Philip had returned to the orchard. Boards laid on trestles made a table for the array of baskets which Pheasant and Nook were packing with the reddest apples, Maurice thought, he had ever seen. Philip was bringing them the apples from a great mound on the ground. Pheasant cried:
“It’s a perfect shame to be working on your first day home, Mooey, but these apples must be put on the train at two o’clock. We’re slaves here, aren’t we, Adeline? Don’t be so rough with the apples, Philip! And look here, Nook, don’t you go putting the best ones on the top or we shall get a bad name.”
“I don’t do it to be dishonest,” said Nook. “But just because they look prettier that way.”
“Everyone expects the best apples to be on the top,” said Adeline, tersely. “I looked into some baskets at the market and they all had. And I asked the man and he said they all had.”
“I’d put the best on top,” Philip declared, “and I’d put rotten ones underneath.”
“You little scoundrel!” Pheasant gave him a look, half-stern, half-laughing.
“Not rotten,” said Adeline. “Just not quite so round and rosy. They’d taste just as good.”
“what would those underneath be like in Ireland, Mooey?” asked Pheasant, her eyes caressing him.
“Oh, they’d be rotten enough.”
He took off his jacket and set to work. But he was slow, unaccustomed. The heat was almost intolerable to him. Every time he was near to Pheasant she touched him. She could scarcely believe that she had him back. She said:
“No one of us is going to do a hand’s turn of work this afternoon. We shall just give ourselves up to the joy of having you back. We’re going to have a picnic tea on the lawn and Mrs. Wragge is making ice cream!”
“Hurrah!” shouted Philip.
“Hurrah!” shouted Nook, putting a misshapen apple in the bottom of the basket he was packing.
Maurice felt like one in a dream. The half-forgotten life of his childhood had opened to receive him, had taken him back. Its walls had closed behind him. He thought of September in County Meath. He drew back to him the picture of Glengorman in September, the hushed cool meadows, the river that seemed scarcely to move, and how it gave back, almost unbroken, the reflection of the slow-flying heron. And the life with Dermot Court! He had been the cherished child of the old man. From the moment he had entered the house he had done just as he had pleased, he could do no wrong. He had been the white-haired boy.
And now he was home again — where it had once seemed to him that he could do nothing to please his father. Now he was one of many. He did not know what to say to his young brothers. All about him was an activity in which he would be expected to take a part. There was something new, purposeful and practical, in his mother. She was asking:
“Can you drive a car, Mooey?”
“Yes, indeed I can,” he answered.
“Oh, that’s splendid! You will be able to drive the truck to the station. It takes such a lot of Wright’s time and puts him completely out of temper.”
A strange feeling of loneliness came over Maurice.
II
FINCH’S RETURN
A MONTH LATER Finch Whiteoak was walking along the country road, on his way from the railway station to Jalna. He had taken the local line from the city, not sending word home to say when he would arrive. He wanted the exercise of the walk after the long rail journey across the continent and he wanted to be alone. Yet he was scarcely alone, for with him walked, ran, trudged, or loitered the many selves of his childhood and boyhood who had traversed this road.
It was October and the countryside had already felt the sharpness of frost. Summer was reluctantly giving way to the coming of winter. Like the banners of a defeated army the trees hung out their scarlet, their gold, and their green. Finch took off his hat that he might feel the crispness of the air on his head. Three days, four nights on the train — he could still feel the vibration.
He had a vision of himself as a small boy seated beside his grandmother in her phaeton, moving sedately along the road on a summer’s day, behind the glistening flanks of the bays. He could see her handsome old face, framed in her widow’s veil which fell voluminously over her shoulders and down her back. Her expression was purposeful, as it always was when she set out on any expedition, however small. Sitting beside her in the phaeton with Hodge, the coachman’s, back looming in front of him, with the hooves of the bays thudding rhythmically on the smooth road, he had felt more secure, more sheltered from the world than at any other time. Well, she had been dead sixteen years, a long while. A good deal had happened to him since then. He threw back his shoulders, as though he were freeing them from a burden, and took a long breath. He would let the freshness of the morning penetrate through all his being.
He had not seen Jalna for a year. During the winter and spring he had given a series of concerts in the large cities. Now he was returning from a trip to the Pacific Coast where he had played to Canadian and American servicemen. He was going home for rest he badly needed. He felt humiliated that he was so often tired, that periodic long rests were so often necessary to him. What was wrong with him, he wondered? There was his youngest brother, Wakefield, who had been a delicate boy with a weak heart and a poor appetite, while he himself had been strong and able to digest anything — always hungry. Yet Wakefield had outgrown his weakness. He was a flyer who had seen long hard service, had been decorated for great courage, and now was an instructor in a flying school out West. He had had hard experiences in his private life too.
Finch Whiteoak was a distinguished-looking man. He strode along the country road, long-legged, with a kind of angular grace. His features were strongly marked, his lips sensitive, the hollows in his cheeks emphasizing these qualities. He walked so fast that a fresh colour had appeared in his face when he turned into the drive. He ran up the steps of the porch and entered the house. At that instant his brother Renny’s wife came out of the library and almost collided with him. She was carrying a vase in which there were little bronze and yellow chrysanthemums. She had worn a look of anxious concentration which had turned, first to dismay, as she had almost dropped the vase, then to pleasure at the sight of Finch.
“why, Finch,” she exclaimed. “You here! How nice! why didn’t you send us word to meet you?”
“I wanted the walk.” He kissed her cheek and took the vase from her. “where shall I put it?” he asked.
“Just there on the table. Do come and sit down. I want to talk to you before you go to see the uncles.”
They went into the library, where at this hour the sun blazed.
“where are the dogs?” he asked, feeling a lack in the room.
“Outdoors.” She spoke firmly, as though it had not been without struggle that she had kept them there.
“Oh … How are the uncles?”
“Just fairly well. They’re still up in their rooms. Are you hungry, Finch? Will you have something to eat now or wait till lunch?”
“I’ll wait, thanks.”
“Have some coffee.”
“I’d love that. But first tell me how you are getting on.”
Alayne made a gesture of despair. “You can imagine. It’s impossible to get help. There’s an enormous crop of apples. How they’re to be picked, graded, and shipped, heaven only knows. Rags and his wife are out in the orchard now. We had the threshers yesterday. We’re half-dead.”
He made noises of sympathy. “No wonder,” he exclaimed. Then he added admiringly, “But you always look so nice, Alayne.”
She gave a faint smile. “Thanks. See how white my hair has got.”
“It’s lovely. Becoming too.”
“It’s not much wonder I’m white.”
“No. Have you heard from Renny lately?”
“I had a letter last week. He’s still in Italy. He’s well. I believe he could have got leave if he’d tried hard enough. But he seems to think he’s indispensable. Other officers aren’t.”
“Of course he’s
a colonel now.”
“Yes. Just think — he went over in the spring of 1940. I haven’t seen him since. When he and Piers come home — if they ever do — they’ll be different men.”
“They’ll not change, Alayne.”
She gave a little shrug. “Perhaps not. But they’ll find the rest of us greatly changed. They’ll not recognize their own children. Why, Finch, you should see Maurice. He’s a young man. He’s charming. But Piers won’t understand him or get on with him — even as well as he used. As for Philip, his mother can do nothing with him. Maurice has had several actual fights with him, trying to make him behave.”
“Hmph.” Finch’s expression became grim. “I pity him when Piers comes home. How are your own children, Alayne?”
Her face lighted in pride. “Oh, they are developing wonderfully. Adeline amazes me. When I think of what I was at her age! Really I was a baby. She will take on any sort of responsibility. I honestly believe she thinks of herself as the master of Jalna while Renny is away. She’s as strong as a pony.”
“And Archer?”
“He has a remarkable mind and a will like iron. He thinks everything out for himself.”
Again Finch muttered, “Hmph.” A nice lot were growing up at Jalna.
He did not ask for Roma, his dead brother Eden’s daughter. He knew that the child’s presence in the house was a sore point with Alayne.
They went to the basement kitchen and Alayne made coffee. The kitchen, with its brick floor, its deep fireplace, was quiet and warm. They sat down by the table to drink the coffee and Finch lighted a cigarette. It was not till then that Alayne said:
“Would you like to tell me something about your — separation from Sarah?”
“It’s not a separation. It’s a divorce. Or soon will be. As you know, she went to Reno and got what they call a divorce there. Now I’ve filed a petition in Ottawa. God knows I have grounds for it!”
“She has married again, hasn’t she?”
“Yes. To a Russian.”
“And you will be free to marry!”
“I don’t think I shall risk it again.”
“I think you’re very sensible.”
He gave a little laugh. “But you did, Alayne. You married again.”
“Yes,” she returned calmly, “but I was in love with Renny before my divorce from Eden. I don’t think you’re in love with anyone, are you?”
“Not a bit. And don’t intend to be.”
After a silence she said, “I think you should go to see the uncles. They’ll be so delighted. Life is pretty dull for them these days. We all are so busy.” She felt that Finch did not want to talk about himself. She saw that he was nervously tired.
He looked about the kitchen. “How peaceful it is here!” he said. “God, what a world! I’d like to stay down here till the war is over.”
“You’d not find the Wragges very peaceful company. They’re really terrible but I don’t know how we should have got on without them.”
A bell jangled violently. Alayne looked up at the row of bells on the wall. “That is Uncle Nick’s,” she said. “I wonder what he wants.”
She sighed, like a poor overworked housewife. Was this the Alayne, Finch wondered, who, in the old days, had never raised her hand unless she chose. Now she said:
“They’re not so feeble as they think they are. It is simply that they’ve been waited on hand and foot all their lives. They’re spoilt.”
“Don’t you come,” said Finch. “I’ll get whatever it is Uncle Nick wants.”
“Thanks. But don’t go in too suddenly.”
“I’ll whistle as I go.”
The bell rang again.
“That’s the way they go on,” exclaimed Alayne, “I wonder the Wragges stand it.”
Finch ran up the stairs. Nicholas was standing in the passage outside his bedroom. He extended both arms to Finch. He gathered him in and embraced him. He said:
“I heard your voice below. I couldn’t wait. I wanted to see you. Gad, what a long time it seems! Ernest! Here’s Finch!”
Ernest came out of his room. “Come right into my room,” he said. “We’ll have a good talk. You look well, dear boy, but a little tired. How nice it is to have you home again! Mooey is back. Did you know that Mooey is back? A different boy. So improved. Such good manners. Not that he wasn’t a gentle boy. But now he has a manner. He’s grown up. Ireland’s been good for him.”
The two old men placed Finch in an armchair and beamed down at him.
“Did you get the newspaper cuttings I sent?” asked Finch.
“Yes, yes,” answered Ernest. “They were very good. Very appreciative. We’re very proud of you. Proud of all our nephews. But we do miss you. Things are very different here. Alayne does the best she can, poor girl, but she has no real executive ability.”
“Alayne does very well,” put in Nicholas.
Ernest continued, “But she has no real authority over the Wragges. They do as they like. She cannot control the children and, if we try to do it for her, she doesn’t like it. She gets quite upset.”
“I pulled Archer’s ear for him yesterday,” muttered Nicholas.
“She didn’t like that — not at all,” said Ernest.
“Neither did he! Neither did he! But have you seen Adeline? She’s a beautiful girl, Finch.”
“No, I haven’t seen her. I’ve just come.”
Nicholas regarded him quizzically. “Been getting divorced, eh?”
“Yes, Uncle Nick.”
“Just like me, eh?”
“Yes.”
“That’s right. If wives misbehave, get rid of them. Who’s this fellow she has married?”
“A Russian. I can’t pronounce his name. Ends in ski.”
Nicholas blew out his breath. “Well, well — ski, eh? I’ll bet he gets away with every dollar of her money.”
“what a pity!” said Ernest. “So much could have been done with a nice fortune like that.”
“I don’t want any of it,” exclaimed Finch, hotly.
“Not for your family’s sake?” Ernest asked reprovingly.
“Well, perhaps for them.”
“what does this Russian do?” enquired Nicholas.
“Nothing, that I know of.”
“what about your little boy?”
“I am to have him with me a part of the time.”
“How old is he?”
“He will be four on Christmas Eve.”
“Yes, I remember.”
Ernest remarked, “It seems strange to think that a man, with a name ending in ski, should bring up a Whiteoak.”
Finch laughed. “He will have nothing to say about the bringing up. Sarah allows no interference.”
“You seem oddly detached about your son,” said Ernest. “That is unusual in our family.”
A flush came into Finch’s cheeks. He said, “Everything has been unusual in my connection with Sarah. Even my relations with her child.”
“Her child!”
“Our child, then.”
“Sarah was a damned queer woman from the first,” rumbled Nicholas. “when she went off with that Russian you should have got an order from the courts to give you complete possession of the boy.”
“Sarah is an adoring mother. I’m not an adoring father. Dennis scarcely seems like my child.”
“Yet you have always been so fond of the children of the family,” exclaimed Ernest.
“I know.”
“Are you in doubt as to whether the child is yours?” asked Nicholas, his large, deep-set eyes searching Finch’s face.
“I’m positive he is.” After a moment he added, “If I weren’t so positive I might have been a happier man — if you know what I mean.”
“That woman,” said Nicholas, “concentrated every atom of her queer being on you. I’ve never seen the equal of it. It doesn’t do.” He took his pipe from his pocket and began to fill it.
“How do you think Alayne looks?” asked Ernest.
> “Rather tired.”
“She fusses too much,” declared Ernest. “From morning to night she thinks of things that ought to be done or shouldn’t have been done. Now I look at it this way: here we are — helpless, you might say. There is a war. We’ve got to accept things as they come. Our little doings are so paltry compared to the stupendous happenings in Europe, they’re not worth worrying about.”
“Then why do you worry,” asked his brother, “when your meals are late?”
“Because late meals give me indigestion. I am fearful of becoming ill and adding to the burdens of the household.”
Nicholas winked at Finch.
“Grand old boy, your Uncle Ernest,” he said. “Never fusses. Never gives any trouble.”
Ernest smiled good-humouredly. The two settled down for a long conversation with Finch. The familiar quality of this atmosphere which was of the very essence of Jalna, closed in about Finch. His concerts, his long train journeys, seemed far away and unreal. Here was his reality. No matter if it were extraordinary to other people, it was his reality. Looking back on his life with Sarah he saw how she had laid waste its freshness and its vigour. Almost from the first he had felt something insensate in her. She was a figure in porcelain who somehow had managed to inspire passion in him, to devastate his life. But now he was free of her. Never again! The grip of those arms … those lips … but now he was free and in his own place! He was not the man he might have been if he had never known her. On the other hand he could look back on the poignant spasm of his desire for her as a thing conquered, outlived. Perhaps the great love of his life lay ahead. With the surface of his mind he basked in the company of the two old men. In its depths he explored his past.
Late in the day he wandered alone through the fields and woods. The land lay in the dreaming beauty of Indian summer. It was many months since he had been weary from outdoor exercise. He turned toward the stables, thinking he might find Adeline there. It was likely she would pay the horses a visit soon after her return from school. He remembered his own school days and how hard it had been to spend the lovely fall months in those journeyings on train and long sessions in classrooms.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 399