“How do you know I have him in my room?”
Althea gave a little smile. “Don’t ask me to go into details,” she said.
“There’s one thing certain,” Gem said fiercely. “He never entered my room till after Eugene’s death.”
“But he made love to you.”
“I’m flesh and blood. I’d have gone mad if I hadn’t had something to make me forget Eugene.” And she added, — “I love him. You don’t know what it is to love a man.”
“Oh, don’t I?”
Gem spoke in a softer tone. “I don’t want to drive you away by this marriage, Althea. You must stay on here.”
Althea opened wide her light blue eyes, as in horror.
“Me stay on?” she cried. “In the house with that man? Never.”
The blood rushing to her face, Gem demanded, — “where shall you go? You can’t earn your living.”
“I soon shall be able to. I’m going to New York to live with Molly. I shall keep house for her in her apartment and go to a school of designing. It’s all arranged.”
“Have you told Molly all you know?”
“Yes.”
“what a filthy trick!”
“I don’t look at it that way,” Althea said calmly. “I had to be prepared.”
After a pause Gem asked, — “what does Molly think?
“She says nothing you do will surprise her.”
The Great Dane, which had gone into the kitchen, now came to the doorway, looked at Althea, and uttered a demanding bark.
“what about him?” asked Gem.
“Finch Whiteoak is going to keep him for me.”
“what! Did you arrange that today — in those few minutes?”
“Oh, no, it’s all been arranged for a month.”
She went into the kitchen and began to prepare the dog’s supper, he barking his approval.
Gem darted through the front door and round to where the car was parked. She had sold the larger of the two. Raikes was lounging against the car, smoking. “Oh, Tom,” she panted, breathless, — “Althea is going. She’s going to our sister Molly in New York. Isn’t it wonderful? We shall be alone!”
XXVIII
FINCH AND HIS PLANS
In spite of his sorrow over Ernest’s death, and even perhaps because of it, Finch now experienced a fresh urge in life. Autumn, his favourite season of the year, was on the way. He had made no concert engagements till the winter. He was to own Vaughanlands, to be next door to Jalna. Soon he would have builders at work to build him a house, a design like the old house which now stood in ruins, to retain the character of the place. Months of freedom lay ahead of him. For a time he was his own man.
The afterglow of sunset blazed in the west. He turned his steps toward the ruin, no longer a ruin to him but the foundation of a new design in his life. A row of poplars stood between the bungalows and the grounds of the house. These were uninjured by the fire but the first trees to shed their foliage were already sending down showers of yellow heart-shaped leaves. Finch scuffed his way through these and drew a deep breath, inhaling the new scent now added to the air. A rabbit in his path was transfixed into incredible stillness. Then, as Finch took one step farther, it leaped in an electrified arc out of sight among the weeds. Already weeds were taking possession of the garden. Goldenrod, which above all wild growing things Eugene Clapperton had hated, now blazed in insolence. Ragweed was gone to seed. The pale down of milkweed floated in the air. On the unkempt lawns a late blooming of dandelions showed their sprightly heads. Even among the rubble there were delicate green growths. Seeds dropped by birds had taken root and were hastening to grow, as though with the urgency of spring rather than the lassitude of summer’s dying.
Standing in front of the ruin Finch discovered the contemplative figure of Humphrey Bell. He had not met Bell since his return from England. Several times he had been on the point of calling at the Fox Farm but something always had intervened. Now he found himself glad to see him. He strode forward and they shook hands.
Bell said, half-apologetically, — “I thought I’d come over and see what the place is like. I hadn’t been here since the night of the fire.”
“A complete ruin, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It made a terrific blaze. Strange how peaceful a ruin is. Much more peaceful than when there were people about.”
“I suppose that depends on the people,” said Finch, thinking of Ernest.
“Yes. There couldn’t be peace where Mr. Clapperton was.” Bell stared at the ground for a moment, then he raised his eyes to Finch’s face and added, in his gentle voice, — “I used to think I’d like to kill that man.”
“I can’t picture your wanting to kill anyone.”
“You’ve no idea what a temper I have. I’ve had murderous thoughts after a call from Mr. Clapperton. Now — looking at this — I’m sorry.” Bell gave his peculiarly charming smile. “I’m sorry, but — I still hate the thought of him.”
Finch had listened but vaguely. Now he said, — “I’m buying the entire property, with the exception of the bungalow where Mrs. Clapperton lives.”
“You?” Bell cried, in incredulous pleasure. “why — it’s too good to be true.”
“It’s true enough. I’ve just come from making the agreement.”
On a sudden impulse Bell grasped Finch’s hand. “To think I’ll have you for a neighbour, instead of — but what will you live in?”
“The basement of the house is intact. I shall build a new one on it.”
“And will you give up concert work?”
“Not entirely. But I shall be here the greater part of my time.”
“I think,” said Bell, his pale eyelashes flickering, “I think I know the real reason why you’re buying this place.”
“why?” Finch demanded in astonishment.
“To stop the developing. Your eldest brother hates it so. I think you’ve done this for his sake.”
“You’re altogether too clever, Humphrey.” It was the first time Finch had used Bell’s Christian name. This, combined with the almost affectionate tone in which he spoke, brought from Bell what was an outburst.
“It seems too good to be true,” he repeated. “It is splendid. And another lucky thing has happened to me. I’ve sold a story.”
“Good! I am glad.”
“It’s the first one I have sold, and I’ve written I won’t say how many. The fly in the ointment is that it’s the poorest thing I’ve written and I hate the women’s magazine I’ve sold it to. I hate all women’s magazines.”
“Never mind,” said Finch, “it’s a beginning.” He added, — “I believe you hate all women.”
“No, no, no — not all! Nevertheless, it is a pleasant thought to me that you’ll be a single man in this house you’re going to build. But perhaps you’ll not be single for long.”
“Oh, yes, I shall.”
“You’ll have your small boy with you?”
“Y — yes, I suppose so.”
“He’s a nice little chap. Comes to see me sometimes.”
“Don’t let him bother you.”
“He’s no bother. He’s very advanced for his age.”
“You think so? He strikes me as babyish. They’ve spoilt him at Jalna.”
The two walked about the ruin, discussing the difficulties of demolishing it, the plans for the house to be built. Only darkness separated them. As they were parting, Bell asked:
“How is your niece?”
“Adeline? Oh, she’s well.” Finch hesitated, then added, — “In confidence, I’ll tell you that the poor girl has had rather an unfortunate love affair. A penniless Irishman we met on board ship. Of course, it can’t come to anything, but I’m afraid it’s hurt her.”
“Oh, Lord!” said Bell, as though in pain.
“Yes,” agreed Finch.
“I mean —” Bell’s tongue refused to move, but clove to the roof of his mouth.
“She’ll get over it,” Finch reassured him.
“I can’t imagine her falling in love.” The words now came quickly from Bell’s pale lips. “She’s so … aloof.”
Finch gave a short laugh. “You wouldn’t have thought so if — but she’ll get over it.”
Bell turned away. “I won’t,” he muttered to himself.
He turned and almost flung himself along the path, in the direction of the Fox Farm. His small slight figure, his pale colourless hair were visible for only a few moments, then disappeared in the dark.
As Finch neared Jalna he heard a clear penetrating whistle and saw his eldest brother standing in the beam of light from a window. The notes of “A Hundred Pipers and a’” sounded with a certain melancholy, as though the whistler, in pensive mood, were unconscious that he whistled. Finch strode toward him, coming on him from behind and laying his hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve been making a deal,” he said.
Renny wheeled to face him. He said, — “I didn’t hear you coming … what is the deal?” Nothing very interesting, he was sure.
“I’ve just come from Mrs. Clapperton’s. I’ve bought Vaughanlands — lock, stock, and barrel.”
If ever the master of Jalna could have been said to make a squeaking noise he did now. He squeaked in surprise.
“what?” he demanded. “Say that again!”
“I have bought Vaughanlands.”
“How could you?”
“How could I?”
“Yes. Well … what are you paying for it?”
“It’s to be thirty-five thousand dollars — cash.”
Again the master of Jalna squeaked. “Cash! where the devil would you get that much cash?”
Now it was Finch’s turn to make incoherent sounds. He got out, — “what do you suppose I’ve been working for all these years?”
Renny’s brow wrinkled in amazement. “But from music! From playing the piano!” he exclaimed. “It beats me how you’ve done it.”
“Well — I have — and I’ve bought Vaughanlands.”
“You!” Renny looked Finch over in mingled astonishment and delight. “By Judas, you couldn’t have done a better thing with your money! How much have you left?”
Guardedly, Finch said he wasn’t sure.
Renny threw an arm about him and hugged him. “I can’t tell you how glad I am,” he said. “But you should never have made any such deal without consulting me. Why, you might have been horribly done. As it stands you’ve got a good bargain. Vaughanlands is worth considerably more than that. Was a lawyer present?”
“No. Just Tom Raikes.”
“why was he there?”
“You’ve heard the gossip.”
“That scallawag! He’ll make ducks and drakes of her fortune. Now tomorrow I’ll have my lawyer out and we’ll make things watertight.”
“Gem Clapperton wants to keep the bungalow she lives in.”
Renny knit his brows. “Well … we may let her do that.”
Finch thought, — “Upon my word, he’s taking the affair out of my hands already.”
Again Renny regarded him in happy astonishment. “All that money,” he exclaimed, “tucked away — ready to put your hand on when you wanted it! And you couldn’t possibly do a better thing with it. Come — let’s go in and tell the uncles.” He put his hand to his head. “I mean tell Uncle Nick. He’ll be almost as pleased as I.”
Renny took Finch’s arm and guided him, as though he were one to be cherished but one whose footsteps might falter, into the house. In the drawing-room they found the old man sitting by a bright fire and Alayne reading aloud to him. The two made a picture that caused the brothers to hesitate a moment in the doorway. Alayne’s clear voice came to them
“‘She was silent and he got up and walked out of the house. From where she sat she saw him go, twirling his blond moustache with one hand, and viciously flipping at the flowers as he passed with the stick he carried in the other; a fine soldier-like man in appearance certainly, and not wanting in intelligence since he could comprehend her so exactly; but oh, how oppressive whet in an admiring mood! This was her first feeling when she got rid of him, but …’”
Nicholas had seen the reflection of his nephews in the mirror. “Come in,” he exclaimed. “Alayne is reading an old book of my mother’s. Rather silly in spots but better than the new stuff she’s been trying on me.”
“This fellow,” said Renny, putting Finch before him, as though he were an exhibit, “has done an amazingly good thing. He’s bought Vaughanlands.”
Alayne threw Finch a look almost accusing, as though to say, — “Here you go again — throwing your money away!”
Intercepting the glance Renny exclaimed, — “But he got it at a terrific bargain. He couldn’t make a better investment.”
“what is all this about?” Nicholas demanded. “I don’t understand.”
Renny pushed Finch forward. “Tell him yourself,” he said, “in your own words.”
Embarrassed, Finch mumbled what he had done.
“Selling more land,” Nicholas said, in a tone of outrage. “Selling more land, eh? More developing! More bungalows! Ha — a good thing your Uncle Ernest didn’t live to see this day.” He turned his angry eyes on Renny. “If you are selling land, why don’t you tell me yourself instead of asking Finch to do it?”
Renny laughed in triumph. “Not selling, Uncle Nick! Buying. This millionaire, Finch, is buying Vaughanlands.”
As this was being explained to Nicholas, as his strongly marked features were taking on a look of deep satisfaction, Meg, Piers, and Pheasant entered the drawing-room. They had just come down from Ernest’s bedroom where they had been tentatively selecting their choice from his belongings. Ernest had, with great impartiality, bequeathed his money and his personal property to be divided equally among his nephews and niece. The money thus divided among five did not amount to a great deal but was a pleasant windfall, particularly to Piers and Renny.
The three had entered the room with traces of friction on their faces, but this was erased, as by a magic sponge, when they heard the news.
“Oh, I am happy about this,” cried Pheasant. “You couldn’t have done a better thing for all of us.”
“And a mighty good investment,” said Piers. “Gosh, I’m glad!”
“And I hope,” put in Nicholas, “that we’ve seen the last of those horrid Clappertons.”
Meg asked, — “what are you going to do with the house, Finch?”
“I’m going to use the good material to rebuild.”
“Not to sell, I hope.”
“No. To live in myself.”
“Oh, Finch, how lovely!” She threw both arms about his neck. Her eyes filled with happy tears. “And it solves a terrible problem for me. I have been worried to death to know what to do about my house. It is no longer a comfortable place to live in, so near the road and traffic getting worse every day. How different from the quiet country road it was before the war! Dear heart, I am pleased. Now I can sell my house, and Patience and Roma and I will come and live with you and I shall keep house for you. How happy we shall be — all at Vaughanlands together!”
Finch, enfolded in that warm embrace, thought what a dear Meg was … and yet … it was not what he had planned. He would struggle against it. He would. He would.
Piers broke in, — “That’s right, Meggie, arrange everything for him. Don’t give him a chance.” He exchanged an amused glance with Alayne.
Renny added, — “It seems a good plan to me.”
“Poor devil,” said Piers, with commiseration, “in the house with three women.”
“We shall spoil him terribly.” Meg patted Finch on the back. “But we’ll love doing it. If there’s one thing I enjoy above another, it is spoiling a man.”
“Time enough to talk all this over later,” said Renny. “In the meantime I’m going to get drinks, to drink the health of the new owner of Vaughanlands.”
“Make mine double,” said Piers.
Meg whispered to Fi
nch, — “Up in Uncle Ernest’s room we were thinking that you might like to have the manuscript of his book on Shakespeare for your very own. He always so much appreciated your interest in it. Not that I wasn’t interested in it, for I used to sit and listen to him read from it by the hour, though I did realize what a waste of time it was.”
“On your part, or on his?” asked Piers. Again he exchanged a look with Alayne.
Meg scorned to answer such a question, but continued, — “Piers would like to have Uncle Ernest’s pearl studs and cufflinks, though I do think that’s being rather greedy, and Renny could have the watercolours that Uncle Ernest painted, with the exception of the one done in Rome, which I myself would like. But above all I want the pair of Dresden china candelabra. I’ve loved them ever since I was a child. Patience would like the travelling clock and the silver things from his dressing-table and I thought Wakefield should have the books. However, you and he can settle that between you.”
Renny now returned, carrying a tray on which there were a decanter of sherry, a bottle of Scotch and glasses. His walk, the light in his eyes, showed the exhilaration of his spirits.
“Good!” said Nicholas. “Good! Just what I wanted.” Glasses were filled.
“Here’s to Finch,” said Renny, “and may he spend many happy years at Vaughanlands.”
“Alone,” put in Piers.
When the health had been drunk, Renny added, — “Not that there’s any reason for him to keep up a house of his own. He’s always welcome at Jalna.”
“I’ve thought for some time,” said Finch, “that I’d like a house of my own. I think it would be fun building it and furnishing it.”
“I know what,” cried Pheasant. “He’s going to be married.”
“Althea Griffith!” laughed Piers. “I’ve always expected that.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” said Finch. “I want to write music.”
Meg’s face had fallen at the suggestion of marriage. Now it brightened again and a sweet smile curved her lips. “Finch has no need of a wife,” she said. “I will look after him.”
Piers uttered one of his peculiarly irritating hoots of laughter. Then he said to Finch, — “Three females and your own kid, to begin with! why, you’ve gathered a family like a snowball.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 473