The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche

by de la Roche, Mazo

  There was general rejoicing when Wakefield was able to be present. He was so attractive, so gay. These high spirits he took with him to Vaughanlands on the morning after the wedding. He had already inspected the house, found it admirable, sighed to think he never was long enough in one place to have a proper home. Yet soon he was cheerful again.

  Finch, seated at the piano, sheets of music sprinkled with cigarette ash scattered over the floor, his jacket in a heap on the floor also, his hair on end, said, with a touch of his old manner toward a cocky younger brother, “Well, you look nice and sunshiny.”

  “And you look the perfect picture of genius at work. I’ll not disturb you. I just dropped in to see how you are after the party.”

  Finch got to his feet and stretched. “Not feeling like work. I’m going to take a day off. Too much champagne.”

  Wakefield gave a sympathetic grunt, then said:

  “I met Dennis outside with your Great Dane. What a picture they made! I envy you that little boy, Finch. I shall never have a son.”

  A shadow fell on his face. The darkness of his hair, his eyes, his olive complexion, made the shadow more palpable.

  “why do you say that?” asked Finch, wondering if Wake were being melodramatic.

  “Because I’m ... living in a way....” He put his hand to his forehead.

  Finch perceived something in Wakefield’s face that made him ask, in eager sympathy, “what are you trying to tell me, Wake?”

  “It’s quite simply this. Molly Griffith and I have come to an understanding — made a decision that has changed everything for us.... We are living together as man and wife.”

  “But ...” stammered Finch, “I thought....”

  “You thought we had given each other up — forever. And so we had ... till this happened.”

  Finch dropped into a chair, sprawling there, with legs outstretched, his face a picture of astonishment. “I’m flabbergasted,” he said. “I looked on you two as adamant in your renunciation. I admired you for it, but — I wondered how you could do it. I guessed what it had cost you.”

  Wakefield halted in his nervous pacing of the room. “No one could imagine ... not unless they had gone through it. There we were, in the same company, acting together, sometimes passionate love scenes, and ... all the while subduing our own feelings ... crushing them under. Sometimes we joined other companies. Then it was even worse ... the longing to be together.”

  “But always you resisted?”

  “Together or apart we always resisted.”

  “You know, Wake, you deserve wings and a halo.”

  “I have something better. I have Molly.”

  “Tell me how it happened — if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s what I came for. I wanted you to know and for a special reason.” He sat down close to Finch. Finch waited, with a quiver of the nerves. He felt that Wakefield was aiming some disclosure directly at him, but Wakefield went on, as though completely self-absorbed. “One day I met Fitzturgis face to face. I stopped to look at some hyacinths they set out in Rockefeller Centre, and there was he, looking at them too. We chatted for a bit. I like him, you know, and found myself glad to meet him. I was feeling sort of down. I asked him to have lunch with me and he seemed pleased.”

  “what is he doing?”

  “Well, he didn’t last long in the advertising business. I never expected he would. Now he’s got a job in the British Consulate — much more in his line.”

  “And you like him?”

  “Very much.”

  “Did he ... speak of his sister?”

  “He did indeed. I’m coming to that later. Well, the upshot of this meeting was that he came to see the play, and backstage afterwards. I invited him to my lodgings. We had a long talk. I can’t think of another man I’ve been so drawn to.”

  “That’s interesting because I don’t like him very much.”

  “I know. But you would if you knew him better. It ended,” Wakefield went on, “by my telling him about Molly and me.”

  “Good Lord, I don’t see how you could!”

  “I wanted to. I had not talked of us before ... to any outsider, and it was a relief and ... he was so sympathetic. I repeat that I like him very much and I’m sorry that Adeline is not going to marry him.”

  “I’m not,” Finch said stubbornly, then asked, “what reason did you give him for a marriage between you and Molly not being legal?”

  “I told him that we are connected — not closely — no closer to my mind than first cousins — but that legal marriage is not possible. I told him that during all the years we’d loved each other neither of us had any attachment to anyone else. We’d been faithful — like a loyal married couple. We’d been virtuous. We’d never lived together. Well, Finch, he gave me a sombre look — a penetrating look — and he asked, ‘Has this virtue made you happy? Has it been its own reward?’ And I had to answer that we’d been wretchedly unhappy. Then he asked, ‘why can’t you make a complete break — have done with the ordeal?’ And I said we’d never give up our love. That set him off. He was eloquent. Somehow he convinced me that we were fools to throw away our chances of a happy life because of a legal quibble or some worn-out rule of the Church. ‘Think of the legal marriages,’ he said, ‘think of the divorces! Don’t tell me that you and your girl couldn’t do better than that.’ He’s some years younger than I, but he is more worldly. Perhaps you’d call him hedonistic. Anyhow, I took his advice. Molly was eager to take it.”

  “Yet once she was as ready as you to abide by the rules.”

  “She was. But now” — Wakefield gave a little laugh — “our rule is — love and be happy. We’ve got a nice little apartment near the Park. Will you come and see us before we go back to London?”

  Finch reached out to grasp Wake’s hand. “I will indeed.”

  “I haven’t told Renny yet, but I shall today.”

  “Gosh, I wonder how he’ll take it.”

  “I can’t imagine. Anyhow — it’s done, and we’re happy. Completely basking in the sunshine of our new life.”

  “Yet you looked sad when you spoke of never having a son. That rather surprised me.”

  “One can’t have everything, I suppose, but I am fond of children.” He was thoughtful for a space, then he said, “I’ve seen Fitzturgis a number of times since those first meetings. I’ve met his mother. He and Sylvia live with her. She’s a dear but rather garrulous.”

  “That sister of Fitzturgis’s — how is she?”

  “Very well. She has a job, modelling clothes. Molly and I went to one of the spring exhibitions — a very expensive affair. Sylvia looked lovely — a figure like a sylph, though a bit too thin.”

  There was a pregnant silence between them, then Wakefield said, “Fitzturgis has told me about you and Sylvia.”

  “She’d not thank him for that. I think it was brutal.”

  “He’s been a good brother to her. I’ve never seen a brother and sister so devoted. Finch! I can’t believe you will let her affair with Galbraith come between you — keep you permanently apart.”

  “My God, that fellow told you everything!”

  “Only because he thinks it might have gone differently if she’d come to you herself. She loves you and only you. You’re not the man I think you are if you have been able to put her out of your mind so easily.”

  “Easily!”echoed Finch with violence. “Easily!Look here, Wake, I refuse to talk about this. It’s all over between Sylvia and me. It was a flare-up — a brief passion — it’s left me unmoved.” As he said this he trembled from head to foot. Drops of sweat showed on his forehead.

  Wakefield eyed him speculatively.

  A step was heard in the porch. Renny came in, followed by the Great Dane.

  “Hullo,” he said. “Recovering from the party? By Judas, Finch, you look all in.”

  “I’m all right,” muttered Finch.

  Wakefield stood very straight in front of Renny. “I’ve something to tell you,
” he said. Then hurried on, looking right into his elder’s eyes. “It’s this: Molly Griffith and I are living together — as man and wife, you understand. Nothing you or any living person can say will dissuade me. Our union is a fait accompli... I want you to understand and sympathize. If you don’t — well, I’m sorry, but — nothing can change us.”

  As he talked the colour left his face. He was white and tense. Renny’s weather-beaten face, on the contrary, deepened in colour. He stared in surprise, then put up his hand and stroked an eyebrow in embarrassment.

  “Ah ...” he said, “so.” And after a little he repeated — “Ah ... so ... yes, I see.” He looked at the scattered sheets of music as though for inspiration. “Well, that’s as it may be,” he went on. “We all have to compromise, as it were.... Has Finch told you he has written a piano concerto? It’s good, I can tell you. I enjoy it thoroughly. He’s a bit of a genius, this fellow. Look here, Dennis” — for the little boy now came into the room — “tell Uncle Wake what the movements are.”

  “First movement: allegro spiritoso; second movement: adagio; third movement: minuet and trio; finale: presto,” rattled off the little boy with surprising glibness, while Finch regarded him in pessimistic wonder.

  “Get Finch to play it for you, Wake,” said Renny. “You’ll love it.... Isn’t this a picturesque little house he has built!” It was the first time Renny had deigned to praise Finch’s house, but he now ran his hand across the door nearest him and praised the quality and finish of the wood.

  Dennis and the Great Dane were looking up at him expectantly. “This boy,” Renny remarked to Wakefield, “wasgiven Finch by a woman who loved him too well. This dog was given him by one who loved him not enough. I wonder what the next one will give him.... Well,” he added thoughtfully, “that’s as it may be.... Dennis, do you want to come with me and see a lovely pair of twin lambs?”

  “Oh yes,” cried Dennis. “Let’s go now!”

  Dog, boy, and man left with one accord. Finch and Wakefield saw them climb into Renny’s mud-splashed car — Dennis in the front seat beside Renny, the Great Dane occupying the rear seat.

  There was silence for a moment after the sound of the departing car, then Wakefield said:

  “He took it pretty well, didn’t he?”

  Finch’s only answer was an hysterical laugh. He lay back in his chair laughing. He laughed till there were tears in his eyes. Blinking them away, he said seriously, “Tell me more about the Fitzturgis family.”

  “Well,” said Wakefield, “one thing I can tell you is that our little Roma is hot in pursuit of Maitland.”

  “Ah ... so,” murmured Finch, in very poor imitation of Renny. “That’s as it may be.... But ... actually, the one I should like to hear about is Sylvia.”

  “She is a lovely girl, Finch,” said Wakefield, “and, I believe, is very much in love with you.”

  XXIII

  The Spring Moves On

  BEFORE THE RECTOR and Meg had returned from their honeymoon, Pheasant, taking little Mary with her, had set out for the long-promised visit to Ireland. Never before had she made a sea voyage, and now to set out, a little child in her care, without Piers to look after her, was almost more than she could face. Yet face it she must, for this was a season when Piers could not absent himself from the farm. It was planned that later he should follow her. The bequests from Nicholas had made so many pleasant things possible. Letters from Christian were reassuring on the subject of Maurice. They were the best of companions, Christian wrote, and it was seldom that Maurice drank more than was good for him — so seldom that this had ceased to be an anxiety. Christian himself was supremely content. Both sons were counting the days till Pheasant’s arrival.

  Piers was to spend the time of her absence at Jalna. Young Philip, when the holidays came, would be there also. By a miracle, it seemed, Alayne’s domestic worries were solved. The winter had been a nightmare of makeshift. The daily help was erratic, to say the best of it. Adeline, though strong and willing, could scarcely be depended on. She was quite likely to put a joint in the oven, then ride off on her mare, Bridget, and be seen no more for hours. However, one propitious day a Dutch farmer and his wife were sent by an agency. The man intended to farm in Canada later on but first wanted to learn the methods of Canadian agriculture. The couple agreed to remain at Jalna for the season. The man was to help Piers on the farm, the wife to do the cooking. At the beginning Alayne hoped they would stay till the Wragges’ return, but after a month of the Dutch couple’s efficiency, cleanliness, and energy she frequently wished she might keep them permanently.

  But the felicity in the kitchen was a dim affair compared with the exultation in the stables. The high hopes of the horsy company of Renny, Wright, Crowdy, Chase, and the trainer were filled to overflowing by the colt East Wind. In the spring races at the Woodbine blithely he blew past the winning-post a full length ahead of the favourite. Before the year was out he was to be a winner at Jamaica, New York, and Maryland — earning for Renny almost a hundred thousand dollars.

  “I don’t want to crow over you, Alayne,” Renny would exult, “but you must acknowledge that I used very good judgment in buying East Wind. Think what he’s done for us.”

  “It’s splendid,” Alayne would admit, “but I do hope you will save what you have made and take no further risks.”

  “Trust me,” he would say. “I will show both caution and enterprise — as I always have.”

  * * *

  In June, when the freshness of early summer was brightly visible, even in so great a city as New York, when all the little hat shops of Fifth Avenue showed gay little hats decked with artificial flowers so natural that they looked real, and the florists’ windows displayed flowers so perfect that they looked artificial, Finch arrived there with the manuscript of his concerto to arrange for publication.

  One of the first things he did was to telephone Wakefield, who promptly invited him to lunch with himself and Molly. The two made a scene of blissful domesticity as together they prepared the lunch.

  “It’s glorious,” Wakefield said, “to buy your food yourself and cook it yourself, after eating in restaurants.”

  “who does the cooking?” asked Finch.

  “Me,” said Molly, her cheeks pink as she bent above a pan of sizzling sweetbreads.

  “And she’s really good at it.” Wakefield’s eyes joined in the praise of his lips. “But I make the salad.”

  It was a delicious meal and Finch did justice to it. Both Molly and Wakefield asked him many questions about his concerto, about his plans for the coming season, but neither could keep long from the subject that held their single-minded interest — the stage. They were in a new play, the scene of which was set in medieval Florence.

  “You should see Molly in her costumes. It’s her best part in New York, you know. You must come tonight. I’ll get you a ticket.”

  “You should see Wake,” said Molly. “He takes the part of a Spanish prince and looks it.”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” said Wakefield, “that I simply resemble my Irish relations.”

  They were so happy together Finch envied them — Molly with her sleek waves of golden-bronze hair, her daring, tilted profile, the golden freckles on her nose. The pictureof what she was, the woman she was, showed in her face, as did her profession of acting. It was mobile, yet it was steady. To Finch it seemed the face of one who had been in flight but was now come to rest.

  Before he left he asked, “what of your sisters, Molly?”

  “Althea is here in New York, doing very well in commercial art. Garda is happily married and living in Detroit where her husband has something to do with motor cars. Gem — you remember Gem?”

  “who could forget her?”

  “She married Tom Raikes, you know. They went back to Wales and she bought the house we used to live in. She has two children and is expecting a third.”

  “I hope she’s happy.”

  “As happy as any woman living with Tom coul
d be.”

  Finch longed to speak of Sylvia but could not find the words. He lingered, hoping they would do so, but neither mentioned her name. He left them, feeling oddly depressed. Why would they not say her name? Did they avoid speaking of her because they thought Finch shrank from speaking of her? Or were they so selfishly absorbed by the fascination of their own life that they had no feeling for others? No feeling for him?

  In the afternoon he was free to wander in the streets. This was new to him because on other visits he had an engagement to face or was about to sail or had just arrived and was on his way somewhere else. The day was warm. On his return to his hotel he enjoyed a cool shower.

  He kept thinking of Wakefield and Molly. What right had they to be happy? They had been magnificent, he had thought, in their renunciation of each other. Often he had told himself that he could not have done it. Secretly he had been ashamed to think, had even resented, that Wakefield had developed into a stronger character than he. Now he found in himself a feeling of almost outrage because Wakefield had put aside renunciation like a suit of armour and appeared vulnerable and unashamed as Molly’s lover.

  He was early at the theatre. It amused him to watch the seats filling. These were theatre-goers, he thought, and their faces were somehow different from concert-goers. There was a quite good audience. The play had been running for a week.

  Three seats next to his remained vacant till just before the curtain rose. Then their occupants filed in, disturbing those in the same row with them. The three, a man and two women, murmured an apology as they passed. Finch hated late-comers and gave their dark figures a surly look. The lights had gone down. The man seated himself in the middle. The woman next Finch dropped her program. Both she and Finch bent to pick it up. Their hands touched. He saw her incline her head in thanks and felt somehow mollified.

  The first act went well, though it was a little confusing. When the curtain fell the three late-comers bent to consult their programs. Finch cast a glance at the woman on his left. He saw the close curling hair, the shapely nape. There was something familiar about her. She raised her head and he saw her profile. She did not yet see him. It was Sylvia. On her other side sat Fitzturgis, and beyond him Roma. This was of Wakefield’s engineering.