“I think all the family feel it,” said Finch.
“Of course.” But her glance in Renny’s direction said— “He is the only one who matters to me.”
“I’m sorry for the Vaughans too,” she added. “They feel that they must do it, and yet they feel guilty.”
Wakefield had gone to a gramophone that stood in the small bay window and was looking over some records. Finch had a sudden vivid recollection of him as a small boy investigating the contents of the cabinet of Indian curios while his elders were too busy with their talk to notice him.
Wakefield said—“Let’s have a dance. I’ve brought Finch over especially to see what a lovely dancer Pauline is.”
“At eleven o’clock in the morning!” exclaimed Clara Lebraux. “You forget that Pauline and I are farm hands!”
“I am panting,” returned the boy, “to dance with you in your present costume. Do let us be merry, as my grandmother used to say, for in fifty years or so we die.”
Pauline looked eagerly from one to the other. “Whom shall I dance with?” she asked. “Mummy needn’t pretend that we don’t dance at this hour, for we do. She and I do tangos at any odd moment.”
“Listen to that!” exclaimed Renny. “She’ll show you up for the laggard you are, Clara!”
“Shall we shoot the dining table into the parlour?” asked Wakefield. “Or shall we dance round it and into the hall?”
“Shoot it out,” returned Clara Lebraux briefly.
The table was pushed through the archway into the parlour. Wakefield put on a record and gave it a little push. Outside a fox was barking, but the sound was quickly drowned by the arrogant passion of a syncopated one-step.
“Let joy be unrefined!” cried Wakefield, and danced toward Clara Lebraux with inviting arms.
They were an amusing sight dancing together, he in his well-fitting grey flannels, she in her baggy overalls and ruffled tow hair. Finch watched, smiling and rather shy. He did not want to dance this dance with Pauline, and he was relieved when Renny laughingly put his arm about her and swept her into it.
The two couples danced up and down the room. Finch watched them with a smile that had both indulgence and deprecation in it, as though he were watching children whom he longed to join, yet fearing that he could not sufficiently let himself go. His mind vibrated between the hope that he might remain an onlooker and the desire to hold Pauline in his arms. What was the expression in her eyes as she looked up into Renny’s face? Utter trust—pleading—or a moth-like fascination? Her movements were extraordinarily supple and showed unexpected strength. And Renny danced as well as he rode…
The record was finished. Only a protesting buzz came from the gramophone. Wake dashed to it, wound it up, turned the record over, and bowed in front of Pauline. What a vain youngster he was! Always dashing about, posturing, even though it was scarcely noon and he dancing to a tinny gramophone. Finch hoped he would not have to dance with Mrs. Lebraux in that overall. He should feel idiotic. He turned to the window embarrassed and showed a pretended interest in a controversy going on among small birds in an apple tree.
This was a languid, sensuously stressed waltz. The beat of it swept through his nerves with passionate melancholy. When he looked back into the room the partners had changed. Wakefield and Pauline floated together in a happy embrace. Mrs. Lebraux and Renny, with impassive faces, turned and turned again, their heads encircled by the wreath of smoke from a cigarette she had lighted.
When the waltz was over Renny looked at his wristwatch and exclaimed that they must be off as he had something to attend to before dinner.
V
FAREWELL TO LEIGH
A FORTNIGHT LATER Finch picked up a paper and read an account of the drowning of his friend Arthur Leigh at a resort on the St. Lawrence. He and his wife had been caught in a squall while sailing and their boat had been swamped. They had clung to the overturned boat, but Leigh had soon become exhausted and let go. Several hours had passed before Mrs. Leigh had been rescued, but she was, although suffering from shock and exposure, progressing favourably.
After the first painful start Finch read and reread the account with a numbed feeling. He said nothing of it to anyone, but went to his room, trying to realise what had happened, trying to believe that he would never see Arthur again, trying to put out of his mind the thought of Sarah.
One thing filled him with an aching surprise, and that was his lack of any poignant grief. Arthur… his dearest friend… his first passionately loved comrade… and he could think without agony of his tragic death and wonder—with a quiver of the nerves—what it would mean to him!
Sarah… How her coming had changed his feeling toward his friend! He had never really forgiven Arthur for taking her from him, even though he had done it unknowingly. He recalled how Arthur had poured out to him the ecstasy and fear of his love. He remembered too how the ecstasy seemed always to be shadowed by the fear, how Arthur had seemed to dread being alone with Sarah. What had they made of their married life? he wondered. He had ceased even to write to them, allowing a coolness unacknowledged to grow up between him and them.
He sat down and buried his face in his hands, in order that he might recall their two faces the more clearly. Arthur’s, smooth, bright with the brightness of an untroubled boyhood. Had he ever in his life been crossed, gibed at? Not unless Sarah… But could she, could any woman with a heart, bear to hurt Arthur? Had Sarah a heart? She had passion but that was different… He saw her white, still face, her small, withdrawn mouth, secret between the arched nose and prominent chin. He saw her small cold-looking ears, the rigid plaits of her black hair… Arthur’s face retreated from him, submerged, lost in the waters of the St. Lawrence; only Sarah’s was left in its tormenting sweetness.
At last he could bear thinking of her no longer. He got up and went quickly down the stairs to Augusta’s bedroom. He tapped on the door and her deep voice said—“Come in.” She was sitting by the window sewing a button on a large white nightdress. She took off her spectacles and looked at him encouragingly, for in her opinion Finch needed encouragement.
“Auntie,” he said jerkily, “I’ve had bad news.”
She drew in her chin and her eyes widened.
“Yes? What is it, my dear?”
“It’s about Arthur Leigh. You liked him, didn’t you, Auntie?”
“Very much… Is he dead, Finch?”
“Yes. He was drowned yesterday.” He repeated what had happened.
Augusta’s sallow skin had turned pale. She reiterated:
“This is very sad! Dear me—the poor boy’s mother!”
Finch asked—“What about Sarah, Auntie? Don’t you pity her?”
“Sarah will bear up,” said Augusta cryptically.
Nicholas came in, following a loud knock. He carried the newspaper in his hand.
“I see that you know,” he said. “I was just coming to find you. It is a great pity, isn’t it?”
“It’s awful for Sarah, isn’t it, Uncle Nick?”
“Yes, yes, of course. But it is the poor lad himself I am thinking of. That girl always struck me as a heartless hussy.”
Finch was strangely glad to hear these words on his uncle’s lips… “A heartless hussy,” he repeated to himself.
Some days after he sought out Eden, who had known Arthur and Sarah during their short courtship. Eden was looking splendid, he thought. It was difficult to think of him as having been ill a few months before. Meggie had done wonders for him. He had quite taken possession of the Vaughans’ sitting room and they thought twice before entering it. He sat now, with writing things about him, and a worried expression on his handsome face.
“It’s very disappointing,” he said, “that Leigh should go off like this just when I counted on him to help me to some sort of job.”
Finch was not shocked at Eden’s callousness. Indeed he was not at all sure that it was callousness. Eden simply bowed his head to the arbitrary workings of fate. He was not given to self-pity, except in t
he form of occasional petulant remarks.
“It is too bad,” agreed Finch. “What did you think of doing?”
“Anything! I can’t sponge indefinitely on Meg and Maurice with the wolf at their door. I had thought that Leigh, with his connections, might get me appointed as lecturer in English somewhere or other. Or even in an office or bank. I’ve tried all the newspapers but the editors don’t want anything. I showed one of them some articles on Paris and London but he wasn’t interested in Paris or London. I suppose I’ll end in running an elevator.”
“I should think that any of those indoor jobs would be bad for you. You should have outdoor work.”
Eden drew a woman’s face of the classic type on the blotter in front of him and said irrelevantly:
“I suppose Sarah will be left awfully well off.”
“She’ll be rich. Leigh’s mother and sister are well provided for. I expect he would leave everything to Sarah.”
A mischievous smile lit up Eden’s face.
“Now is your opportunity. That girl was crazy about you. She cared nothing about Leigh. Meg tells me that they were unhappy together. You’re a fool if you don’t—”
“Shut up!” exclaimed Finch. “If you have no sense of decency, I have. You talk like this, and they probably haven’t even found Arthur’s body yet!” His voice broke. “Don’t you care in the least that he is dead?”
A bleakness came over Eden’s face, giving it a closed-in look. He ran his hand quickly over his hair and picked up a freshly sharpened pencil. He said:
“I wish you wouldn’t come bothering me, just when I’ve something worth while in my head.”
Finch sprang up offended. “Sorry… I’m going now. I want to find Meg.” He reddened with anger.
Meg was all sympathy, crying over young Leigh as she ate toasted currant bun from a tray in her own room.
“That’s just the way,” she said. “The young and beautiful are taken. As for me, I’ve never really got over Gran’s death. Sometimes I see her in my dreams, clearer than life. And the strange thing is, Finch darling, that she always says to me— ‘Margaret’—and she never called me that—’Margaret, I intended that you should have my ruby ring.’ Isn’t it uncanny?”
“Very uncanny, Meg.”
“And isn’t it impressive?”
“Awfully.”
“Why do you suppose she calls me Margaret in the dream?”
“Well, they go by contraries, don’t they?”
“Yes, but there is nothing contrary about her way of telling me that she intended me to have the ruby ring … Just think—all that I—her only granddaughter—got from her beautiful belongings was her huge gold watch, which I couldn’t possibly carry, and her old Indian shawl that her parrot used to make a nest in. Even little Patience thought it very strange when I told her. She said—’Mummie, those were funny things for great-grannie to give you.’”
“Why, look here, Meggie,” said Finch suddenly, “I’d like to have Gran’s watch and shawl, if you don’t mind parting with them.”
The Vaughans were considerably behind with the payments of the interest on the mortgage which Finch held on their house. Meg looked flurried. “Do you mean—” she stammered, “do you want—I know we’re behind with the interest—”
“No, no, I was not thinking of the interest. I was just thinking I’d buy those things off you—if you don’t mind.” He gave his deprecating, rather troubled smile.
Meg laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sure you’d love to have the watch and the shawl, dear. As you got all her money it would be nice for you to have some of her personal belongings too.”
Finch winced, and mumbled—“Oh, I don’t know—I only thought—well, I always liked her watch and the colours in the shawl…”
“Of course! And so do I! They’re perfectly lovely, and if I had got the ring too—I’d have adored them. But you must confess that it’s rather hard for me—her only granddaughter—to see other women wearing her jewellery. I don’t mind Aunt Augusta, because she is Gran’s only daughter, and I can endure Alayne, because she is Renny’s wife, and all he got was her painted bedstead, but to see Pheasant—an illegitimate girl and the wife of a younger brother—sporting that gorgeous ruby, stirs me to my deepest depths!”
“Yes, it is hard,” agreed Finch heavily. “Look here, Meggie, I don’t believe you had better part with those things. After all, it would hardly be right, when Gran left them to you.”
“But I want you to have them!” cried Meg dramatically. “The moment one of my brothers expresses a wish for anything, my one desire is to get it for him if it is within my power.”
“Yes, but Meggie…”
“Not a word! You shall have the watch and the shawl— even though they are all I have.”
A tightness came in Finch’s throat at the realisation of Meg’s selflessness. She saw that he was deeply touched, and the ready tears filled her own eyes.
“Well,” he said, “since you insist. But, of course, I must pay you a decent price for them.”
A pucker dented Meg’s smooth forehead. “Oh, I wish I were in a position to give them to you absolutely! It is so cruel to have always to think of money.”
“I know. I know.”
“But—since I must! Let me see—a watch like Gran’s could never be worth less than two hundred dollars, and—do you know, they say those old Indian shawls are a fabulous price. Queen Victoria used always to give them for wedding presents.”
“Did she really?” Finch looked rather alarmed.
“And I suppose Gran would scarcely have left it to me— her only granddaughter—if it had not been worth a good deal… But I’d never dream of asking you more than a pittance for it. Give me—say, four hundred—no, a bare three hundred and fifty for the two and I’ll be perfectly satisfied… Except for wishing that I could afford to give them to you!”
Finch, by this time, almost felt that she was giving them to him. How kind Meg was! Indeed, she was perfect…
“I’ll write you a cheque for them this minute!” he exclaimed, and took out his book of blank cheques and his fountain pen that had been a present from Aunt Augusta.
“Oh, any time will do for that!” But she allowed him to go on with the writing of it, and her eyes followed the movements of his pen as though it were the wand of a magician.
It was a relief to Finch to do something that took his mind—even for a moment—from the thought of Arthur, and from the sorrowful thought that the loss of Arthur came as no deep grief.
He left Vaughanlands with the shawl in a parcel and the watch in his pocket. As he crossed the fields he felt an extraordinary happiness in possessing them. Gran had brought the shawl with her from India eighty years ago. How many times its soft, richly coloured fabric had lain about her strong graceful shoulders, had covered her breast when it was full and firm. What intimacies of her passionate heart it had shielded! And the watch… He took it from his pocket and it lay on his palm, shining in the hot sunlight. On it was engraved—“Adeline, from her Philip, 1862.” Finch remembered having been told that it was a present to celebrate the birth of his father. And his father and his grandparents were dust, and the watch was as quick as ever… How the sight of it brought back Gran! He could see her peering into the golden face, winking fast as she deciphered the time, her ornate cap rather askew, a look of lively anticipation lighting her strong features. “Dinner time! Ha, that’s good! I like my dinner. Exercise or no—I like my hot dinner.” And she would thrust her head forward to catch the first sound of the gong.
As he walked homeward he had the feeling that virtue entered into him from the possession of her belongings, resilience against the blows of life. Zest for life and fortitude seemed to emanate from these things so long associated with her.
These feelings did not prevent his shrinking painfully from the thought of Arthur’s funeral. Yet it happened that he was not able to go to it. He got a chill and was in bed when the day came. It was a week before h
e was about again. Now he found himself dreading the inevitable meeting with Sarah. While he lay in bed he had successfully put the thought of her out of his mind during the day, though at night her troubling presence had darkened his dreams. He had thought deliberately of Pauline Lebraux, her face, the sensitive reflector of her emotions, against the background of her tumbled dark hair, her supple body eager as a bird’s for movement. When Wakefield had come in to see him he had, as he thought, subtly brought the talk around to the fox farm, but, though Wakefield talked eagerly enough on the subject of the foxes, he drew back, lightly but warily, from more than a passing reference to Pauline. “He’s too quick for me,” thought Finch. “He knows what I’m after almost before I know myself.”
After that the thought of Pauline was always accompanied by the thought of Wakefield. The two thoughts zigzagged about each other like amorous butterflies. It was impossible for him to draw the face of the young girl out of the darkness beneath his eyelids without drawing with it the face of the still younger boy. It was peering over her shoulder. It was half-hidden under her chin. Its eyes were her eyes, and its mouth her mouth. It made Finch angry, for the boy was too young for love, and he had hoped they would be happy companions together. And was this all he was to get out of Wake’s growing up? A rival! The idea made him laugh. The idea hurt him and frightened him. Yet he did not love Pauline. But he wanted no one else to love her. He wanted her to remain for a little while as she was.
The second day he was downstairs he found the drawing-room empty, and he sat down before the piano, not intending to play, but only to feel its nearness, to let his mind rest on the mysterious harmonies hid within it. He drooped above it, his angular body expressing submission and recep-tiveness. His hands lay on the keyboard like the hands of a lover on the breast of his beloved.
He did not hear the door open but he was conscious that someone had come into the room. He turned his face, its expression preoccupied and grudging, toward the intruder. It was Sarah Leigh, dressed in mourning, her deep-set eyes shining like jewels in her white face.
Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course Page 48