Piers blew out his cheeks and expelled his breath through his lips. “Damned if I know,” he said.
“Nonsense! Of course you know all about it,” Nicholas spoke sternly.
Ernest put in—“Don’t bombard the boy with questions, Nick! Ask him one thing at a time. I’ll begin... Piers, can you tell me why the care of my mother’s room has been neglected during my absence? There is a film of dust over all the furniture. In fact every room I have seen looks as though it needed a thorough cleaning.”
“I shouldn’t think you’d need to ask that question,” returned Piers. “You and Uncle Nick have been away. Renny always spoils servants. If Mrs. Wragge cooks good meals and Rags falls over himself serving them it’s all that Renny asks. Renny doesn’t mind disorder in the house. He rather likes it. Lots of food—plenty of company—and no one to criticise him or his dogs!”
“How long has this been going on?” asked Nicholas. “Didn’t Alayne object?”
“Rather! Latterly, her life was just one long objection, I think. Once a week she stirred things up in the basement so that the Wragges were on the point of leaving. And she was after Wake, and after Mooey, and even after Renny and his dogs. Pheasant heard her tell Renny that he talked like a fool, and heard him tell her that she was the worst-tempered woman he’d ever met. I never expected that marriage to turn out well. Then there was the affair of that dog. I don’t suppose anyone wrote to you about that. But, anyhow, Alayne and Pheasant and the house servants and Quinn, a man I took on since you left, all thought the dog was mad, and Alayne got Renny’s gun and they stabbed him with pitchforks. Soon after that Alayne left.”
During this quick recital Piers’s full lips had scarcely moved. He sat regarding his uncles with an imperturbable expression while the tale of horrors that had wrecked the life of Jalna gushed from him as from a fountain. Ernest, who had been prepared to probe the matter with question after guarded question, felt slightly sick. Nicholas, with dropped jaw, sat dumbfounded. If the faded medallions of the carpet had parted, disclosing a chasm beneath, they could scarcely have been more aghast.
“But—but I thought Alayne’s aunt had died!” stammered Ernest.
“So she did. Most opportunely. It gave Alayne an excuse for cutting out.”
“Piers, I don’t think you know what you are saying. If you are trying to—to pull our leg, I think you have chosen a very unfortunate time. As you have told it, the whole affair sounds a dreadful muddle to me. Can you understand it, Nick?”
“I only understand that if I had been here things would never have got into such a mess.”
“Just what I was saying to Pheasant the other day,” agreed Piers heartily. “We’ve never been without an old person in the house before. It was as though we’d thrown our ballast overboard.”
Nicholas pulled at his grey moustache grimly. “I should have been something more than mere ballast if I had been here... Your explanation has been very incoherent, Piers. I wish you would tell me one thing clearly. What does Renny think about Alayne’s leaving him?”
“I don’t think he realises it.”
“Doesn’t realise—” Ernest spoke in a bass voice for the first time in his life... “Doesn’t realise that his wife has left him?”
“No. I don’t think he does. Pheasant and I both think that he believes she’s just in a tantrum and that she’ll get over it. But she won’t. You can take it from me. She’s found a second Whiteoak too much for her.”
Nicholas and Ernest looked at each other. Ernest wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and Nicholas reached for the soda-water siphon.
Piers rose from the piano stool. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “I must be off!”
“Sit down!” ejaculated his uncles simultaneously.
Piers obeyed with a smile, sweet as Meggie’s, curving his lips.
Ernest demanded—“When did the trouble begin? As soon as we had left?”
“I can’t quite remember. Yes—I think it did.”
“You say,” put in Nicholas broodingly, “that Alayne got Renny’s gun, in order to do away with some dog, and that they killed the dog with hayforks... I can’t make it out.”
“No wonder,” answered Piers, “when the poor brute’s head was examined not a trace of rabies was found.”
“But what was the quarrel about?”
“Well, it began with Ben’s getting on Alayne’s nerves. Actually on her bedspread.”
“Good heavens!” Nicholas turned red with anger. ’They’ve killed poor old Ben, Ernie.”
“Oh, no,” Piers reassured them. “It was quite another dog. It’s my opinion that he was inbred. But Renny won a flyer off me because he made friends inside of the month.”
The uncles looked into his fresh-coloured face with positive distaste. He made them feel travel-worn and baffled. They wished he would take off that enigmatic smile.
“What I cannot get into my head,” Ernest said wearily, “is why Mama’s room should be neglected, and why Maurice should have been sleeping in my bed.”
“Because Nip wouldn’t let him sleep here,” answered Piers.
“How long are the Vaughans staying on?” asked Nicholas, gratefully stroking Nip.
“Well, you know, Uncle Nick, that Maurice never minds taking favours. He’ll never stop talking about the cost of Meg’s operation. He has let his house and, if he can keep the tenants, I venture to say that he and his will settle down here for the rest of their days.”
The brothers exchanged a look. They liked Maurice. They were deeply fond of Meg and her little one, but to have them always in the house! And with Pheasant obviously bent on increasing the tribe...
“It would be intolerable,” said Ernest vehemently. “Alayne must be mad to have flown off like this. Her love for Renny is too strong, too fine, to be embittered by—by the events you’ve been telling us of... As a matter of truth, I haven’t got it into my head yet. The cause of their quarrel, I mean.”
Piers regarded him pityingly. “I suppose it is confusing for you, but you can take it from me that the real cause of the trouble is Clara Lebraux.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Nicholas. “I remember very well that at Finch’s birthday party Renny sat by Mrs. Lebraux most of the evening and that Alayne didn’t trouble to hide her annoyance.”
“And no wonder,” said Ernest. “Mrs. Lebraux isn’t at all the sort of woman we are accustomed to. She is one of these very modern women in my opinion.”
“She would have suited Renny as a wife,” returned Piers, “much better than the one he got. He spends half his time there now. He’s looking to you, Uncle Ernest, to help him educate her youngster.”
“I shall never,” observed Ernest, “stay away from home so long again. Too many new situations develop in so long an absence.”
“No more travelling for me,” said Nicholas. “Here I stick till they carry me out.”
There was a tap on the door and almost instantly it opened. Meg stood there in a becoming negligee.
“Come in, come in,” said Nicholas. Perhaps Meg would be able to throw more light on the subject than it was possible to extract from Piers.
As she was passing him Piers stretched out his hand and drew her to his knee. She relaxed comfortably against him. The piano stool swayed and creaked.
She looked from one face to the other. “How troubled you all look! But really you must not worry so. It is all over, and I shall soon be strong again.”
“Of course, dear, of course,” agreed Nicholas.
“You are looking wonderfully well now, Meggie,” said Ernest. “It is hard to believe that you have been ill for even a day.”
“Yes, but all this flesh is so soft. Just feel my arm!” She extended her arm from which the lace sleeve of the negligee fell away, disclosing its rounded whiteness.
Ernest pressed his fingers against the smooth skin of her forearm. “It is a little soft. However, it will soon become firmer when you are able to take more exercise—when you are able t
o fly about your own house setting everything in order again.”
She smiled rather pathetically. There was a hint of reproach in her voice as she answered:
“I’m afraid it will be some time before I am able to fly about. Maurice still helps me up the stairs, and I am not often able to go down to dinner.”
“Yes, we missed you very much,” said Nicholas. He gave her a penetrating look from under his shaggy brows. “Surely, Meggie, you do not agree to Renny’s entertaining those disreputable fellows Crowdy and Chase. I must say that I felt very much put out at having them to dinner on our first day at home.”
“It was a pity. But they really weren’t invited. They just happened to come at the dinner hour. And Mr. Chase can be quite charming when he chooses.”
“He hates women,” said Piers, joggling her.
Ernest looked anxious. “I do not think that is good for her,” he said.
“She takes no exercise,” returned Piers. “She’s far too fat.”
Nicholas said—“I can tolerate Chase, but Crowdy is impossible. If he is to come to the house I shall stay in my room.” He ran his hand through his thick grey hair, standing it on end.
With two fingers Meggie played a tiny tinkling tune on the extreme treble of the keyboard. To this accompaniment she said:
“In Renny’s state of mind, I think that a wholesome, hearty man like Mr. Crowdy is very good for him. His company helps to keep Renny’s mind off his own agonising thoughts.” The candour of her blue eyes was sustained beneath the startled looks of her uncles.
“There seems to be a pretty state of affairs here,” said Nicholas. “I only wish I could make head or tail of what you two tell me.”
“It is all the fault of that American woman,” explained Meg. “She is utterly selfish. She is ruining my brother’s life with her lack of understanding.”
“They are incompatible. That is all there is to it,” added Piers.
“But,” cried Ernest, “has Alayne definitely left him?”
“Quite,” said Piers. “She’ll never come back. He doesn’t realise it yet. But give him time and he will.”
Meg turned her head to look scornfully into the face of her brother. “What can you know,” she asked him, “of the subtleties of a woman’s mind?”
“Well, I’ve seen a good deal of them,” he pouted.
“You’ve seen what they chose you should see. You have a wife who is as subtle as—as—” she searched her mind for a comparison that would not be too odious.
“Just leave my wife out of it, please,” said Piers.
“Come back to the question of Alayne,” begged Ernest.
“She is a very subtle woman,” said Meg. “And a very determined one. She intends to stay away until Renny is thoroughly upset. She intends to frighten him. Then when his spirit is broken, she will come back to Jalna. She is determined to make an American husband of him.”
Her uncles listened with troubled faces; Piers, with an expression of incredulity.
“Hers has always seemed a sweet and pliable nature to me,” said Ernest. “I can never forget how she returned to nurse Eden—after the way he had treated her!”
This was more than Meg could bear. She rose from Piers’s knee and began to pace the floor, clutching her negligee at the breast. “Oh, how credulous men are!” she exclaimed. “How tired I am of hearing of her self-sacrifice; even Patty would be sceptical of that, 1 think. No, Alayne did not come back for Eden’s sake. She came back to capture Renny. And she captured him. Now she has set about making him over.”
“I admire her courage,” said Piers.
Nicholas asked—“What about Mrs. Lebraux, Meggie? What do you think of her?”
“She’s a dear creature! What a life she has had! And how brave she is! There would have been a wife for Renny. And he adores little Pauline.”
It was all very puzzling. When Meg and Piers were gone the brothers sat for a long while trying to piece together the various information they had gleaned, trying to discover what might be done.
In the evening Nicholas found himself alone with Renny. He said:
“I’m very much disappointed not to find Alayne here. I had no idea her visit would be such a long one.”
He had a feeling that Renny stiffened, that a wary look had come into his eyes, as though he realised that his affairs were the subject of warm conjecture in the household.
“Miss Archer is Alayne’s only relative,” he said gravely, “She could not leave her until her affairs are in order and some sort of companion got for her.” As though by an effort, he turned his gaze to Nicholas’s face and looked steadily into his eyes.
“I have wondered sometimes,” Nicholas went on, “if it would be better if you and Alayne had not quite so many of your family about you. It doesn’t suit everyone, you know, to be mixed up together in the way we are accustomed to. Alayne’s life must have been singularly quiet. I can’t help wondering if the presence of all your people about her may not be rather overpowering.”
“She’s never hinted at anything of the sort.”
“She’s an unusual woman then. I don’t want you to be afraid of hurting my feelings. Has she never said that she wished she could see more of you without so many of us about?”
“Never that I can remember. I think Alayne is happy. That is, as happy as it’s possible for me to make a woman of her sort. I know there’s a great lack in me. But she’ll get used to me, I think.”
“I think you should go down to see her. I’m sure Miss Archer would like to meet you.”
“No! She disapproved of our marriage.”
“I am sure she would be charming to you. I think you ought to fetch Alayne. A woman likes these attentions. I made a mess of my own marriage, Renny. I’m in a position to give advice.”
“What have they been saying to you, Uncle Nick? There is nothing to worry about. When Alayne’s visit is over she will come back.”
Nicholas longed to continue his persuasions, but something in Renny’s face forbade him. He looked on the point of leaping to his high horse. Either he had set his face against interference in his affairs or he was simply, as Piers had said, unaware of their precarious condition. Perhaps he was right and the others wrong! Perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Nicholas made up his mind to one thing however. He would write to Alayne and sound her on the subject of her return. He missed her presence in the house. She had brought something different into it to which he had become accustomed—her dignity, her interest in the affairs of the world, her half-sad gaiety.
XXV
ALAYNE AND LOVE
MISS ARCHER AND ALYANE sat in the charming little living room of the house on the Hudson, surrounded by a bright coloured litter of folders advertising a world tour. Outside there was a raw wind, but in the room the gently sizzling radiator diffused a comforting warmth, and the vivid illustrations of the folders lent a touch of the exotic to the somewhat austere effect of the neutral tinted hangings and the black dresses of the women.
Alayne did not approve of the custom of wearing mourning, but Miss Archer was old-fashioned and insisted that she should. The black accentuated the pallor of her face, the fairness of her smooth hair. It intensified too the shadows under her eyes and the compressed line of her lips. She sat regarding her aunt with wonder.
For Miss Archer, after the first prostration of grief over the loss of her sister, had risen most astonishingly to the call of the world from which Miss Helen’s delicacy had so long shut her off. First it had been the car. Then excursions in it, farther and farther afield. Visits to New York to view exhibitions of pictures by very modern young painters, over which she was unfailingly enthusiastic, for, though conventional in her life, she prided herself on being broad-minded, abreast of the times. No painter, no composer of modern music, scarcely a novelist, could shock her. But her conventional soul had received a shock by Alayne’s marriage to Renny. She had taken to Eden at first sight. His air of deference to her, his poetry, the
beauty of his person had charmed her. The breaking of that union had been a disaster. But she had heard nothing of Renny that had drawn her to him. His photograph had, in truth, repelled her. When by signs, rather than by words, she became cognisant of a breach between Alayne and him, she felt gratitude to the Good which she was convinced guided mortal affairs, and set about the planing of a world tour.
She had secured congenial companions in a professor of economics and his wife, old friends of hers and of Alayne’s lather. She sat now in the clear light from the electric lamp examining a fresh supply of “literature” concerning a tour which went round the other way from the last. She was now puzzled as to which one they should take. There remained in her mind only the question of whether they should turn to the right or to the left, both ways leading inevitably back to the house on the Hudson. Professor and Mrs. Card did not seem to care much which way they went so long as they went. Alayne too left the choice in Miss Archer’s hands.
She sat there now in pleasurable indecision, her abundant white hair smoothly coiled, her large face, with its almost transparent pallor, alert and somewhat excited. Alayne sat watching her, comparing her in her mind to Augusta. Opposed to Miss Archer’s indeterminate nose and gentle mouth she pictured Augusta’s beak, the majestic curve of her nostril into her lip. Opposed to Miss Archer’s white hair and transparent pallor, Augusta’s crown of magenta-tinted black, her sallow, speckled skin. She recalled the complications of Augusta’s dress, the beads, pins, brooches, and bracelets. In Alayne’s mind she compared unfavourably with Miss Archer, and yet there was something about Augusta one could never forget. She remembered how Augusta had shed tears at her wedding in the church at Nymet Crews. What would Augusta think if she knew the turn things had taken? She thought of Professor Card and the intimate information concerning all they saw on the trip that would be diffused from him. She thought of the never-failing curiosity with which he and Mrs. Card and Miss Archer would view these strange lands, the pleasant curiosity they would feel about all on board. She thought of Nicholas home at Jalna again, his gouty leg propped on an ottoman while he introduced, by sips, into his system, more of that which had produced the gout. He and Ernest would have much to say of their trip, but it would be familiar gossip of people and things they knew. That was one of the striking things about the Whiteoaks. They lacked curiosity about things that did not concern themselves. Their own life, the life of the family, that was the important thing and they would have carried it with them round the world. If they could have been introduced into this room, she thought, with her aunt and Professor and Mrs. Card, all the curiosity, the eagerness would have been on one side. Augusta would have suggested a game of whist. Renny would perhaps have tried to sell the professor a horse... Oh, why had she thought of him! For weeks she had scarcely allowed the thought of him to trouble her, now it came in a swift feverish rush making her feel stifled in the little room, sickened by the sight of the gaily coloured folders.
Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course Page 34