The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (322 page)

Finch had drawn aside one of the curtains just far enough to allow the sunlight to slant across the dimness of the room. He sat with his hands on the keyboard waiting for the moment to come when he must play. The black keys, he thought, were like black birds perched in a row on a marble balustrade. Soon he would scatter them into flight. They would be scattered, singing sweetly and mournfully.

He played Moszkowski’s Habanera. He played with a dreamy joy. As he finished he was aware that someone had come into the room, but, instead of the irritation that he usually felt at an intrusion, he was glad of this new presence. He did not look round, but sat motionless while the harmony still lingered in the room. He was not surprised when his cousin’s voice came almost in a whisper from behind him.

“May I come in and listen?” she asked.

“Please do,” he answered, still without looking round.

She came in and seated herself, her hands folded in her lap. She gave him a little smile, but after that fixed her eyes on the scene beyond the open window. He was able to study her face as he played.

He had never seen a face so still, so repressed, yet with a strange eagerness. He could not decide where this eagerness was shown. Not in the eyes with their withdrawn look. Not in the small sweet mouth with its almost sucked-in appearance. It seemed to come from some luminosity within or from her attitude, the posture of her arms suggesting folded wings, aquiver for flight. Her expression did not change as he played piece after piece, but when he ceased she said:

“Will you play with me one day?”

She spoke with the simplicity of a child, and again he was conscious of the caressing sweetness of her voice. He thought there was a look half frightened in her eyes as she spoke, and he had a sudden sensuous desire to say something brutal to her to startle her into betraying herself. Instead, he said:

“I should like to accompany you now, if you will let me.”

She got up without a word and went to the window seat where her violin case lay. She bent over it, taking out the violin and dusting it with a piece of silk that lay in the case. Then she put it under her chin and began to tune it. She did this in a manner so aloof that Finch began to feel nervous, wondering if he could accompany her.

“What shall we play?” he asked, turning over her music.

“Anything you like.”

He found something by Brahms that he knew, but at first the going was not easy. The rather frozen beauty of her playing seemed impossible to merge with the fluid grace of his. It was as though a frozen lake had said to a running stream— “Come, merge with me.”

They almost gave up in despair. Then, suddenly in a waltz of Chopin, they achieved the flow, the union of spirit for which they had been striving. Something seemed loosed in her. A delicate flush came in her cheeks. Finch delighted in the sense of power this gave him. They played on and on, speaking only in hushed tones between the pieces. It was miraculous to him that there should be such a change in her playing, and he wondered if a corresponding change would lake place in her attitude toward him.

But this was not so. As soon as the music was over she was as remote, as monosyllabic as before. When they heard the others returning, though, she whispered:

“Do not tell them we played together.” As she said this her face wore the expression of mischievousness sometimes seen in the faces of women painted by medieval Italian artists.

“And you will let me accompany you again?” he whispered back.

She nodded, her lips folded close, her greenish eyes glittering. She was like a child, he thought, full of playful malice against elders who repressed her. He heard Mrs. Court holding forth on the tepidity of spirit displayed by the Vicar on the subject of Prayer Book Reform. “Upon my word,” she was declaring, “you might think, to hear him, that one Prayer Book is as good as another.” He heard Augusta suggesting that they play bridge that evening. Might not he and Sarah be alone for a while? He was going to ask her, but found himself saying instead:

“I think Sarah is a beautiful name.”

She raised her brows and repeated the name after him. He thought her way of saying it was delightful. “Sair-rah.” The syllables were like sweet stressed notes.

He continued rapidly then—“I don’t believe you care for bridge. I hate it. Would you come out to the garden for a while?”

“Perhaps.”

“Why perhaps?” he insisted. “It’s always
perhaps
with me.”

“Because of... ?” He gave a little jerk of the head toward her aunt.

She nodded.

“But, if she’s playing bridge—”

“There’s letter-writing. We have thirty-two regular correspondents. I write most of the letters.”

He was too astonished for words. He came of a family who seldom wrote letters except on business. It had frequently been a matter for dispute who was to write the monthly letter to Augusta. He had sent a picture postcard to each member of the family from London. He had had no word from home. Ernest had had a letter from Alayne, and often said that he must answer it.

“If there’s nothing to do I’ll come,” she said. Then she moved away and went to Nicholas, listening attentively to what he had to say.

When Finch and Nicholas happened to be alone for a moment before dinner, Nicholas said

“That girl has her father’s face; but Dennis Court was a devil, and I’m afraid the aunt has brought her up to be a prude.”

3
E
VENING

They entered the garden through a door in the wall that was half hidden in ivy. The door was not easy to open, and, when they were inside, Finch left it ajar. It was not dark, nor would it be that night. Across the clear primrose yellow of the west were two bars of purple cloud fringed with crimson. The pale new moon stood aloof, like a young singer standing in the wings timidly awaiting her summons to the stage. An ancient oak tree, its trunk embowered in ivy, its every branch and twig hoary with lichen, towered just beyond one of the garden walls. In it a number of rooks were gathered and seemed to be enjoying the wind from the south that tossed its lesser boughs. The birds leaped into the air and, after a few powerful
strokes of the wing, allowed themselves to drift or tumble back into the green shelter. A linnet, perched among the branches of a peach tree trained against the wall, sang a thin plaintive strain that could be heard when the rooks silenced their cries for a space. The flower beds seemed to have drawn closer together, as though in a concerted effort to overpower by their perfume the senses of any who walked in the garden. And above the scent of the rose and the heliotrope there ascended the heavy somnolent sweetness of the nicotiana.

Sarah Court wore a flame-coloured shawl, the deep fringe of which almost touched the ground behind. The shawl made her look proud and Spanish, he thought, and he remembered having heard his grandmother say that, in the days of Queen Elizabeth, one of the Courts had married a Spanish woman. He suddenly had a picture of Renny in his mind—Renny with a pointed beard and a high ruff that suited him well. He smiled to himself and saw that she was peering around at him with curiosity. He had wondered what he could talk to her about. Now he said:

“I was thinking of my eldest brother. I wish you could know him. He’s such a splendid fellow. It is strange that just now there was something in you that reminded me of him.”

“Something
splendid?”
she asked.

“Yes. Something very proud and rather splendid.”

“But I’m not proud!”

“But you have a look of pride.”

“I have nothing to be proud about.” After a moment she added—“And every reason to be humble.”

She was walking slowly along a narrow box-bordered path, and Finch, following her, was conscious of pride in her every movement, in her manner of wearing the Spanish shawl, and in the restrained musical tones of her voice.

When they reached the end of the path he looked into her face. “I’m glad you were able to come out,” he said. He was glad that she had come, but, in truth, he would have been still more glad to be in the garden alone at this hour, or with some companion of whose presence his nerves were not so aware.

Her lip curled in the same smile of a malicious child as when in the drawing-room. “My aunt gave me enough letters to write to keep me busy till bedtime.”

At that they were drawn nearer each other. She began to caress the flowers of a yellow rose bush and to press her face into them with an almost cruel eagerness.

“What a lot of hair,” he thought, looking down at the mass of glossy braids covering the back of her head. “And she holds the roses to her exactly as she holds the violin.” He remembered what Eden had said about being kissed by her.

He would have liked to summon the romantic valour to make love to her. He could not even picture the possibility of doing so in the future. Her air was too self-concealing. She was too exquisitely removed from him.

Through the door in the wall he saw two figures passing, hand in hand. He recognised the gardener’s boy, Ralph Hart, but the girl’s face was just a disc of white.

The boy dropped the girl’s hand and came to the door. It was supposed to be bolted at that hour, and he was surprised at finding it ajar. Finch went to him.

“I shouldn’t have left that door open. But I’ll not forget to shut it when we leave. Perhaps you’d better shut it now and we will go out by the gate.”

As he spoke he tried to see the girl’s face, curious to know what sort of sweetheart the boy had chosen. But she drew away, shyly averting it.

“I’m sorry I came to the door, zir,” said Ralph; “but in the dimsey I didden see ‘ee in the garden. Us thought it were left open by mistake.” He touched his cap and went after the girl.

Finch shut the door. The noise of its closing frightened the rooks, and, with hoarse caws, they rose from the oak and sailed in close formation toward the afterglow. The linnet in the peach tree hushed his song, listening till he believed all was well again, then once more his pipings and flutings filled the garden, not in the intervals of the clamour of rooks, as before, but in full and confident possession.

There was a seat like a tall, narrow church-pew between two clipped yew trees, and they seated themselves on it. Finch began to tell her about his family. She listened with absorbed interest, and, as he described each one in turn, his heart warmed to them, their imperfections dwindled, and he could hardly find words to describe Renny’s spirit, his horsemanship; Piers’s courage, his knowledge of farming; Wake’s gentleness and precocity; Meg’s—oh, well, Meggie was perfect! He almost made himself homesick talking about them. Eden alone he did not mention.

“You have so many,” she said, “and I have no one. I mean of my very own.”

“Will you tell me something of your life?” he asked gently. “I’d like to be able to picture you in Ireland.”

She made a disdainful movement of her shoulders under the bright shawl. “My life is nothing but practising, paying calls, and writing letters.”

He was hurt by her inclusion of practising with calls and letter-writing. He said—“But you love music, don’t you?”

“Never till today.”

He felt what this implied through all his nerves. Yet—to have learned to play so beautifully, and not have learned to
love it, to find sanctuary in it... The thought almost repelled him. He felt something insensate in her. What had today’s awakening signified then? That she had suddenly become conscious of the sensuous release in music? He asked:

“Didn’t you care for it before you went to live with your aunt?”

“I never thought about it.”

She talked so little he was driven to catechise her. “Were you left an orphan young?”

“My mother died when I was seven.”

“Mine, too.”

“How strange.”... Her tone was musing, rather than impressed by the coincidence.

“And your father?” Well, she was his cousin; he had the right to question her!

“When I was thirteen.” She turned towards him (the moon was now giving just enough light to etherealise her features) and began to speak rapidly. “He was drowned. He and I had lived alone after my mother died. Our house was on the sea coast. He was very fond of horses—like your brother Renny—but he drank a good deal. And he brought strange people to the house. I don’t mind telling you that I liked them. Much better than Aunt Elizabeth’s friends. Father was always boasting about his horses. Especially a mare called Miriam which had saved his life in a flooded stream once. When he had been drinking, he’d boast of the great distance she could swim. One night he and his friends began making bets about it. To prove what she could do, he led her to the shore, and his friends went with him. He mounted her and rode her out into the sea. It was like glass, and there was moonlight. She swam on and on, with him on her back, and he shouted and sang. At last his friends were
frightened and screamed to him to come back, but he only sang the louder. They heard the mare whinny. Before morning a storm came up, and the next day his body and the mare’s were driven ashore by the waves.”

“How appalling! And were you alone in that house?”

“Yes; but I watched the people on the shore from a window. The peasants said it was a terrible sight to see the great waves dash the mare against the cliff. My father’s feet were caught in the stirrups. They said the mare would rear and her hooves clatter against the rocks, as though she were alive.”

Finch remembered having heard the family talk of this tragedy when he was a child, but he had thought of it as having happened many years before. The story had seemed too fantastic. The Dennis Court, of whom he remembered his grandmother exclaiming, “Ah, there was a real Court!” had seemed almost a myth... And now here was he, Finch, sitting on a garden seat beside Dennis’s daughter, while she repeated the story of his death in unemotional tones.

Keeping his own voice as level as hers, he said:

“And after that you went to live with Mrs. Court, I suppose. It was a great change.”

She answered, with a touch of bitterness—“Yes. A change for the better everyone thought. No one seemed to remember how I had adored my father. It’s true enough that I can never repay her for all she’s done for me. All the lessons, the travelling. But she made me practise six hours a day, and, when we travelled, I never had a moment to call my own. Now we don’t travel. She can’t afford it. And, if I’m quiet or go off by myself, she calls me
Mouse
and
Moler