“Sarah!” He got up and went quickly toward her. She seemed to recede from him as she always receded from him in dreams, as he approached. He hesitated, drew back, and she advanced, as she always advanced in dreams. He found himself looking into her eyes, holding her hand, while her voice was uttering words he could not form into sense. They came to him brokenly, like the lispings of a young child. He saw then that there were tears on her cheeks.
He led her to a sofa, and still held her hand as they were seated. Her black garments made her remote, but he felt the strange flame burning in her that once before had seared the wings of his spirit.
“Do you feel able to talk?” he asked hesitatingly.
“Not of that.”
“No, we must not talk of that.”
But of what else could they talk while Arthur’s drowned figure loomed between them?
“You talk, Finch. Tell me of yourself.”
“There’s not much to tell, Sarah. Just a lot of hard work.”
“But talk of it. Tell me of your life. It is three years since we met.”
He began to talk, telling her of his study in London and Germany. Repeating it to her it became romantic, a desirable life. He told her of his recitals and his compositions, not looking at her but holding her small, firm hand in his. She sat motionless, as though cut out of ebony, except for the nervous tapping of her narrow black suede shoe.
“You have done so much,” she said, “and I have done so little.”
“You have travelled. You’ve been—married,” he had not intended to say that, but he could not help himself. She did not wince but her fingers closed on his.
“Yes—I’ve travelled. Yes—I’ve been married.” She spoke as though she reiterated—“How little I’ve done.”
“It is three years since we have met,” he said. “Am I changed, do you think?”
She turned and looked into his face. He saw then the blue circles about her eyes and the weariness on her lips.
“Yes, you have changed. But you still have your beautiful expression. I’m glad of that. It comforts me.”
He dropped her hand and, in confusion, clasped and unclasped his fingers between his knees. For something to say, he said:
“I had no idea you were coming here today.”
“Alayne expects me. She asked me when she came to see me. She thought the change would do me good.”
At that moment Alayne came into the room. She was followed by Renny. The sight of Sarah’s black clothes and her pallor startled him, filled him with unease. To cover it he began to talk loudly, as soon as the first subdued greetings were over. The smell of carbolic soap did not quite conceal the smell of horse and leather that emanated from him. He was saying:
“What do you suppose was keeping us? Well, I’ll tell you! We were quarrelling over our youngster. It’s a never-failing bone of contention. It’s the very spit of my grandmother—what a pity that you never saw dear old Gran—and Alayne is trying with all the mettle in her to turn it into a proper young person. But it’s putting up a good fight. I admire its spunk, I can tell you!”
VI
FATHER, MOTHER, AND CHILD
IT WAS TRUE that the small Adeline was a bone of contention between Alayne and Renny. Again and again Alayne determined that this should not be so, yet, in her own mind, she felt herself powerless to prevent it. The child was almost two, strong on her legs, intelligent, sly, already seeming to know and relish the fact that she was an unsolvable problem to her mother. Already she would look shrewdly from one face to another, when her parents exchanged a sharp word. If Renny reprimanded her or gave her a slap, as he sometimes did, she would fly into a tantrum, stiffen herself, pull his hair or bite him. This violence of hers charmed him. He would hug her to him, covering her distorted face with kisses, and, when the storm subsided, dandle her as though she were a model of infant propriety.
Sometimes Alayne was in despair over her arrogance and lack of consideration for the other children. Nooky was hopelessly afraid of her. He dropped whatever he had when he saw her blazing brown eyes fixed on it. Even six-years-old Mooey thought twice before he crossed her. And Piers encouraged her in her predatory habits, as did Renny.
She had odd ways with her too. She liked the dark, and, being a poor sleeper, would lie awake talking and laughing to herself. At first, when Alayne rose from her own bed and went to her, she would become quiet and, being turned over and tucked in, would settle down and fall asleep. But, as months went on, she took more and more pleasure apparently in the perversion of night into day. She would sleep for five or six hours, then wake refreshed just as Alayne was settling into unconsciousness.
A sudden chuckle would startle the darkness. This would be followed by a loud laugh. Nothing Alayne could do would stop the wild laughing. Sometimes she would roar like a bear, moo like a cow, or chatter unintelligibly. Unless Alayne took her up and carried her about the room, or took her into her own bed, she would not be quiet. Now the nights were growing cool and it was a hardship to be up. Neither could one rest with a kicking little body beside one. Alayne grew wan and irritable from loss of sleep.
Adeline disturbed Nicholas and Ernest too, but Renny, once he was asleep, was almost impervious to noise. Yet he did sometimes hear her and advised Alayne to slap her or dash cold water on her.
One night he came into the room and found mother and daughter facing each other, the one pale and almost in tears, the other flushed and wearing an unchildlike grin. It was almost three o’clock.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Alayne answered tragically—“She has been awake for two solid hours, laughing and talking. I am positively unnerved. I don’t know what to do with her.” She looked at the child, almost hating her; at the man, almost hating him for having given the child to her.
Renny, lithe and striped in his pyjamas, advanced toward Adeline.
“Why were you laughing?” he asked.
She only stared at him, sitting upright in her cot, her dark red hair massed above her forehead.
“Why do you laugh?” he repeated sternly.
“I must,” she answered, in her baby accents.
“Why?”
“I must.”
He sat down on Alayne’s bed and took the child on his knee.
“What do you see?”
She smiled and pointed in front of her.
“Do you see funny things?”
She nodded and put half her hand into her mouth.
“Look here,” he said to Alayne, “this won’t do! You’re tired out. Now I’ve got an idea… The old-fashioned way was to give kids a good hiding when they persisted in anything they were told not to do. But now it’s different. You’re supposed to study them. Find out what they need and give it to them.”
“Yes.” Alayne looked at the two of them, feeling hypnotised.
“Now I think,” he went on, dandling the child, “that Adeline has a laughing complex. Just because you are always so serious with her, d’you see?”
“Yes.” Alayne leaned against the dressing table, tired through and through.
“What she needs is someone to laugh with her.”
“She has the other children to laugh with her all day. Why should she want to laugh at night?”
“At night she wakes and she is lonely and she thinks life is strange and—well, you know, Gran was a sardonic old bird, and Adeline takes after her.”
“It seems hard that Pheasant’s children should both be so gentle, and mine—”
“Now, look here, you get right into bed and forget everything. I’ll take the kid.”
“Where?”
“To my room. I’m going to laugh with her.”
“Renny—it’s too ridiculous.”
“No. It’s modern psychology.”
“Will you bring her back?”
“Yes, as soon as she is asleep. I’ll tuck her in and never wake you.”
With the child on his arm he led Alayne to her bed and drew th
e eiderdown over her. She caught his hand and kissed it, half sobbing.
“I’m a perfect baby myself. I don’t know what has come over me.”
“Sweet girl.” He patted her cheek.
She lay, still as an animal in its burrow, listening as he crossed the passage, opened and shut the door of his room. His presence had comforted her, but the touch of his hand had set her pulses throbbing, filled her with a terrible unease. She drew deep breaths, drinking in the stormy sweetness of the night… Oh, why had he left her?
Why did the passionate tears flow at the thought of him? Once they had lain in this house, separated by the walls of her marriage with Eden, suffering their anguish of desire… Now, they belonged, each to each—and still they were separated, still her spirit called to him and beat against its walls.
She had heard the child give a crow of delight at being carried into his room. Then there was silence, and she hoped it had quietened, perhaps fallen asleep. But before long her strained ears caught the sound of its laughter. Then came an answering muffled roar from Renny… She dragged the bedclothes over her head. But curiosity, a sudden amusement, overcame her. She threw them back and listened.
Adeline’s laughter grew louder and so did her father’s. She screamed in fantastic mirth and his muffled roars became shouts.
“As though anyone could sleep in such a maddening noise! They’ll have the whole house up!”
She lay listening. After a little a heavenly silence fell and she hoped the child had succumbed. But no—the laughter broke out again, shout upon shout. They took turns in a wild duet. Alayne heard other voices in the passage, opening and shutting of doors. “Oh, those poor old people! Uncle Ernest will get his death! And Aunt Augusta, at her age!”
Renny should be ashamed. From loving him her heart swung to hate. Dishevelled, she scrambled out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown and slippers, and hurried to his room. She found the whole family crowded into it: Augusta, with her hair in curlers and a bottle of smelling salts in her hand; Nicholas looking like an old lion with his crest of iron-grey hair; Ernest, sleek-headed, and in a handsome robe; Piers and Pheasant like two figures from a stage bedroom scene; Finch looking about sixteen, with his hysterical boy’s grin; and Wakefield, sitting up in bed, with the bored expression of an elderly man.
Alayne took them all in, in one furious glance. Her glance also took in Renny, seated in the one chair, his daughter on his knee, while, for the moment, they desisted from their unbecoming mirth.
Nicholas turned to Alayne. “What do you think of this new psychology?” he asked.
Ernest put in—“I don’t like it. It’s too noisy. I’ll lie awake for hours after this.”
“Well,” said Piers, “I’m for the rod. If one of mine carried on that way…”
Pheasant interrupted—“It’s a very good thing for you to see how other fathers do. For my part, I think Renny is perfectly right. Even an infant has frustrations.”
“No one worries about mine,” said Ernest.
“Yours are the best part of you,” returned his brother.
Ernest looked offended.
Augusta smelled her salts but did not utter a word. A mosquito buzzing about the room became fascinated by her curlers, noisily investigating first one and then another of them.
Renny and his daughter were staring at each other. A flicker, as of pain, crossed her face, her eyes darkened. She opened her mouth and laughed. In a moment they were laughing in unison. Even his man’s laughter did not drown her shouts. Her voice had become hoarse in her efforts to outdo him.
It was dreadful, Alayne thought. The pair of them looked half mad. Adeline flashed her eyes over her audience and laughed louder than ever. Her hair clung damply to her head.
An audience! thought Alayne. That’s what they want. Nothing is too fantastic for them to do, if only they have an audience… She must interfere, but she dreaded interfering with him in front of the family. One never knew—or, more precisely, she never knew—what he would do. His family had a more profound knowledge of him.
Without warning, Augusta swooped down and took Adeline from his arms.
“Enough of such foolhardiness!” she exclaimed in her deepest tones. “You will make a persistent and incorrigible rogue of her!” She took up the child who went to her, not only without protest but with open arms, clutching Augusta’s neck and rolling her eyes accusingly at Renny.
“Naughty Dada!” she said, and repeated the words to her audience.
Alayne looked gratefully at Augusta.
“Say what you like!” exclaimed Renny. “It’s done her good. She’ll never want to laugh at night again.”
“Nor in the daytime either, I should think,” said Wakefield. “In effect, I feel tired out.”
Renny’s face softened. “We’ll all go to bed now,” he said.
“I shall take the child with me,” announced Augusta.
“Good for you, Gussie!” said Nicholas. “You have more courage than I have.”
Already little Adeline was relaxed against her great-aunt’s shoulder, her mouth drooping in a baby pout.
When Alayne left Augusta’s room and the strange spectacle of her and little Adeline bedded together, she returned to her own room to find Renny there, standing by the window, brightly outlined in the moonlight.
The moon had been hidden behind the treetops but now it swam clear of them and poured its silver down the sky. The room was full of it; the angles of the furniture sharpened by it. A candle that Alayne had lighted for the sake of the child had sunk into itself, like a dancer into her skirt. Through the open window the provocative scent of late summer drifted in. The house was silent.
She stood in the doorway watching him, herself unseen. He was over by the window, the space of the room was between them, yet it was as though she held him in her arms. He was a part of her, even though their oneness tortured her at times. He was as much a part of her as though she were a tree and he one of her branches thrown out against the moonlight. Yet he was remote. She could not subdue him. All she could do was to hold him in the inexorable bond of her love.
She came into the room, throwing off her dressing gown that fell with a silken hiss to the floor. It lay in a patch of moonlight, shimmering like the sloughed skin of a snake. He turned and saw her.
“Is she asleep?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, and, with a gesture, pushed the shadow of the child from between them.
He gave a little laugh. He held out a hand and drew her to the window. They looked down into the garden where the moonlight shone on dewy cobwebs. The locusts had not paused all night in their thin, sweet chorus. Now, in the light of the waning moon, they increased the volume of their song until the pale cobwebs vibrated, shaking dewdrops to the grass, and sleeping birds stirred uneasily and touched wings upon the bough.
She laid her hand against his breast. He bent his head and she looked up into his face from that angle, saw the look in his eyes, his fine carven nostrils, his adroit lips.
He laid his lips on hers.
VII
WAKEFIELD AND PAULINE
WHEN Wakefield was left alone he could not go to sleep. He had been too thoroughly disturbed. Though the house had now become very quiet he was more than ever conscious of the magnetic drawings of the various lives beneath its roof. The vibrations of those secret threads was never so much felt by him as when all doors were closed and the family invisible.
Renny had put out the light before he had gone. No moonlight came in at this window. Yet Wakefield was intensely conscious of the moonlight. It would be coming in at Alayne’s window. In the room where Renny and Alayne were.
He lay stretched out, still and dark as the shadow of a statue. It was easy to feel like a child again, a little afraid of the dark, wishing that Renny were there to snuggle against. It would be strange when the time came when he no longer would sleep with Renny. Yet come it must. He was growing into a man. Some night he would stretch out his hand in
man’s privilege and draw a woman to him. He thought of this dreamily but without longing. He was in no haste. He was willing for a while to remain a boy. He had almost no past. Its few events lay in his remembrance like the fallen petals of a single flower.
Before him stretched a long period of years. If he lived to be as old as Gran he would have eighty-five years ahead of him. Eighty-five Christmases, eighty-five birthdays, eighty-five times three hundred and sixty-five wakings in the morning… A man might do a good deal in that time.
He stretched himself till his toes touched the foot of the bed. He was tall! Renny often said how proud he was to have reared him to such a height and strength, able to do the things that other fellows did. He could ride a horse, swim, play tennis, though he would never be what Renny and Piers were.
He had leaped across a great chasm since the days of childhood… He saw himself being led into the drawing-room to meet strangers, shyly twisting the silken tie of his sailor suit. He saw himself in a rage, rolling on the floor. He felt the sting of Renny’s hard hand on his seat. He remembered the nights when he could not sleep and Renny sat up with him, rubbing his legs, comforting him. He saw himself trailing across the fields to his lessons with Mr. Fennell. He saw himself flying home. Aeons ago. The dark chasm, over which he might not return, lay behind him. He was almost a man. Tears filled his eyes at the thought.
He lay wet-eyed in the darkness…
For a while he slept then, but only a half-sleep. He was quite conscious that his dreams were dreams and smiled to himself at their strangeness. A morning breeze blowing in the curtains fanned his face. He could scarcely believe he had slept.
Yet he must have slept, for there lay Renny, stretched out beside him in peaceful slumber, his brown hand curled under his cheek like a child’s. Although he looked so peaceful, he wore an air of attentiveness as though listening for the voice of a loved one. The breeze ruffled an upstanding lock on the crown of his head and the first morning sun burnished its redness to fire… How like him little Adeline was, and what a strange pair they had looked, laughing at each other in the lamplight.
Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course Page 49