WAKEFIELD
When Wakefield and Paris were gone, Finch found himself the only one of the brothers at home. It was a strange sensation for him to go to Piers’s house and see only Pheasant, Nook, and Philip. Surely at any moment the door would open and Piers would march in. But no, Piers had marched away to the war, in private’s uniform. It was like him to choose that shortest way of having his fling at the enemy. It was strange to go to Jalna and find only the uncles and Alayne and the children, to know that those three strange girls, with whom he had crossed the ocean, were installed in the house where Uncle Ernest and Aunt Harriet, such a short while ago, had had their home. Perhaps strangest of all was the returning to Vaughanlands to find Sarah utterly engrossed by her son, watching the first dawning of his intelligence, his first reaching out to her breast, with a sensuous delight. At times when Finch saw her curl herself about the child like a supple Persian cat about her young, saw the concentrated gaze in her greenish eyes, where no white but only the iris showed, he felt a sardonic amusement. He had become, in the hour of her delivery, no more than the father of her child, the instrument by means of which she had reached her pinnacle of bliss. She had always been indolent but now she was satisfied to recline motionless and watch the child by the hour. She no longer wanted new clothes for herself. Everything was lavished on him. She embroidered his initials, surrounded by wreaths of flowers, on his cot coverings. She bought him a silver porringer lined with gold with his name engraved and the Court and Whiteoak crests emblazoned on either side. She looked on the other seven children of the family as nobodies and paupers compared to him. It was not long before she had offended Meg and Vaughanlands became too small to contain the two of them. Finch was puzzled as to where he should install her, for he was determined to go back to England and do his share of war work or whatever came his way. He had, since his return, given a number of recitals in the border cities of the United States and in Canada. He had given them with less nervous strain than ever before but his heart had never been so little in his work. He felt strangely free and light. He was filled with wonder when he saw Sarah with her child and remembered how she had enchained him in her passion. He had struggled in the chains of her desire, but now he was freed. She was as placid toward him as the water lily toward the pool on which it floats. Except where the child was concerned.
“I pity you,” Meg would exclaim, “when that boy of yours is older! He’s going to be the worst-spoilt child on the face of the earth!”
Alayne solved the difficulty by suggesting that Pheasant should come with her boys to stay at Jalna. She had always been fond of Pheasant and she loved little Nook. Then Sarah could take Pheasant’s house till Piers’s return. The rental would be a godsend to Pheasant.
Everyone fell in with this plan and it was made the easier because Miss Pink had lately opened a small school which Pheasant’s boys, Alayne’s children, and Roma could attend and be comfortably out of the way for the greater part of each day. Indeed it is probable that Miss Pink opened the school with the Whiteoak children in mind, for with these five and a few others from the neighborhood she would be able to carry on. She found these five quite a handful and there were usually several times a day when, with the exception of Nook, they were completely beyond her control. When this happened she simply opened the door and turned them out. Then they would squeeze their small bodies through an opening in the fence and run wildly about the graveyard or watch Noah Binns in awe as he drove his pick into the earth to excavate a new grave.
Archer attended school in two contrasting moods. Either he went with knitted brow and an avid determination to acquire knowledge, which he acquired at a rate that almost frightened Miss Pink (she and Alayne spent hours in discussing his mental endowments), or he declined to go at all. Then he would have to be carried to the car, lying stiff as a poker across the arms of the one who bore him, and that was a bad day for Miss Pink. In the car he would still extend himself stiffly, in whatever room he could make for himself, and at the school it was again necessary to carry him into the classroom. But Miss Pink was always patient with him for she felt that he had a great mind.
Finch had much time to himself in these days. He found pleasure in wandering about the countryside and in the woods, eagerly noting each fragile evidence of spring — the red leaf buds of the maples, the catkins in the ravine, and the joyful release of the stream. Scarcely a day passed when he did not go to the fox farm. He would spend hours with the sisters, finding their company oddly congenial. He was determined to break down Althea’s shyness and counted it a triumph when she would laugh at some story of his boyhood or sit near the piano when he played. Sometimes he stayed to tea; then Molly would return from the town and join the group about the piano.
One day he found Molly there when he arrived. They were in terrible distress. A cablegram had come telling of Christopher’s death. He had been killed in an aeroplane accident while training.
The four sisters did not seem able to take in the full meaning of the news. They were numbed and bewildered by it. But at the sight of Finch, they ran to him and clung about him, weeping. He put his arms about them, tears filling his own eyes, and tried to comfort them. But in the midst of his emotion he was startled by the electric thrill in his nerves when he felt Althea’s slender body inside the circle of his arm. She lay against his breast, sobbing in complete forgetfulness of herself, he found himself pressing his lips to the silken fairness of her hair, calling her Althea, she calling him Finch. He felt shaken and strangely elated.
He had to be away for several days because of a recital and when he returned to the fox farm found Molly there, instead of at work as usual. She met him calmly. She said: —
“I’ve had an offer from Hollywood.”
“You have! But it’s not the first, is it?”
“No. Wake and I had offers when we were in New York. But we didn’t want to go. Now I’m sure it’s the best thing to do. You see, I must earn money and I should make quite a lot. Then too, the English actors out there give benefits for the British Red Cross. I can help England in that way. I want terribly to help. I want to go away from here and try to forget — all that has happened. I want to work hard and make money and forget — if I can.” She held up her head and looked with proud sorrow into Finch’s eyes. “I’ve lost both Christopher and Wakefield. There’s nothing left but work.”
“Will your sisters be all right without you?”
“Quite. Everything is new and wonderful to them here. I want to do the best I can with — my life — to be worthy of Christopher and Wake. They’re both gone but I haven’t lost them. They still live in my heart.”
Going home, Finch thought of Wakefield. There was something selfish, he thought, something self-centred and even cruel in the way Wakefield had behaved toward Molly. He tried to picture what he himself would have done in Wakefield’s place. For one thing, he thought, he would have tried to do more to soften the blow for her. Wakefield had behaved, he began to feel, as though his own suffering were by far the greater. He had gone away without seeing her. He had behaved toward Renny as though Renny had done him a deliberate wrong. Perhaps he was being unjust to Wakefield. He knew in his heart that he had always been jealous of him, of Wake’s position in the family as opposed to his own. “Little play-actor!” he had often said of him in the old days.
Suddenly Finch stood stock-still in the path. He had been struck by the remembrance of the nervous breakdown he had had a few years ago. He knew that he had made the household miserable because of his own wretchedness. Had he ever given a thought to the suffering of those about him? He could not remember having done so. Wake was not inflicting his unhappiness on the family. He was going forth to fight, perhaps to die. One thing was certain. He and Wake were not made of the stuff of Renny and Piers. Nor even of Eden. Even Eden! Why, Eden had borne one blow after another from fate and no one had heard him complain.
Thinking of Eden, he began to run, as though to escape. He ran through the
twilight like a long lank ghost, past the lights of Jalna to Piers’s house. Inside the door he hesitated and listened. Sarah was playing an Irish air on her violin. The smell of freshly baked bread came from the kitchen.
XXXII
LETTERS
SPRING WAS NAMED on the calendar but no one could name her in the open. It was April, cold and wet. Four people sat about the fire in the sitting room. It was a shabby but comfortable room and its coziness recommended itself to them, especially in this backward spring. Birch logs burned on the hearth and Nicholas’s favourite chair was drawn close to the blaze. He was cramming tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. Alayne and Ernest had divided the morning paper between them. She had just been reading aloud of the fall of Copenhagen. Pheasant was in the window seat knitting a pullover for Piers. The door opened and Mrs. Wragge brought in the post.
“Letters from England, ’m” she announced, handing them to Alayne. “I’ve one too, from me ’usband. Now we’ll know all the details of the Grand National. It made me ’eart pound just to see the envelope.” She breathed heavily as she left the room.
Ernest leant forward to peer at the addresses.
“Anything for me?”
“No, Uncle Ernest. There are just two. One for Pheasant, from Piers.” She gave it to Pheasant. “And one for me, from Renny.”
“To think,” boomed Nicholas, “that he would win the race! What a triumph! I’d have given a great deal to have been there to see it. Read out the letter, Alayne.”
She opened it with a paperknife and four closely written sheets of notepaper from the Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool, were disclosed.
“By Jove,” said Nicholas, “that’s a long letter for him.”
“But what news!” exclaimed Ernest.
“Piers’s letter is from Liverpool too,” said Pheasant.
Renny’s letter began “My own darling wife,” but she read it as
DEAR ALAYNE, —
I was delighted to get your united cablegram of congratulation. It was a good thought to send it because it made me feel how happy you all are about Johnny the Bird’s victory. He is a grand horse and one of the youngest to win the great race. I got hold of Piers and managed to wangle a few days’ leave for him. He’s writing by this same post to send his news. We came to Liverpool — Rags came too — by car, a few days before the race. So I was able to see Johnny the Bird in action before the great moment. I was very glad to see him and it almost seemed that he recognized me. To tell you the truth, I forgot all about the war for a few days, also other troubles. And even now I can’t help being very happy. Johnny the Bird showed himself in fine fettle. I wished I might have ridden him myself but I’ve nothing to complain of in my jockey. I’ve heard these times called decadent by racing men but I never saw a better race or a horse more perfectly handled, I must tell you that in the Grand National the main thing is to get over the fences. No matter how fast a horse is on the level, he’s got to have any amount of stamina to undertake those thirty jumps. When I have more time I shall make you a map of the course with a full description of every jump. There are the thorn fences — five to eight feet high — the gorse hurdles and, of course, the water jumps. As you’ve heard me say many times, Becher’s Brook is the worst. This is a thick thorn fence four feet six inches high with a two-foot six-inch guard rail. On the landing side there is a natural brook nine feet six inches wide and six feet deep. Well, I can only say that Johnny the Bird went over these just like a bird. Once on the level something startled him and he ran suddenly to the left and my heart sank. But he gathered himself together and was rapidly among the leaders. He is an impetuous horse and he encouraged the other horses to cover the distance faster than usual. He did the four miles eight hundred and fifty-six yards in nine minutes fifteen seconds. This was wonderful because he was trained mostly on a soft muddy track and on this day the track was so dry the horses raised a dust. Oh, Alayne, I was terribly glad. It’s a funny thing but when I led him out after the race I suddenly thought of dear old Gran and how proud she would have been.
The prize money will certainly be acceptable. If it were peacetime nothing would satisfy me but to take Johnny the Bird home and clean up every steeplechase in America with him. As it is I think I shall close with an excellent offer made me by a New Yorker, a man I’ve known for years. I’ll tell you all about that in my next.
Piers was simply hilarious and I never saw him —
Alayne stopped abruptly.
Pheasant leaned forward. “Yes?” she said. “Go on. He says he never saw Piers —”
“Gladder,” finished Alayne, lamely.
“Drunker!” shouted Ernest. “And I don’t blame him. I’d have got drunk too.”
Nicholas patted Pheasant’s hand. “Read Piers’s letter, my girl, and see what he had to say for himself.”
“Perhaps Alayne has more to read.”
“The rest of the letter is purely personal,” said Alayne, glancing over the last page. “Do read Piers’s letter.”
Nicholas sat beaming through tobacco smoke. “What a triumph,” he said. “What a triumph for the Jalna stables! And to think I was against his buying that horse!”
“I’ll never forget,” said Ernest, “when the news came over the radio. I was sitting here alone, alone, mind you, listening to one of those horrible soap-flake advertisements, when the news came on. When I heard the words — Grand National — I leaped to my feet. When I heard that Renny had won the race I almost fell down again. I know I walked in a circle. I went into the hall and told the dogs. They were as excited as I, and —”
“Yes, yes,” said his brother, “we’ve heard all that before.”
“Shall I read Piers’s letter?” asked Pheasant.
“Yes, do.”
She read aloud: —
DEAREST PHEASANT, —
I was very glad to get your letter with the nice little one from Nook enclosed. I think it is a splendid scheme for you and the boys to live at Jalna and let our house to Sarah. It will make quite a difference in our budget. Please thank Alayne for me. Well, at the moment, everything seems unimportant compared to the great victory at Aintree. Renny is giving Alayne details of that, so I shall only add that it was a grand race and that Johnny the Bird is the best buy Renny ever made. Old Redhead was in the seventh heaven after the race. I wish Alayne could have seen his face. There was a big dinner at the hotel but I was tired and went to bed early.
“Ho, ho, ho!” interrupted Nicholas.
“Don’t interrupt, Nick,” said Ernest.
Pheasant proceeded: —
I promised you that I would go to Ireland to see young Maurice at the first opportunity. Well, Cousin Dermot wrote that he was bringing him to Liverpool for the race. However, he was laid up with lumbago and couldn’t come. So I went to Ireland two days before the race, leaving Renny in Liverpool. It was a pity I had such a short time to stay for I enjoyed it thoroughly and so did Mooey enjoy having me. You would be very glad you let him go for this visit if you could see him. I’ve never seen him look so well. He had a fine colour in his cheeks and he’s grown much taller. It’s easy to see that he’s the apple of the old man’s eye. It’s going to be a wonderful thing for Mooey. Cousin Dermot remarked my striking resemblance to my grandfather but he was shocked to see me in private’s uniform. Well, my wish is to get a crack at the Huns. If all goes well I expect to leave for France in a few days. By the time you get this I’ll be in the thick of it.
My love to all at home and don’t worry.
Your loving
PIERS
“I’m so glad about Mooey,” said Alayne.
“And so am I,” said Nicholas.
“A very nice letter,” added Ernest.
Pheasant drew a deep breath. “Yes. Very nice!” She rose with the letter pressed between her hands. “I’ve things to do upstairs.” She left the room, walking rather uncertainly.
“Poor little Pheasant,” said Alayne. “It’s hard for her, parting with both Mooey
and Piers. Not knowing when she’ll see either of them again.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Ernest. “Piers has probably been in France for a fortnight, in the thick of it.”
Nicholas puffed silently at his pipe.
“I never can agree,” said Ernest, “that Piers can compare with our father, though he is a fine-looking fellow.”
“He hasn’t the distinction.”
“Or the true elegance of proportion.”
“Or the manner.”
“Or the dignity.”
The door opened and Mrs. Wragge appeared. She held a telegram in her hand. She looked anxious.
“It’s for Mrs. Piers,” she said, in a whisper.
“Good God!” exclaimed Nicholas. “Something’s happened to Piers!”
“Who is to open the telegram?” asked Ernest, turning ashen.
“I will,” said Alayne. She took the yellow paper from Mrs. Wragge and held it in tense fingers.
“Would it be about Johnny the Bird perhaps?” asked Nicholas. “Surely it’s not bad news.”
Ernest rose and gripped the back of his chair in his hands. “We had better hear the worst,” he said.
Alayne read — “Regret to inform you that Private Piers Whiteoak is missing.”
“Read it again,” said Nicholas. “I don’t take it in.”
She read it again.
XXXIII
THE RESCUE
SIX WEEKS LATER Finch and Wakefield were dining together in a small restaurant. Finch had arrived from Canada and Wakefield was on leave. Their meeting was a happier one than, at their last, Finch would have thought possible. He could not keep his eyes off Wakefield, wondering what was in his heart. He looked handsome in the RAF uniform and he was full, even a little boastful, of the excitement and hazards of his training. Evidently he and Paris were better friends than ever and Finch judged that they had had some wild times together since returning to England. It was a relief yet, in a subtle sense, a disappointment to see Wakefield so master of himself. Finch thought, somewhat ironically, that no matter what Wakefield did or how he did it he himself was never quite pleased with him. It’s the same old jealousy, he thought. If he looks aloof and melancholy I think he’s posing. If he looks reckless and hard I think he has no real depth of feeling. I wish I could get over this stupid criticism of him and just enjoy being with him again.
Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course Page 145