The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (582 page)

Sitting with Finch over a drink in his London hotel, Maurice had said, “I feel sure I could make Adeline happier than Fitzturgis can. I’ve always loved her — as long as I can remember. I understand her. The trouble is she takes me for granted. I’m just another cousin.”

“How old are you?” asked Finch.

“Twenty-four. And please don’t tell me I’ll grow out of this because I shan’t.”

“I was only thinking how faithful you and Fitzturgis have been to Adeline.”

“Adeline is the sort of girl men are faithful to.”

“I was thinking, too, why not come home with me and give Fitzturgis a run for his money? And what a splendid surprise for your mother. She misses you, Maurice.” Finch spoke as in solicitude for Pheasant, but his solicitude was really for Maurice. He had noticed that he was not looking well, that the hand that held the glass trembled, that it was too often refilled. Was the boy just getting over a drinking bout, he wondered, and put the question abruptly: “Do you drink a good deal, Mooey?”

Perhaps it had been the use of the family’s abbreviation of his name that had made Maurice answer, with childlike simplicity, “I’m afraid I do, Uncle Finch.” And he added, under his breath, “I get lonely and depressed at times.”

“Then do come home with me. It’s two years since you were there. It’s time we had a reunion at Jalna. Wakefield is coming a bit later.”

Maurice had not been difficult to persuade and now the two were descending from the aeroplane. They were tired after the long flight. They narrowed their eyes against the intense heat and glare of the landing-field. The tall figure of Finch was discovered by Piers, who had come in the car to meet him.

“Hullo,” he shouted, then, as soon as it was permitted, pressed forward to shake Finch by the hand. “You’re two hours late,” he added.

“I know,” Finch said apologetically.

“I’ve been waiting two and a half hours.”

“Here’s Maurice, Piers.” Finch’s tone said, “Here’s a surprise to make up for all the waiting.”

Piers stared at his eldest-born in open-mouthed astonishment for a moment, then his healthy sunburnt face warmed into fatherly welcome.

“Well, I’ll be darned,” he said. “And won’t your mother be delighted! But why didn’t you send word?”

“I thought I’d surprise her. But — perhaps I should have sent word.”

“It would have been better. Never mind. Let’s find your baggage and get out of here.”

Piers’s car, from standing in the heat of the sun, was like an oven. Finch and Maurice sank into the blistering seat subdued.

“Hot spell,” said Piers, explaining.

“I had forgotten,” said Maurice, “how hot it can be…. I hope my coming is not an inconvenience.”

“You know we’re delighted to have you.”

“How is everybody?” asked Finch.

“Fine. Renny couldn’t come to meet you. He’s off to a sale and taken Fitzturgis with him.” Piers chuckled. “Trying to teach him the elements of breeding show horses. I can’t make the fellow out. What sort of life does he lead in Ireland, Maurice?”

“Very pleasant, I believe. I don’t see much of him. Did Adeline go to the sale too?”

“No. I guess Renny thought that Fitzturgis would have no eyes for the horses if she were there. He’s badly smitten.”

They were moving swiftly through the shimmering countryside, where every hour the sun gained in power, the shadows crept closer under the trees, the breeze created by the movement of the car became hotter. Yet Maurice was exhilarated. He was glad he’d come. After all the years in Ireland this was strangely home. He was grateful to Finch for having persuaded him to come, and turned toward him to smile his gratitude. But Finch looked suddenly detached, lost in his own thoughts. What were they, Maurice wondered. What did Finch feel about coming home?

Finch was thinking of his new house and how densely it was surrounded by trees. He thought of it as shady and cool. But he must have some of the trees cut down. That would be a problem, what trees to cut down. They had stood there so many years. They had surely absorbed through their roots the very essence of those who had lived in the old house which had been burned down. Those who had lived there and those who had died. Eden had died there. He had looked out on those same trees from his bedroom window when he was ill. Finch’s brows drew together in pain as he pictured Eden, in that light blue dressing-gown, standing at the window, looking out at the sombre wintry scene, longing for spring. Why did one remember the sad things about the dead? He should have remembered Eden’s gaiety and generosity — remembered him when he was full of life, not declining into death. Finch thought of his dead wife Sarah, not in pain but in wonder at how unreal she had become to him. She was as a ghost, playing a ghostly tune on that violin of hers. She had played her own tune on his emotions, on his nerves, when they lived together, but only a faint vibration of it remained. Even the son she had left him seemed … well, he could hardly think of Dennis as unreal. He was an active eleven-year-old, but somehow Finch had never been able to feel close to Dennis, never had wanted to have the child with him. Now, for the first time, he asked himself why. Was it because he felt in Dennis a predatory reaching out toward him that reminded him of Sarah? Was it because there was probably no fatherliness in himself — not as in Renny, who had been as a father to his brothers — a rough and ready one at times but generous and warm-hearted? Finch found in himself no eagerness to see Dennis, who was at a boys’ camp somewhere. He had brought him a camera because he knew that was what Dennis wanted, but he had not written to him — had not answered the neat little letter Dennis had sent him. Why had Dennis signed it “Your aff. and only son”? That was like Sarah — possessive.

Finch leant forward to ask of Piers, “How is Dennis? Have you heard lately?”

“He’s all right, I believe. He’ll be home soon. Renny only sent him for half the season. He thought you’d want him with you. Your house is ready. You’ll have fun furnishing it. Meg is all agog to take it in hand.”

The dimple at the corner of Piers’s mouth was roguish as he glanced over his shoulder to note the effect of these words on Finch. He looked more imperturbable than he felt. He said:

“That’s very kind of Meg. However, I don’t intend to furnish all the house straight away. I shall go slowly and get the sort of things I’ll enjoy living with.”

“That’s right,” sang out Piers, his attention again on the road.

Maurice asked, “If Auntie Meg is letting her house where will she and the two girls live?”

“With Finch, naturally.”

“There has been nothing arranged,” Finch said in the loud tone that betrayed his nerves.

“Meggie has arranged it all,” laughed Piers. “It would never do for you — a poor lone widower, with a child — to struggle with housekeeping when she —”

Finch interrupted, “Nothing is arranged.”

“Tell her that. She thinks it is.”

They drove on in silence. Then they were in the familiar road, with its spreading trees, and the quiet fields and orchards of Jalna lay on the left. They were in the driveway, that green tunnel that looked cool but still was breathlessly hot. Now they were in front of the house, with the browning grass, the drooping flower borders subservient to the sun.

“We need rain,” said Piers and took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Out of some shady corner the dogs gathered themselves, as though this were the last effort of which they were capable, and sent up a concerted bark, which on the part of the spaniel ended in a howl of protest. The front door opened and Alayne stood there, in mauve, her silvery hair elegantly brushed back from her clear-cut cool features.

Finch had always been a favourite of hers, and now she welcomed him. “why, Finch, what weather we have for you! what heat! Do come in where it’s more bearable.” Then, seeing Maurice — “My dear, what a lovely surprise! Does your mother expect you? Will you all come in and have a cold drink?”

“How strong?” asked Piers.

“I was thinking of blackcurrant cordial, but, if you like something stronger …”

Piers said, “I think we should be getting along. Don’t you, Maurice? You’re anxious to see your mother, aren’t you?” Maurice agreed that he was.

Finch was now out of the car, had saluted Alayne on the cheek and, with Maurice’s help, was unloading his luggage. Wragge appeared, with his anxious secretive smile, and took possession of the two lightest of the suitcases. Maurice promised to return later that day and the car disappeared down the drive. Finch stood in the porch, its familiarity, its very insignificance, its sun-warmed stone and brick festooned by vines, drawing him in, dimming the immensity of the flight under bright sky and over dark sea, the confusion of crowds, the concert halls. Here his surname became the surname of all about him. He was no more than “Finch.” Yet — so infinitely himself that in that moment it seemed to him that he had no meaning elsewhere.

The dogs pushed their way into the house — and threw themselves with grunts on to the coolness of the floor.

“what a day for a sale,” Alayne said. “But Renny would go and would take Maitland with him. The poor man will be melted. He so feels the heat.”

They were in the shuttered coolness of the drawing-room. Wragge had brought the iced blackcurrant drink; and after enquiring for Nicholas, Finch asked:

“How do you like Fitzturgis?”

“Very much.” Alayne spoke almost as though in defence of him, as though she perhaps were the only one who understood him. “He and I have had some interesting talks. I find him quite unusual.”

“He’s not so unusual in Ireland.”

“I think he would be unusual anywhere.”

“Do you think he can make Adeline happy?”

Alayne gave a resigned little shrug. “who knows? And just what is happiness?”

“I certainly cannot answer that question,” said Finch and, sipping his iced currant drink, let himself sink into the blank-minded familiarity of the room.

“How is Maurice?” asked Alayne.

“He’s still in love with Adeline, if that’s what you mean.”

Alayne showed surprise, without maternal gratification. “I did not know,” she said, “that there was anything serious in his affection for her. I thought it was just cousinly.”

“It’s quite serious.” After a pause Finch added, “He drinks more than is good for him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Pheasant would be so distressed if she knew.”

“I’m hoping he’ll go straight while he’s at home. He’s promised me.”

Archer now came into the room. He greeted Finch and heard without surprise that Maurice had accompanied him. He asked, “Do people visit their old home out of duty or for pleasure?”

“It is natural,” said Alayne, “to return to one’s people.”

“Animals don’t. You can’t imagine a tiger seeking out his parents. He’d know they’d criticize him.”

“Domestic animals return to their homes, Archer.” Alayne scanned his face, searching for warmth.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I read of a cat that was presented with a medal for returning sixty-eight miles to its home. But what use was the medal to the cat? The only consequence was to make the cat’s owner conceited, as though he had done something.”

“You’ll find,” said Finch, sipping the cool drink, “that you’ll long for home when you’ve left it.”

“The only thing I long for,” said Archer. “is to understand. Uncle Nicholas says you only understand when it’s too late.”

“Uncle Nicholas has had a very good life,” said Alayne.

“what is a good life?”

“He has enjoyed himself and given little pain to others.”

“But that is not like helping others, is it?”

At this moment Adeline came in. Finch embraced her with affection. “Lovely as ever, Adeline,” he said, “and happy. I can see that in your eyes.”

Archer examined his sister’s eyes. “I don’t see any expression in them,” he said. “I think eyes are overrated. It’s the mouth that shows whether you are happy. Adeline is grinning, so we know she is happy.”

Alayne said to Finch, “He goes on like this at every opportunity. He has such an analytical mind.” She spoke half in pride, half in despair of her son.

“when is the wedding to be?” asked Finch. “I want to be here for it, if possible. So does Maurice.”

“Is he coming over?” Adeline exclaimed.

“He is here. He came with me.”

“How splendid! And Uncle Wake will be here, I hope. We plan to be married in September.”

“I’ll give a party for you,” said Finch, “in my new house.”

Archer asked, “Are Auntie Meg and Patience and Roma going to live with you?”

Finch looked embarrassed. “I think not,” he muttered.

Adeline, not able to detach her mind from her own affairs, said, “Mait’s sister Sylvia is coming from New York to visit us and stay for the wedding. You remember her?”

“One could never forget her,” said Finch. His mind flew back to that brief meeting. Again he pictured the lovely, wan face, heard the pleasant cadence of her voice. “Is she quite recovered? She’d been ill, hadn’t she?”

“Yes. She’d had a shock in the war — seen her husband killed in an air raid. Her nerves were awfully bad, but she’s much better. She’s hoping to get a job in New York.”

“A strange place to choose for nerves,” said Finch. “Yet — perhaps a good place — for forgetting.”

Archer remembered that Alayne had met her first husband when she was working in a New York publishing house. That afternoon he had the opportunity to speak to Adeline alone and he remarked:

“I wonder which husband Mother was happier with — Uncle Eden or Dad.”

Adeline gave him a look of disgust. “You do say the most uncomfortable things,” she exclaimed.

“Life has to be thought about,” he said.

“There’s no need for you to think about Uncle Eden, who died before you were born.”

“But how closely connected to me! I once heard Dad say that sometimes offspring resemble a former mate. I may resemble Uncle Eden.”

“You’re disgusting, Archer. Besides, Daddy was talking of animals — not intelligent human beings.”

“I don’t see anything intelligent in having all your children resemble their sire.”

She said, “You certainly don’t resemble yours — more’s the pity.”