“May I have something to eat from your tray, Auntie Alayne?” he asked. “I’m hungry and my feet are cold.”
“You may indeed. There is twice what I could eat.” She led Archer to the library and tucked him up on the sofa, beneath the “afghan” which for many years had comforted Nicholas’s knees. She yearned over her boy, painfully considering how he had deteriorated both physically and mentally during her absence.
Adeline had returned to the kitchen and now reappeared with a hot water bottle, which she placed at Archer’s feet. Alayne brought him a cup of coffee. This was something like comfort, he thought, and he almost smiled.
“Is there anything else I can do, Mummy?” Adeline asked with a benign look.
“My feet are freezing,” said Dennis.
She swept him on to the foot of the sofa and drew the afghan over him. “Put your feet on the bottle too,” she advised. He caught her hand and held it against his cheek. He was too clinging, she thought, and detached herself. She went out through the side door from the hall and ran into the rain toward the stables. Bright lights were burning there. Renny met her and took her to where the newborn foal lay in clean straw in a loose-box.
In the library the music of Mozart was being played by an orchestra seen on the screen. Alayne, hungrily eating a chicken sandwich, drinking coffee, looked into the faces of the two young boys. How innocent, how beautiful they were as they listened.
When the piece came to its lovely ending she asked, “Do you like Mozart?”
Swallowing the last bite of his sandwich, Dennis answered, “Yes, because he was a great composer and my father is a great pianist.”
“But not for the way the music makes you feel?”
“Oh yes, for that too. It makes me feel happy.”
“And you, Archer?”
“Everything is OK,” he said, “now that you are home.”
XX
Humphrey Bell and Patience
HUMPHREY BELL AND Patience walked twice round the house, looked at it appraisingly from several angles, as though he were a prospective purchaser. What he was in reality doing was simply trying to make up his mind to go to the front door and knock on it. He could see the handsome brass knocker, in the shape of a lyre, glinting in the sunlight. It seemed to invite him, but he was so hopelessly shy that he felt it impossible to him to lay his hand upon the knocker and send its echo through the house.
While he was standing irresolute the door opened and Finch came out. He was wearing a dressing gown of the very shade of sky blue that gleamed in a luminous patch above the treetops. When he saw Bell he came straight to him, smiling.
“Hullo,” he said, “I didn’t hear you knock.”
“I didn’t knock very loudly. In fact, I’m not at all sure that I did knock. I was passing and I thought I’d just drop in, and if you were about ...”
“I’m always about. I’m so full of conceit about this little house that I can’t tear myself away from it.”
“It’s quite the prettiest place I’ve ever seen.”
“Come in,” said Finch eagerly, “and I’ll show you over it.” As they went into the house he caught Bell by the arm in brotherly fashion. “Isn’t this Indian Summer weather fine? It makes you forget how horrible our climate can be.”
“I rather like weather — of all sorts,” said Bell.
“I think too much about it, I know. When I’m on tour I play well or badly according to the weather.”
“I don’t believe that. That time you played in New Brunswick the weather was filthy, yet you played magnificently.”
“Ah, that was the night I suggested your coming here. I’ve often wondered whether it’s turned out well for you.”
“Well — absolutely. I don’t want to be anywhere else. I’m happy — that is, I should be — if —”
“I know, I know,” said Finch absently. “Now I’d like to show you my little modern kitchen. I’ve more gadgets....” With concentrated interest he demonstrated their efficiency. He led the way through the other rooms. “This room,” he said, “has been occupied by my nephew Maurice. He left yesterday. He is to be at home for a bit before returning to Ireland.”
“I admire him,” said Bell. “He seems to me the most enviable chap I’ve ever met. He has good looks — of a kind you don’t often see — he has a unique sort of position — independent means — a romantic old place in Ireland — a congenial family — and — the most charming manners. He has everything. Does he perhaps drink a little too much?”
“He did drink, like a fish. But he’s much better. It’s amazing how he has changed.”
Finch insisted on Bell’s staying to lunch with him. The Swedish maid was an excellent cook. As they were drinking coffee Finch said, “Now tell me about yourself. How goes your work?”
A look of sensitive withdrawal quivered on Bell’s small face. For a moment it seemed as though he could not bring himself to answer, then he got out, “Not too badly. I’ve written a novel.”
“A novel,” Finch shouted. “Well, this is news. And it’s finished, you say?”
“Yes. It’s finished. To tell the truth” — he looked almost shame-faced — “it’s been accepted by a publisher.”
“Have you been working on it long? when is it to be published?”
“For over a year.... Next spring.”
“I’m delighted,” said Finch. He spoke truthfully. To know that something had been created was wonderful to him. He felt that Humphrey Bell had an elusive and subtle mind. He had read some of his short stories and liked them. But Bell was so shy that he hesitated to ask questions. He hoped the novel was not written in the first person, that it was not the story of life in a German prison camp and a young man’s postwar disillusion.
Without being asked, Bell said, “It’s the story of a man who wanted to be good and do good but unfortunately he had a nature that brought out the evil in other people.”
“It sounds rather grim.”
“It isgrim,” said Bell tranquilly.
Finch brought out a decanter of French liqueur. They drank to the success of the novel. It was plain that Bell had something on his mind, and after some desultory talk and several long silences he brought himself to speak of it.
“I suppose a girl could hardly do worse for herself,” he said, “than by marrying a man who had written his first novel.”
“A good deal depends on the novel — and the man.”
“I know. And the novel probably wouldn’t be a success and the man wouldn’t be of any use for any other life. Talk of marriage as a lottery....”
It was difficult for Bell in his extreme fairness to express black gloom, but he made a certain appearance of it.
“Money isn’t terribly important where there’s love and understanding.” Finch was sure that Bell needed encouragement, was really asking for it, yet he had a desire to protect him, so he added, “However, women are sometimes very different ... after marriage.”
“This one couldn’t be,” Bell broke out. “She’d always be the same. Generous — warm-hearted — magnanimous.”
Finch looked at him enquiringly.
“It’s Patience Vaughan I’m thinking of,” said Bell in a low voice. “She’s never out of my thoughts.”
“Patience! Well, I am surprised.”
“I don’t wonder. You are surprised that I should have the nerve.”
“Not at all. I’m surprised because I hadn’t known you were going about together — spending much time together.”
“We haven’t. But — what time we have spent together — I can’t tell you how precious it’s been to me. I” — the colour rose in his small face — “think she likes me.”
“You know of her engagement to young Green?”
“Yes — I hated that fellow,” said Bell mildly. “My opinion of myself is not high, but I do feel that I am a better man than he. If I had Patience by my side I might make a success of my life.” He jumped up and stood facing Finch in sudden excite
ment. “You know, my publisher thinks well of my novel. He’s placed it with a publishing house in the States ... I came to you because I want to ask you if you honestly think I have a right to let Patience know I love her.”
“I think you are quite justified, Humphrey, and I wish you all the luck in the world. It would be fun having you for a nephew.”
Bell left, striding purposefully to seek out his beloved.
An hour later he returned, leading Patience by the hand. His silvery fair hair was standing on end, his harebell-blue eyes were dancing in triumph. He looked, in fact, charming.
“I did it,” he cried. “I did it and she said yes! what do you think of that?”
Patience added, in her soft contralto voice, “It was the strangest proposal you can imagine. He came up to me where I was plaiting a pony’s forelock and he said, right out of the blue, ‘I guess you could hardly do worse for yourself than to marry me.’”
“Wonderful!” cried Finch. “No need to ask what you said.”
“May I tell him?” Bell delightedly asked of Patience.
“Go ahead,” she said, still holding his hand.
“She said, ‘The worst with you would be better than the best with any other man.’”
“I had to get him out of his inferiority complex,” said Patience.
Finch was genuinely happy for them. The three sat talking over plans for the future. Patience soon made it clear that she did not want a long engagement. They would get rid of the Chases, prepare the small house for their own occupation, get married, and move in.
“So, after all,” she said, “I shall not be coming to live with you, Uncle Finch. There’ll just be Mummy. She is so looking forward to coming here. When do you think you will be ready for her?”
“Quite soon,” he answered easily, then added in a somewhat lugubrious tone, “It’ll be fun.”
The telephone rang. When Finch answered it, Piers’s voice demanded, “Is Patience there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’d like to know why she doesn’t come to feed the sick calf.”
“Listen, Piers — the girl has just got engaged.”
“Again! Well, I’ll be damned! To whom?”
“To Humphrey Bell.”
“That lily-livered bird!”
“He is a particularly nice fellow. For my part, I’m very well pleased.”
“This calf” — Piers spoke emphatically — “is a valuable one. It’s sick. It won’t take its food from anyone but Patience. It loves her.”
“So does Bell and not with calf-love.”
“Send her to the phone.”
Obediently Finch returned to the engaged pair. They were holding hands. An aura of bliss surrounded them.
But when Patience, in deep concern for the calf, had run off, Bell turned to Finch and said, “You know, I don’t think this should be allowed to go on. This engagement, I mean.”
“B-but, Humphrey,” stammered Finch, “you — both of you looked so happy. I thought —”
“So did I.”
“Then what’s happened?”
“Nothing. Nothing new. But — I can’t help thinking. Well, a novelist — a story-writer — what’s he got to offer a girl? Besides — look at me! why, I’m almost an albino! And she’s so splendid. If only I might have looked like your brother, Wakefield! Tall and dark, and what a profile, and what eyes!”
“Look here, Humphrey, I’m willing to bet that if Patience had the power she wouldn’t alter one feature of you, least of all your creative ability. She’s very proud of you as an artist.”
Reassured, in spite of himself, Humphrey Bell departed, his head buzzing with plans, the felicity of the day almost overpowering him.
Left alone, Finch sat for a while at the piano playing softly to himself. He played a little secret air that might have sounded meaningless to a listener but to Finch was full of a subtle significance. Over and over he played it, till at last it merged into the whisper of the leaves, the song of the locusts that came through the open window.
Then he rose from the piano seat and went outdoors. He stood, enjoying the sight of his little ivory-coloured house set so elegantly against the vivid hues of the autumn foliage. None of the family, he thought, appreciated it. They looked on it as rather a pitiful successor to the solid brick house that once had stood there. But it suited him. It suited him perfectly. He revelled in the delicious monotony of his days. In the fall of the year he usually faced a long series of concert engagements, but this year he was free. He was his own man.
He went through the gate at the end of his vegetable garden and into the grounds of Jalna. He passed the two bungalows, built by the former owner of his house, which were occupied by the families of men who worked in the Jalna stables. He passed the stables. He followed the path through the orchards, stopping long enough to put a ruddy apple into each of his jacket pockets. He crossed the fields, where a mist of Michaelmas daisies surrendered to the bright blaze of goldenrod and black-eyed Susan. A flock of tiny birds were twittering the forecast of their southward flight. He climbed the gate on the side road where the church was, and there, coming out of the church, was the very man he wanted to see — the Rector, Mr. Fennel.
Mr. Fennel did not change. He always looked the same — solid, benign, as much a part of the church as its steeple. He had talents which might well have advanced him to a position of some importance, but he was quite without ambition and found all the excitement his nature craved in this backwater. He had been a widower for two years.
“Good afternoon, Finch,” he called out genially. “what wonderful weather after all the rain! Are you going anywhere in particular or would you like to come and take tea with me?”
“There is nothing I’d like so well,” said Finch, and they fell into step on the way to the Rectory.
“Of course, you have heard the news,” said Mr. Fennel.
“I have, and very pleased I am. Humphrey needs a wife like Patience to bring him out.”
“I hope she’ll bring him out to church.”
“Oh, she’ll do that.”
“A dear sweet girl,” said Mr. Fennel.
“She ought to be, with the mother she has.”
“what a woman!” Mr. Fennel’s face glowed. “what a tower of strength she has been to me through the years! Never too busy to help with the church work. Always able to enlist the help of even the most tepid members of the congregation. She has a wonderful talent for getting the best out of people.”
Mr. Fennel opened the low gate that Finch had so often swung on as a small boy, and they passed into the garden of the Rectory.
“I suppose it means a great deal,” said Finch, “for a man in your position to have the right sort of wife.”
“It does indeed.” Mr. Fennel drew a deep sigh. “I sorely miss my own dear wife.”
In the comfortable dining room the Rector’s housekeeper had high tea awaiting him: thick bread and butter, two poached eggs, a cottage cheese, maple syrup, and a johnny-cake, crisp-crusted and hot from the oven. Certainly the man appeared to be well looked after.
“You must have these eggs,” said Mr. Fennel. “And my housekeeper will do others for me.”
“I couldn’t possibly. I’ve promised to go to Jalna for dinner. But I’d like some johnny-cake. It’s ages since I have tasted it.” He took a square of it and drowned it in maple syrup.
Over the second cup of tea Finch remarked, “Perhaps you may marry again some time, sir.”
“Never, never.” The Rector spoke in fervent denial; a little later he leaned back in his chair and gave Finch an almost coy look. “I’m too old,” he said. “Don’t you think I’m too old?’’
Finch stared his denial of this. “Too old? Not at all. In fact, if you are getting on a bit there’s all the more reason. A wife — of the right sort — would be of enormous help to you. In your work. In companionship.”
“I have lived like this,” said the Rector, “for two years and three months.�
��
“Indeed, so you have.” Finch’s expressive eyes gave him a look of tender pity. He repeated, “Two years and three months.”
It was a long while since the Rector had felt so sorry for himself.
“There’s nothing so comforting as a sweet wife in one’s house,” said Finch.
“And you are a widower yourself.” Mr. Fennel beamed in sympathy. He quite forgot that Finch had been divorced for some time before his wife’s death. “Ah, my boy, you should marry again.”
“Set me the good example,” laughed Finch.
“It’s a new thought to me. A quite staggering thought. But I acknowledge that I sometimes do feel lonely.”
“That’s bad for you. Very bad. It’s bad for anyone.” Finch had become deeply serious. “The one I feel sorriest for,” he went on, “is Meg. Often I find her quite depressed from loneliness. She’s such a dear — not at all given to self-pity, but it will be still lonelier for her.”
“But she tells me she is to live with you.”
“That’s true. She is — but —” Now Finch looked downcast indeed. “I’m afraid that’s not going to make things much happier for her. Between you and me I’m not easy to get on with. Artistic temperament, you know. Up in the clouds or down in the depths. I try to overcome it, but I can’t. And sometimes I’m irritable, I know. Ready to snap anyone’s head off if I’m interrupted. I try to control it, but I’m not able to. Sometimes I play the piano for five hours a day. Sometimes it’s modern music, with the loud pedal down. Do you like modern music?”
“I loathe it,” said Mr. Fennel.
“So does Meggie.”
“Hmph. It doesn’t sound very pleasant for your sister.”
“Well,” said Finch, “I’m perhaps picturing myself worse than I am. And Meg is so sweet-tempered, we are bound to get on.”
“I’ve always greatly admired her.”
“And she you.”
At this Mr. Fennel appeared lost in thought.
On the way home Finch’s spirits were strangely exhilarated. He threw back his head and took deep breaths of the autumn-scented air. He did not trouble to open the five-barred gate but vaulted over it. He picked a little flower and put it in his buttonhole. When he reached home he sat down at the piano and played the same mysterious little tune which he had invented earlier in the day.
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