen to that!” exclaimed Renny. “She’ll show you up for the laggard you are, Clara!”
“Shall we shoot the dining table into the parlour?” asked Wakefield. “Or shall we dance round it and into the hall?”
“Shoot it out,” returned Clara Lebraux briefly.
The table was pushed through the archway into the parlour. Wakefield put on a record and gave it a little push. Outside a fox was barking, but the sound was quickly drowned by the arrogant passion of a syncopated one-step.
“Let joy be unrefined!” cried Wakefield, and danced toward Clara Lebraux with inviting arms.
They were an amusing sight dancing together, he in his well-fitting grey flannels, she in her baggy overalls and ruffled tow hair. Finch watched, smiling and rather shy. He did not want to dance this dance with Pauline, and he was relieved when Renny laughingly put his arm about her and swept her into it.
The two couples danced up and down the room. Finch watched them with a smile that had both indulgence and deprecation in it, as though he were watching children whom he longed to join, yet fearing that he could not sufficiently let himself go. His mind vibrated between the hope that he might remain an onlooker and the desire to hold Pauline in his arms. What was the expression in her eyes as she looked up into Renny’s face? Utter trust—pleading—or a moth-like fascination? Her movements were extraordinarily supple and showed unexpected strength. And Renny danced as well as he rode…
The record was finished. Only a protesting buzz came from the gramophone. Wake dashed to it, wound it up, turned the record over, and bowed in front of Pauline. What a vain youngster he was! Always dashing about, posturing, even though it was scarcely noon and he dancing to a tinny gramophone. Finch hoped he would not have to dance with Mrs. Lebraux in that overall. He should feel idiotic. He turned to the window embarrassed and showed a pretended interest in a controversy going on among small birds in an apple tree.
This was a languid, sensuously stressed waltz. The beat of it swept through his nerves with passionate melancholy. When he looked back into the room the partners had changed. Wakefield and Pauline floated together in a happy embrace. Mrs. Lebraux and Renny, with impassive faces, turned and turned again, their heads encircled by the wreath of smoke from a cigarette she had lighted.
When the waltz was over Renny looked at his wristwatch and exclaimed that they must be off as he had something to attend to before dinner.
V
FAREWELL TO LEIGH
A FORTNIGHT LATER Finch picked up a paper and read an account of the drowning of his friend Arthur Leigh at a resort on the St. Lawrence. He and his wife had been caught in a squall while sailing and the
ir boat had been swamped. They had clung to the overturned boat, but Leigh had soon become exhausted and let go. Several hours had passed before Mrs. Leigh had been rescued, but she was, although suffering from shock and exposure, progressing favourably.
After the first painful start Finch read and reread the account with a numbed feeling. He said nothing of it to anyone, but went to his room, trying to realise what had happened, trying to believe that he would never see Arthur again, trying to put out of his mind the thought of Sarah.
One thing filled him with an aching surprise, and that was his lack of any poignant grief. Arthur… his dearest friend… his first passionately loved comrade… and he could think without agony of his tragic death and wonder—with a quiver of the nerves—what it would mean to him!
Sarah… How her coming had changed his feeling toward his friend! He had never really forgiven Arthur for taking her from him, even though he had done it unknowingly. He recalled how Arthur had poured out to him the ecstasy and fear of his love. He remembered too how the ecstasy seemed always to be shadowed by the fear, how Arthur had seemed to dread being alone with Sarah. What had they made of their married life? he wondered. He had ceased even to write to them, allowing a coolness unacknowledged to grow up between him and them.
He sat down and buried his face in his hands, in order that he might recall their two faces the more clearly. Arthur’s, smooth, bright with the brightness of an untroubled boyhood. Had he ever in his life been crossed, gibed at? Not unless Sarah… But could she, could any woman with a heart, bear to hurt Arthur? Had Sarah a heart? She had passion but that was different… He saw her white, still face, her small, withdrawn mouth, secret between the arched nose and prominent chin. He saw her small cold-looking ears, the rigid plaits of her black hair… Arthur’s face retreated from him, submerged, lost in the waters of the St. Lawrence; only Sarah’s was left in its tormenting sweetness.
At last he could bear thinking of her no longer. He got up and went quickly down the stairs to Augusta’s bedroom. He tapped on the door and her deep voice said—“Come in.” She was sitting by the window sewing a button on a large white nightdress. She took off her spectacles and looked at him encouragingly, for in her opinion Finch needed encouragement.
“Auntie,” he said jerkily, “I’ve had bad news.”
She drew in her chin and her eyes widened.
“Yes? What is it, my dear?”
“It’s about Arthur Leigh. You liked him, didn’t you, Auntie?”
“Very much… Is he dead, Finch?”
“Yes. He was drowned yesterday.” He repeated what had happened.
Augusta’s sallow skin had turned pale. She reiterated:
“This is very sad! Dear me—the poor boy’s mother!”
Finch asked—“What about Sarah, Auntie? Don’t you pity her?”
“Sarah will bear up,” said Augusta cryptically.
Nicholas came in, following a loud knock. He carried the newspaper in his hand.
“I see that you know,” he said. “I was just coming to find you. It is a great pity, isn’t it?”
“It’s awful for Sarah, isn’t it, Uncle Nick?”
“Yes, yes, of course. But it is the poor lad himself I am thinking of. That girl always struck me as a heartless hussy.”
Finch was strangely glad to hear these words on his uncle’s lips… “A heartless hussy,” he repeated to himself.
Some days after he sought out Eden, who had known Arthur and Sarah during their short courtship. Eden was looking splendid, he thought. It was difficult to think of him as having been ill a few months before. Meggie had done wonders for him. He had quite taken possession of the Vaughans’ sitting room and they thought twice before entering it. He sat now, with writing things about him, and a worried expression on his handsome face.
“It’s very disappointing,” he said, “that Leigh should go off like this just when I counted on him to help me to some sort of job.”
Finch was not shocked at Eden’s callousness. Indeed he was not at all sure that it was callousness. Eden simply bowed his head to the arbitrary workings of fate. He was not given to self-pity, except in the form of occasional petulant remarks.
“It is too bad,” agreed Finch. “What did you think of doing?”
“Anything! I can’t sponge indefinitely on Meg and Maurice with the wolf at their door. I had thought that Leigh, with his connections, might get me appointed as lecturer in English somewhere or other. Or even in an office or bank. I’ve tried all the newspapers but the editors don’t want anything. I showed one of them some articles on Paris and London but he wasn’t interested in Paris or London. I suppose I’ll end in running an elevator.”
“I should think that any of those indoor jobs would be bad for you. You should have outdoor work.”
Eden drew a woman’s face of the classic type on the blotter in front of him and said irrelevantly:
“I suppose Sarah will be left awfully well off.”
“She’ll be rich. Leigh’s mother and sister are well provided for. I expect he would leave everything to Sarah.”
A mischievous smile lit up Eden’s face.
“Now is your opportunity. That girl was crazy about you. She cared nothing about Leigh. Meg tells me that they were unhappy together. You’re a fool if you don’t—”
“Shut up!” exclaimed Finch. “If you have no sense of decency, I have. You talk like this, and they probably haven’t even found Arthur’s body yet!” His voice broke. “Don’t you care in the least that he is dead?”
A bleakness came over Eden’s face, giving it a closed-in look. He ran his hand quickly over his hair and picked up a freshly sharpened pencil. He said:
“I wish you wouldn’t come bothering me, just when I’ve something worth while in my head.”
Finch sprang up offended. “Sorry… I’m going now. I want to find Meg.” He reddened with anger.
Meg was all sympathy, crying over young Leigh as she ate toasted currant bun from a tray in her own room.
“That’s just the way,” she said. “The young and beautiful are taken. As for me, I’ve never really got over Gran’s death. Sometimes I see her in my dreams, clearer than life. And the strange thing is, Finch darling, that she always says to me— ‘Margaret’—and she never called me that—’Margaret, I intended that you should have my ruby ring.’ Isn’t it uncanny?”
“Very uncanny, Meg.”
“And isn’t it impressive?”
“Awfully.”
“Why do you suppose she calls me Margaret in the dream?”
“Well, they go by contraries, don’t they?”
“Yes, but there is nothing contrary about her way of telling me that she intended me to have the ruby ring … Just think—all that I—her only granddaughter—got from her beautiful belongings was her huge gold watch, which I couldn’t possibly carry, and her old Indian shawl that her parrot used to make a nest in. Even little Patience thought it very strange when I told her. She said—’Mummie, those were funny things for great-grannie to give you.’”
“Why, look here, Meggie,” said Finch suddenly, “I’d like to have Gran’s watch and shawl, if you don’t mind parting with them.”
The Vaughans were considerably behind with the payments of the interest on the mortgage which Finch held on their house. Meg looked flurried. “Do you mean—” she stammered, “do you want—I know we’re behind with the interest—”
“No, no, I was not thinking of the interest. I was just thinking I’d buy those things off you—if you don’t mind.” He gave his deprecating, rather troubled smile.
Meg laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sure you’d love to have the watch and the shawl, dear. As you got all her money it would be nice for you to have some of her personal belongings too.”
Finch winced, and mumbled—“Oh, I don’t know—I only thought—well, I always liked her watch and the colours in the shawl…”
“Of course! And so do I! They’re perfectly lovely, a
nd if I had got the ring too—I’d have adored them. But you must confess that it’s rather hard for me—her only granddaughter—to see other women wearing her jewellery. I don’t mind Aunt Augusta, because she is Gran’s only daughter, and I can endure Alayne, because she is Renny’s wife, and all he got was her painted bedstead, but to see Pheasant—an illegitimate girl and the wife of a younger brother—sporting that gorgeous ruby, stirs me to my deepest depths!”
“Yes, it is hard,” agreed Finch heavily. “Look here, Meggie, I don’t believe you had better part with those things. After all, it would hardly be right, when Gran left them to you.”
“But I want you to have them!” cried Meg dramatically. “The moment one of my brothers expresses a wish for anything, my one desire is to get it for him if it is within my power.”
“Yes, but Meggie…”
“Not a word! You shall have the watch and the shawl— even though they are all I have.”
A tightness came in Finch’s throat at the realisation of Meg’s selflessness. She saw that he was deeply touched, and the ready tears filled her own eyes.
“Well,” he said, “since you insist. But, of course, I must pay you a decent price for them.”
A pucker dented Meg’s smooth forehead. “Oh, I wish I were in a position to give them to you absolutely! It is so cruel to have always to think of money.”
“I know. I know.”
“But—since I must! Let me see—a watch like Gran’s could never be worth less than two hundred dollars, and—do you know, they say those old Indian shawls are a fabulous price. Queen Victoria used always to give them for wedding presents.”
“Did she really?” Finch looked rather alarmed.
“And I suppose Gran would scarcely have left it to me— her only granddaughter—if it had not been worth a good deal… But I’d never dream of asking you more than a pittance for it. Give me—say, four hundred—no, a bare three hundred and fifty for the two and I’ll be perfectly satisfied… Except for wishing that I could afford to give them to you!”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 296