The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (416 page)

“You’ll be sick,” muttered Finch. “I smell like a horse.”

“I don’t mind.” She snuggled closer.

Peace was gone from him but a restless sleep came. In the morning he felt better and he made up his mind that he would go to see Wakefield that very day. Ernest had already been and was eager to go again. Sarah was determined to accompany them. It was Nicholas who ordered them to let Finch go alone. The boy might have a nervous breakdown, he said, if he were harried by constant companionship. Solitude was what he needed. Nicholas’s leonine head, his deep voice, the sombre lines cut on his face lent might to what he said. Finch took a train after breakfast and arrived at the monastery soon after the midday meal.

He felt very nervous as he waited at the broad low door, the ugly brown paint of which was blistered by the sun. But before it was answered, Wakefield ran across the parched grass to his side and threw both arms about him.

“Hullo, Finch! Hullo — hullo! How splendid to see you! I was reading over there under that tree and I looked up and could scarcely believe my eyes. I’ve been hoping every day you’d come.”

Finch grasped his hand and searched his face to see what change was there. Wake looked stronger than he had ever seen him. His eyes did not appear so luminously large with his cheeks fuller and his skin as brown as a berry. There was a certain severity about his mouth, a look of reflection, and his nose was developing a fine Court arch. He returned Finch’s gaze smiling and asked:

“What do you think of me in this?” He gathered the skirts of his gown in one hand and strode, with what seemed to Finch some of his old vanity, along the walk and back.

“It looks rather funny,” said Finch, “but I suppose I’ll get used to it…. You look happy, Wake.”

“I am. Happier than I dreamed was possible.”

“But then you’ve always been a happy fellow. I mean you were always sure of yourself, rather —” Finch hesitated for a word.

“Cocky,” supplied Wake. “I know just how you must have felt about me. I think I was full of conceit. But I wasn’t really happy. I was too self-conscious for that. But now I’ve given up all self. Come along to my tree and we’ll talk about me.” He caught Finch by the arm and drew him toward a bench beneath a chestnut tree that was turning prematurely brown. Other black-gowned figures were about, some slender like Wakefield, some thick-set or rotund.

It was evidently a time of recreation. They strolled together in groups or sat reading. On the bench where Wakefield had sat lay a volume of St. Thomas Aquinas. He picked it up and his fingers closed caressingly over its worn leather covers.

Finch thought — “If only I could know what is in his mind! And how he came to do this strange thing and how much of his happiness is real and how much play-acting! But I’m a beast to suspect him for a moment. He is absolutely sincere. The look in his eyes … the very movement of his hands….” He said gently:

“Will you tell me something about it, Wake? I thought that you were terribly keen on Pauline. What changed your feelings? Would you mind telling me?”

“Well, you know, Finch, I was always rather religious. Do you remember how I used to pray for my grandmother when I was a kid? Of course, that was presumption and very irritating to my uncles, but it showed that I had a feeling for prayer. Then I stopped praying and began to write poetry. But I wasn’t really a poet, like Eden was. With me it was just a phase and it passed. Then I fell in love with Pauline and everything was different. What I wanted above all things was to have her for my own. I wanted to work to make enough money to marry. And I did work, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” agreed Finch. “You worked damned hard.”

Wakefield looked pleased. “You’re the first one who has said that, Finch. No matter how hard I worked I was looked on as a sort of playboy who couldn’t do a man’s job. I worked hard in the garage too. Later on I expect to work hard at teaching. There’s a tremendous lot to be done.” He looked capable of doing his share.

Finch thought — “Is this novice really Wakefield? Is this Wake in the long black gown? Am I Finch? Are we two sitting together under this chestnut tree with those black crows of men flitting about? If only the pain keeps off … I can believe in anything … I can believe in God … if only the pain and confusion leave my head….”

He picked up the book of Thomas Aquinas and opened it. The print was blurred before his eyes. He took off his glasses and pressed his eyeballs. Then he looked again. Now he saw the letters. But there were two of each. He turned his eyes to Wake’s face and saw his features grotesquely duplicated. He closed his eyes.

“You aren’t well, are you, Finch?”

Wakefield’s voice was warm with sympathy.

“I’m all right.” Finch spoke gruffly. “I’m just tired. Those concerts were a strain.”

Wakefield laid a brown hand on Finch’s knee. “If you weren’t married, I’d be after you! I’d never rest till I had you, Finch! You could be so happy in this life. You were not made for the stupidities and futile excitements of the world. You could make such wonderful use of your music. And, if I could have you beside me here, well — I’d ask for nothing more.”

Finch thought — “How deep does it go with him? Is he just exhilarated by this new life or has he really found something that will last always?”

He asked — “How did you come to do it? Which of you — I mean, surely you didn’t give up Pauline of your own free will.”

“No — not of my own will. But God’s.”

Finch moved restlessly on the seat.

“You see, I had to be a Catholic to marry Pauline. At first I didn’t think much about it. She was the important object. But I was willing. It seemed rather a picturesque thing to do. I began after a little to get interested in my talks with the priest. Then I went to a mission for men. And I began to be unhappy. Every day I got more miserable and I lay awake half the night. But I kept it all to myself.” His lips set in a firm line.

Finch thought — “Who
is
he like? I see Gran’s face in his, and Renny’s, and Eden’s, and even Piers’s. He’s like all of them but me! I’ll never get nearer to him than I am now.”

Wakefield went on — “Then suddenly I found out that I wanted the religious life. Nothing but that. Nothing else would do. I consulted my priest. He was doubtful. But I knew I had a vocation. You can imagine what the family said.”

“Yes…. What I can’t imagine is what Pauline said. It must have been a shock to her.”

“That was the remarkable thing. That is what makes it all seem so divinely ordered. Almost the first thing she said to me was — ‘I sympathize more than you know. I have often thought I should like to enter a convent.’”

“She said that, did she?”

“Yes. And her look told me even more than her words. She wasn’t playing up to me. My belief is that we turned off the path we had taken at the very same moment. The same thought had been working in us both, though we were unconscious of it.”

Finch looked down at his glasses dangling between his fingers. “And you don’t regret her? I mean, you can bear the thought of never seeing her again?”

“Oh, I am sure I shall see her again. I look forward to that. But it will be different — naturally.”

“I don’t suppose there is a chance of my ever seeing her again.”

“Uncle Ernest told me that she is going to be at her mother’s sale, to help her. You might see her there. If you do, Finch, please give her my love and tell her I hope she is as happy as I am. Give my love to her mother too.”

Finch remembered the blonde, stocky woman and felt a sudden compassion for her. He felt a pang in his heart at the thought that Pauline was going from them all forever. A thin old priest came to them across the burnt grass. Wakefield introduced Finch to him and the three proceeded to join a group of other novices.

They were all natural and friendly with Finch. Wakefield must have talked a good deal of his family. They asked Finch questions about his concerts and his experience in the world of music. To Finch it seemed that Wakefield already occupied in the monastery something of the position he had had at Jalna. He seemed a favourite with the older priests.

He took Finch over the grounds. To the vegetable garden where lay brothers were working with an industry Finch had never before witnessed. He wished Piers might have seen them. He was shown over the monastery and saw Wakefield’s room. He looked at him curiously, out of his long, large-pupiled eyes.

Finch had a good tea and was extraordinarily hungry.

He stood beside Wakefield in the chapel at Benediction. The light from the stained glass windows fell across the heads and shoulders of these men withdrawn from the world. They seemed suddenly cold and aloof from him. The air was rich with incense. As he fixed his eyes on the glittering monstrance the pain in his head began again. He wanted to get away.

At the gate the brothers shook hands. Wakefield said:

“Remember, Finch, you will never be out of my thoughts. I shall always be praying for you. I have hopes that you may become a Catholic. And Renny too. I even have hope for him.”

“What about Piers?” asked Finch grimly.

Wake gave one of his old mischievous grins. “Well,” he said, “I haven’t much hope of Piers.”

S
ALE AT THE
F
OX
F
ARM

T
HE ATMOSPHERE
of an auction sale was not a novelty at Jalna. Once a year Renny and Piers held a sale of surplus stock. The bustle in preparation for it, the actual event, the rearrangement of stables afterward, and the gratification or disappointment in the result, were a solid part of each year.

But the sale at the fox farm was different. It was still called the fox farm though the foxes had disappeared. Their wire-netted runs stood forsaken or sagged to the ground. But the little house was charming inside. Clara and Pauline had delighted in keeping it so. Now it would stand bereft, its associations torn from it like a clinging creeper. To Renny it was a black day. He would be glad when it was over and the door locked on that chamber of his life. He had done all he could to arrange for a successful sale. Now he had only to stand by and watch the familiar objects disappear one by one.

There was nothing of much value in the house. The furniture and rugs had been bought at haphazard, with regard to cheapness rather than any scheme, but Clara had, with effective walls and curtains, some pieces of family china and the pictures Lebraux had bought, when he could not afford them, given the house that air of well-being which she contrived in her material surroundings.

She and Renny stood together at one end of a table of ornaments she had arranged, while at the other Finch fingered a little china box with the figure of a shepherdess on the lid. Clara looked reflectively at his face, at his hands.

“The boy looks tired,” she said.

“He is. He has worked too hard. He’s not strong.”

Clara gave a little grunt. “I wish he had cared for Pauline, instead of Wake. He’s more stable.”

“I wish he had. Things might have been different.” Then Renny remembered Sarah. “But still — he’s got a wife who is absolutely devoted to him. Lots of money too.”

“Hm, yes. It was God’s mercy to you.”

“She’s a strange girl. I’m glad I’m not married to her. She makes me uncomfortable.”

Clara’s eyes turned from Finch to him. Her short strong features softened to tenderness. Her eyes embraced him.

Finch asked — “Was this Pauline’s?”

“Yes. Her French grandma gave it to her.”

People began to trickle into the room. The air was hot, sticky. There seemed nothing to breathe. The auctioneer’s voice could be heard from a bedroom. A woman wearing black cotton gloves with a hole in the thumb picked up the china box and peered into it. The auctioneer’s clerk came and took Clara away.

Finch muttered to himself — “If she drops that box….”

The woman said to a friend — “Cute, isn’t it? I believe I’ll buy it for Betty’s birthday.”

The room was filling up. It was insufferably close. Finch moved to Renny’s side.

“Do you think,” he asked, “that Pauline is here? Do you think she will be in — nun’s things?”

“Lord no! She’s in brown. There she is. Just by the door. She’s looking for Clara.”

Pauline stood in the doorway, childishly indecisive. She was bare-headed and her thick, dark hair, more closely cut than Finch had before seen it, hung unevenly about her ears. She looked mildly at the collection of people. Her lips parted as though she strove for a deep breath.

She saw Renny and Finch and came to them and spoke in a low, even voice.

“I’m glad you have come. Mummie and I have felt awfully confused by it all. It’s ages since I’ve seen you, Finch.” She held out her hand.

Finch took it. He said — “I saw Wakefield last week.” Then he coloured deeply, wishing he could withdraw the words. She did not seem to mind. She looked just the same only there was something a little cold, a little detached about her that was new to him. Her lips had less colour. She kept looking at Finch as though he was a shield between her and Renny.

“Has the sale begun?” asked Renny.

“Yes. In Mother’s bedroom. It’s packed with people.”

“Two-thirty — two-thirty — going at two-thirty!” came the auctioneer’s voice from above.

The people in the dining room were not interested. They settled themselves to remain where they were till the things they wanted were put up.

“Let’s get out into the air,” said Renny.

The three went out and stood by the empty fox run. Pauline said:

“Do you remember my pet fox?”

“Yes” answered Finch. “What became of him?”

“He died. I was terribly sorry. I cried and I cried didn’t I, Renny?”

He took her arm in his hand. “It’s all over, Pauline,” he said.

Finch moved away from the others and made as though to look for gooseberries on some neglected bushes.

Pauline raised her eyes to Renny’s face. “How I have loved you,” she said.

He looked back at her without speaking, cut to the heart. She went on breathlessly — “That is the last time a word of love shall ever pass my lips. But I had to say it. You understand, don’t you?”