Finch’s first thought was to escape. He could not meet her here, not in this way. But — if he left she would almost certainly see him go — see him running away from her. This was no chance encounter. Wakefield had arranged it. Did Sylvia possibly know that their seats were side by side? Did Fitzturgis know? But they did not glance at him. They, and Roma, appeared absorbed in each other.
After the second act came the intermission. Finch scarcely had known what was taking place on the stage during this act. He could give his mind to nothing but the fact of Sylvia’s nearness. He felt isolated with her as he had felt isolated when he played the piano for her in his own house. At moments a strange happiness surged through him and he longed to turn to her.
When the lights came up and people were pouring into the aisles on their way to the foyer he remained in his seat, as though studying his program, till the three had passed out. He watched them move along the aisle, Sylvia first, with her graceful walk, her lovely wan face and too-slim body; Roma, round-checked, smiling up at Fitzturgis. When they were lost in the crowd Finch too went out but avoided them.
Wakefield had asked him to listen to the comments of people about him concerning the play, and more especially what might be said of himself or Molly. But it was impossible. Finch was conscious of nothing but Sylvia’s nearness. He had thought he was finished with Sylvia, but now, in this crowded theatre, she was nearer to him than ever. Does anything in life ever end, he wondered. Sarah was dead, buried far away in California, yet he had not finished with her. Even at an hour such as this her pale face, her black hair appeared before him. Perhaps in her grave her black hair remained living, perhaps it had grown, longer and longer, swathing her from head to feet.... He was scarcely conscious of returning to his seat, but found himself in it. The three had not yet come back. He thrust the thought of Sarah from him. He hated the thought of her. She was dead and should have remained dead, not come back to force her cold presence on him.
He kept his head bent, reading the advertisements in his program. Roma was pressing past his knees. His little niece so near to him. Her touch made her seem a child again. Her head was bent, as she peered into his face. “Uncle Finch!” she was saying. “what a surprise!”
“Roma.” He took her hand in his. His heart warmed to her.
“Look, Mait,” she said, over her shoulder. “See who’s here.”
Fitzturgis smiled down at Finch but firmly propelled Roma toward her seat. The lights were going down. He had a brief glimpse of Sylvia’s face. Then she was sitting beside him in the dimness. He had seen, too, that she had made an attempt to change places with Roma, had heard Fitzturgis say in a low voice, “Sit down — sit down.”
The voices of the actors came loudly, meaningless, from the stage. There all was brightness, colour, movement. Here, the four whose lives were so interwoven mingled in a new pattern; here was darkness, isolation. Finch could see the paleness of Sylvia’s arms meeting in her tensely clasped hands. He remembered, he lived again, those hours at night when he had played to her, when their newly born love had been the theme of all he played. He was tremulous in that recollection, shaken by the thought that he had let her go — no, not that — had driven her out of his life.
What if now she would refuse to enter it again?
Her face was turned away. She was not looking at the stage but appeared to be studying her brother’s profile. The play had ceased to have any meaning for them. They might have been sleepwalkers for all the meaning the play had. Yet now on the stage was Wakefield uttering words of impassioned love.
“My life is yours.... Do with it what you will.... Forgive me if I cannot make myself worthy of you.... It will not be for lack of trying. Oh, my beloved....”
High-flown words, but Finch made them speak for him. He laid his hand on Sylvia’s arm. She did not move. She was now looking at the stage, as though rapt. Finch slid his hand along her arm till her hand was reached. Their two hands lay together like the hands of sleepers dreaming the same dream
His hand folded itself about hers. With all his skill as a musician he sought to give her the message which later his lips would give. She understood. Her fingers closed on his. He raised her hand to his breast.
A good moment had come in the play. There was loud applause.
THE END
Centenary at Jalna
MAZO DE LA ROCHE
I
Mary Whiteoak’s World
This little Mary was eight years old, rather small and tender for her age, more puzzled than pleased by what she discovered around her, yet, at times, swept on the wings of a wild joy. But this always happened when she was alone, when there was silence, except for perhaps the sound of leaves being tumbled by a breeze or a sudden burst of song from an unseen bird. Then she would raise her arms and flap them like wings. She would utter a little cry, as though her feelings were too much for her.
There was nothing to give her special joy on this cold morning in early May. There was a north wind that made the growing things in the garden tremble. Some of them were about six inches tall, but the leaf buds of the maples had barely appeared.
“My God,” exclaimed Renny Whiteoak, coming into the studio where Mary was, “it’s as cold as charity in here! why are you hiding yourself away?”
He took her small icy hands in his to warm them, but she gave an enigmatic smile.
She said, “I’m not cold.”
Her hands were hidden in his sinewy horseman’s hands. “The trouble with women,” he said, “is that you never wear enough clothes. Look at that skimpy little dress you have on.”
She did not quite know whether or not her feelings were hurt. She liked this uncle better than any other male, even her father, who doted on her. She had him in the studio, all to herself, yet — lumping her in with all women, as he had, appeared to thrust a responsibility on her that she could not, without tears, accept.…The tears were ready, somewhere in the back of her throat, but she swallowed them.
“I didn’t choose the dress,” she murmured. “It was put on me.”
“By your mother?”
“Yes.” She did not say how pleased she had been when the sunshine of this May morning had seemed to warrant a cotton dress. And it was her favourite colour, light blue, the colour of her eyes.
“But your mother did not tell you to come into this cold studio, did she?”
“I came to see the cocoon.” She led him to a windowsill where the cocoon had lain all the winter. One end of it was open and out of it had crawled (no more prepossessing than a worm) a moist brown moth.
Renny lifted Mary to the windowsill so they might watch it together. The sill was dusty and rather rough, for the studio had once been a stable, but the tender flesh of the little girl’s thighs accepted it without a shudder.
“It’s going to be a beauty,” said Renny, as the moth stretched its wings. They opened and closed like fans, and new colours (pink, blue, and glossy brown) were discovered as the wings dried.
The moth gained strength. It crept to Renny’s finger and slowly made the ascent to his knuckle. He opened the window and a shaft of sunshine entered.
“It’s wonderful,” said Renny, “how growing things prosper in the sun!”
“Prosper?” she questioned, somehow connecting the word with making money.
“Flourish,” he replied, “grow plump and strong. You could do with some sunshine yourself.”
“Should I grow wings?”
“Heaven forbid!”
“why ‘Heaven forbid’?”
“Because you’re angel enough as you are.”
This pleased her. Indeed, conversation with him was always a pleasure to her. She bent her head closer to the moth to watch its progress along his hand. Her fine hair separated and fell forward, exposing her tender nape. His eyes moved to it, away from the moth which, with a quiver of new life, prepared to fly.
“why does it take so long?” she asked.
“Well, it took you more than
a year to learn to walk.”
“Had I been in a cocoon?”
“Sort of.” She turned her head sideways and gave him a slanting look.
“Tell me,” she said, “all about — everything.”
“You ask your mother.” His tone became brusque. “I wouldn’t know.”
“I think you know everything,” she said.
Together they watched the moth’s progress from a lumbering movement to a confident preparation for flight. It had become more brightly coloured, its body smaller, its wings larger, capable of flight.
Renny Whiteoak lifted it from his hand and set it outside on the sunny sill. “Come along,” he said, “you’ll freeze if you stay here.”
“I like this studio. I come here to think.”
“About Christian?”
Christian was her brother, the owner of the studio, who was studying art in Paris.
“No. About all of us. Do you know how many houses there are, with us in them?”
He pretended not to know. “How many?”
“Five,” she cried in triumph. “First there’s ours — ”
“You should put Jalna first,” he interrupted. For a moment she looked downcast, then strung off the names quickly.
“First there’s Jalna, where you live. Then there’s my house — ”
Again he interrupted — “You should say my father’s house.”
Instantly she brought out, for she was a regular churchgoer, “In my father’s house are many mansions.What’s a mansion, Uncle Renny?”
“A large residence.”
“How could there be a lot of large residences in one house, Uncle Renny?”
“That particular house is heaven.”
She pondered over this as she hopped beside him through the door into the sunshine.
“Is Jalna a mansion?” she asked.
“Good Lord, no. It’s just a fair-sized house.”
She hid her disappointment and went on with her list.
“First there’s Jalna. Then there’s my father’s house. That sounds silly to me. Does it sound silly to you?”
“Rather. Better say my house,as you did the first time. That’s two, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Jalna and my house and Uncle Finch’s house and Aunt Meg’s and Patience’s. That’s five houses, all belonging to us. Shall we call on them, just you and me together?”
“All right,” he said. “It’s rather a good idea. We’ll go to Jalna first. I’ve already told your mother that I’m taking you to see the new foal.”
She was so happy to do this that she wanted to reward him. She said, “There’s a starling’s nest under the eave,” and she pointed it out to him. The starling had just gone in, with a bit of string dangling from his beak. He was quite hidden, now that he was under the eave, but a pigeon had seen him and had flown to the roof to peer in at the happy householder. As though that were not enough he hopped down from the roof and went in to observe the progress of the nest-building. His feet showed clean and coral-coloured. His pouting breast was the banner of desirous conjugality. Deeply he cooed as he stood half-hidden with the starling.
“Poor old boy,” said Renny. “He’s dying for a nest of his own and is too lazy to build one.”
Mary’s eager sympathy, where birds and beasts were concerned, overflowed in a tear or two. She wiped them on the back of her uncle’s hand that she closely held.
“Let’s go,” she whispered, as though unable to bear the sight of the pigeon’s frustration.
Together they strolled along the road and entered a field across which a path, newly thawed, led to Jalna. Mary’s shoelace was dangling and Renny bent to tie it. Consciously feminine, she savoured his attitude of service to her. She sniffed the good smell of tweed and pipe tobacco that rose from him. As he had looked down in tenderness at her white nape, now she gazed in wonder at his weather-beaten one. All the long winter it had been shielded by a collar; still it looked weather-beaten. With curiosity she examined his high-coloured, pointed ears, his dense red hair.
She asked, “why is your hair a different colour in spots?”
He sat on his heels and stared at her in surprise. He was astonished. “A different colour? where?”
“There,” she touched the hair at his temple with her forefinger. “It’s sort of grey there.”
“Grey,” he repeated. “Grey. I hadn’t noticed. You mean really grey?”
She was proud to have discovered something about him that he himself hadn’t noticed. She danced up and down and chanted — “Grey! Grey! Grey!”
“Well, I’ll be dashed,” he said, rather to himself than to her. “I hadn’t noticed more than a few scattered grey hairs, but reallygrey, you say, at the temples? Hm — well — I’m past sixty. I suppose it’s to be expected.” He tried to sound resigned, then burst out: “why, my grandmother lived to be a hundred, and she neverwent grey. But, of course, her hair was hidden by a lace cap. I couldn’t very well wear a lace cap, could I, Mary? Would you like to see me in a lace cap?”
“You look nice,” said Mary, in a comforting tone, for she felt that he was troubled.
Hand in hand they crossed the brown field, he leaving the path to her and walking alongside in his thick-soled brown boots that left their imprint on the rough grass. They came to another field, into which gave a five-barred gate. The field beyond was somehow greener and more spring-like. A benign cow stood there, waiting for the grass to grow. Renny Whiteoak laid his hand on the gate.
“See this gate, Mary?” he asked.
She nodded, her fine fair hair blown by the north wind.
“Well,” he went on, “I’ve been in the habit of vaulting this gate, just for the fun of it, when I cross this field. I haven’t done it since last fall. Now I’m going to make a test. If I can vault over this gate — well and good. If I can’t I shall realize that the grey hairs are a sign of decrepitude.”
“what shall you do then?” she asked, only half-understanding.
“I’ll burst into tears,” he said emphatically. “How would you like to see me burst into tears?”
The thought of seeing him in tears brought the all too ready tears into her own eyes.
He saw them and declared, “We’ll cry together.”
He took a clean neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and put it into her hand. “We can share this,” he said. “It’s large but we’ll need it.” Near the gate he halted. “Now — be ready, Mary — go!”
He took a few quick steps to the gate, laid a hand on it and vaulted it smartly, turning on the other side to face his niece with a grin.
“How was that?” he demanded.
She clapped her hands, with the handkerchief between them. She gave a little laugh of delight. “Oh, that was good,” she cried. “Do it again!”
The grin faded from his face. “How like a woman,” he said, opening the gate for her to pass through. “A man does his damnedest and all she can find to say is — ‘Do it again.’”
Mary wiped her eyes, then her nose, with the handkerchief and returned it to him. The cow moved a little closer to watch them pass. They were observed also by Renny Whiteoak’s son, Archer, a University student, home for the weekend.
“Well, Archer, and what did you think of that for a jump?” Renny’s eager brown eyes sought his son’s cold blue ones.
“Very spry,” returned the youth judicially.
“I’ll bet you couldn’t do it.”
“I never have pretended,” said Archer, “to be athletic. It’s all I can do to find the path and, when I have found it, to stay on it. But I admire high spirits — never say die — all that sort of thing.” Archer liked a Latin quotation and now added — “Nec mora nec requies.”
He joined the other two, taking care that they should be between him and the cow.
Renny had not liked the word “spry.” To get even with his son he remarked, “That’s a nasty-looking pimple you have on your chin.”
“It may not add to my appe
arance,” said Archer, “but it has added considerably to my comfort, as, because of it, I am excused from a tea party Auntie Meg is giving at the Rectory. I was to have helped pass the tarts but she thinks that pimples and pastry are too apropos.”
“That’s the Women’s Institute,” Mary piped up proudly. “I’m going to the party to help.”
They passed from the field into the apple orchard, where the trees, after valorous effort throughout the month of April, had produced only the tiniest leaf buds, where the path was half-hidden by last year’s dead grass, where a few dying snowflakes huddled in the deepest shade.
“Will spring ever come to us!” Archer exclaimed disconsolately.
“In a few weeks this orchard will be white with bloom.” The word “white” touched the master of Jalna in a tender spot. He bent his head in front of Archer. “Do you see anything wrong with my hair?” he demanded.
Archer examined it without interest. “Nothing,” he said, “except that it’s red.”
“Well, I like that!” exclaimed Renny, affronted.
“I admit that it suits you,” said Archer. “You were born and bred to what it indicates, but I have always been thankful I did not inherit it.”
Renny straightened himself and gave a disparaging glance at his son’s dry pale thatch.
“I know it’s not handsome hair,” said Archer, “but it will see me through courtship and marriage. By that time I shall probably be as bald as a doorknob.”
“I had not thought of you in connection with marriage.” Renny spoke with respect rather than unkindness.
“why not?”
“Well, possibly because you’re so highbrow.”
“I may be highbrow,” Archer said stiffly, “but I believe I shall be capable of propagating my kind.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 509