The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (602 page)

“You know very well.” Her eyes blazed into his.

“I do not.”

“You told Mummy what Daddy paid for the colt and — you’d promised faithfully.”

“I did not promise.”

“You did — else I shouldn’t have told you.”

“You ordered me not to tell. I never promised. I thought that your mother ought to know.”

“why the hell should she know?”

“I thought she might have some influence to prevent him.”

“She has none. Anyway, you broke your word!”

“It was you who broke yours.”

“
Me!
”
She looked bewildered, furious.

“Yes, you. You promised your father not to tell.”

“But that was different.”

“why?”

She knit her brows. “Well, men are supposed to be strong and silent. Women aren’t.”

“Are you in the habit,” he asked coldly, “of airing your private affairs in front of stablemen?”

“Wright’s different. He’s more like a friend.”

“Would you have said what you did in front of a friend?”

“Yes.” She spoke defiantly.

“Well — I think it’s in very bad taste.”

“Honour comes before taste.”

“Do you ever use your mind?” he asked.

“I don’t need to. Instinct tells me what is right.”

“You’re impossible!” he exclaimed angrily.

“And you’re incredible!” They flung off in opposite directions.

He met Roma coming slowly along the drive in Meg’s car. She called out, “I’m going to the lake for a swim. Would you and Adeline care to come?”

“I’d like very much to go. I can’t answer for Adeline. She’s — not here.”

Roma looked at him steadily. “Dare you come without her?”

“I don’t think she’d mind. As a matter of fact we’ve been having words.”

“Lovely,” said Roma, and he ran upstairs to change into his bathing suit.

This Way and That

F
INCH’S PRIDE AND
pleasure in his new house might have been to his heart’s content but for two reasons, embodied in two people — one of whom he tried to love and could not quite succeed; the other whom he tried to stop loving and was equally unsuccessful. It was natural and right, he knew, for him to love his only child — his son. Nevertheless he could not force any real warmth of paternal affection into his feelings toward Dennis. No one had criticized this lack in him, if indeed it had been observed. But he tried to explain it to himself, for he was, since he had moved into this house, sometimes almost painfully aware that he was not the sort of father a boy could confide in or warmly love. And Dennis had no mother…. The mother. Ah, perhaps that was the reason! There was something in Dennis that brought back the memory of Sarah — the clinging cold passion of her love that had been like seaweed dragging down the swimmer to his death.

Dennis was so admiring of Finch, so possessive in identifying himself with Finch and the new house — he was so small, so helpless, that a father might well have felt the warmth of protective love for him, but Finch did not. Sarah’s greenish eyes had shone on Finch from beneath bands of hair black as jet. Dennis’s looked up from under a fringe of pale gold, yet they were Sarah’s eyes. There was something ruthless in the clinging of the child’s small, firmly knit hands, as there had been in his mother’s. His hands were so like Sarah’s. And lately he talked of taking lessons on the violin, which Sarah had played with considerable talent. The thought of a schoolboy’s scraping away on a fiddle in this house was intolerable to Finch. Later on, yes, if the desire persisted — not now.

Finch had delayed in buying furniture for Dennis’s room. The holidays were drawing to an end. Soon Dennis would be going back to school. Better wait till the Christmas holidays and have the room complete as a surprise then. But one morning Finch discovered Dennis asleep on the floor of the verandah with a ragged old sofa cushion under his head.

He woke when Finch opened the door and explained, “I thought, as this is my home, I’d better sleep here, even if I have no bed.”

Finch felt a pang of shame and that day went to town and bought furniture suitable for a boy’s room. He enjoyed buying it and did not spare expense. Today it was set in place and Finch pictured the delight in the little boy’s face when he beheld it.

While he stood there wondering what sort of pictures to hang on the walls he heard a step and Maurice stood in the doorway looking in at him.

“Sure, it’s a sweet little place you have here,” he observed in the Irish accents it sometimes pleased him to affect. “I didn’t know this little room was here at all.”

“It wasn’t furnished. I’ve just had it done for Dennis. It’s right that he should live with me, you know.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Maurice, “I was hoping it was for me.”

“For you?” Finch took in Maurice’s youthfully battered look, the melancholy bend to his lips. “what’s the matter, Maurice?”

“I don’t get on well with my father. He doesn’t like my ways and I don’t like the contemptuous tone he takes toward me. He thinks I’m a bad example to his well-behaved younger sons. I must get out of the house — for a time, at any rate. It’s too uncomfortable, and it’s making Mummy miserable.”

“why not go to Jalna for a bit?”

Maurice said, with bitter emphasis, “I’d stay where I am rather than be under the same roof with Fitzturgis.”

Finch looked at him, puzzled as to what he should do. He did not want to disappoint Dennis, but — here his inclination tempted him — Maurice was his favourite among all the young people — Maurice was congenial to him — they had become close friends during Finch’s visit to Ireland — he had stayed in Maurice’s house. How could he refuse him hospitality now? He said, “Certainly you must come here. But it’s a pity that you and Piers aren’t congenial.”

“He has been down on me as long as I can remember. Well, I can’t blame him, but — I just can’t endure it. Thanks for taking me in, Uncle Finch…. By the way, have you a drop of whisky you could spare? I’ve a terrible thirst.”

Finch brought out a bottle of rye and Maurice poured himself a drink. He settled himself in a deep chair with it, his hand curved fondly about the glass, a look of content on his lips.

“I’ve never thought to hate anyone,” he said, “but I believe I do hate Fitzturgis.”

“Oh no you don’t. You’d not want to see him suffer.”

“I should indeed. I hope that Adeline will make life hell for him.” He zestfully added, after he had taken some of the whisky, “She is likely to do that — more power to her.”

“when is the wedding to be?” asked Finch. “Surely they will hurry it on, before the Wragges leave.”

“Yes, they will. Lord, I believe I shall go away. It would be too depressing to see that ceremony. Still — I’d not want them to think I couldn’t bear it. A drink, Uncle Finch?”

“I believe I shall.”

Maurice poured it for him, then, looking about, remarked, “How cosy it is here! I’m glad to get away from Dad. He brings out the worst in me — and I in him! But what you need here is a lovely woman to share it.”

“Music is marriage for me.”

“Ah, how lucky you are! God, how I wish I had a talent. I could be happy. I’d ask nothing more.”

“I’m happy here,” said Finch in a pensive tone. “Listen to the stillness, Maurice. I’m really secluded.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Maurice, listening.

The only sound was the singing of a locust. Hidden in the grass, this long green insect, in passionate devotion to the music he was making, poured out his fervour. Another locust answered. They sang. They challenged. They sang. They sought out each other for combat. And in the benign warmth of the day a chorus of ants sang unheard by human ears but to their own delight.

“There is a woman,” said Finch, “whom I love.”

“In Europe?”

“No. Here.”

“I believe I can guess.”

“‘who then?”

“Sylvia Fleming.”

“You’re right. But have I been so transparent?”

Maurice made a characteristic gesture, as though reaching out to touch Finch. “I think I know better than the others do, Uncle Finch. And I like her tremendously — as much as I dislike her brother. Is it all settled?”

“It’s all off,” Finch returned gloomily.

“But surely she wouldn’t reject you?”

“I’m not such a prize as that…. Still — she would have me if —” He broke off. “I can’t tell you, Maurice. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Please forget what I’ve said.”

“Very well,” said Maurice, “if that’s what you want. But it’s a pity. Have another drink, Uncle Finch.”

“No, thanks.”

Finch went to the large window that seemed to bring the outdoors into the room, and stared out in silence for a space. The two locusts had joined in a falsetto duet, challenging, insulting each other. The happy chorus of ants continued unheard.

Maurice contemplated the glass he held so lovingly in the curve of his hand. He said, “I’m terribly sorry that an affair of the heart should go wrong for you, Uncle Finch, because Mummy has told me …” He hesitated.

“Told you what?” Finch wheeled to face him.

“Well — that you weren’t altogether happy in your marriage. You were divorced, weren’t you?”

“I was hellishly unhappy … Mind you, it was more my fault than Sarah’s. I think I’m not cut out for marriage. I guess Sylvia is well rid of me.”

“Uncle Finch,” Maurice exclaimed in hot defence, “any girl who gets you will be damned lucky.”

“No one will get me now. I shall never love another woman.”

“You’re in such earnest then?”

“Sylvia makes other women seem like a desert to me. Flat and dull in their talk — uninteresting in their bodies. She may say nothing, but I’m conscious of her through my whole being.”

“I feel just like that about Adeline.”

“You couldn’t,” said Finch. “Adeline is scarcely grown up. She’s had no experience of life.”

“I’ve loved her since she was a child. I don’t know how it is, but she gives me finer things to think about than anyone else.”

“I shouldn’t have spoken as I did,” said Finch. “I’m sure you have a great love for Adeline, and God knows it has persisted, without much encouragement.”

“With no encouragement. I have to swallow the hard fact that she doesn’t care a hoot about me.”

“She has shown damned poor judgment in her choice,” said Finch. “But there — it is not a matter of judgment.”

“I suppose” — Maurice now spoke almost resignedly — “instinct is the best guide in choosing a mate.”

Now there was complete silence, for the male locusts had ceased to sing, having met in deadly combat. The exquisitely thin music of the ants was inaudible.

The silence was at last broken by Finch’s saying, “If a woman you wanted to marry told you something about herself which you felt you might recall — almost certainly would recall — with damage to your feeling for her — what would be your reaction? Would you want to go on with the affair?”

“If I love a girl,” said Maurice, “I love her. Nothing she has done can make any difference.”

“
Nothing?
”

“If she’s committed a murder it will make no difference.”

“You are so theatrical, Maurice. I’m thinking of something much less startling but something that might live on in the imagination.” Finch’s face darkened at the vision evoked by what Fitzturgis had told him.

“I’m just a good lover,” said Maurice. “If I give my heart — I give it.”

Dennis appeared, looking in at the window. He had on a torn shirt and somehow managed to have the look of a waif.

“Hullo, Dennis dear,” called out Maurice. “Come in and tell your troubles to Cousin Maurice. He’s in a most genial frame of mind.”

Dennis came through the door into the room. “I have only one trouble,” he said. “I want to come home to live with my father.”

“Well, now,” laughed Maurice, “I am the very opposite. My great trouble is that I
am
living at home with my father. Take my advice, Dennis, and shun your father’s roof. Fathers are hard to get on with, believe me.”

“Just the same,” said Dennis, “I want to live with mine.”

“And so you may” — Finch spoke with forced geniality — “after Maurice has paid me a visit. Your room will be waiting for you. You may go and have a look at it, if you choose.”

When he had gone Maurice said, “I hope he won’t mind my coming to stay with you.”

“Oh, he won’t mind,” said Finch. He had an uneasy feeling that he welcomed a visit from Maurice partly because it would postpone Dennis’s descent on him.

The little boy again appeared. He asked, “How long will Maurice stay?”

“Mind your manners,” Finch said with some severity.

“I only meant that I like my room.”

“I promise,” said Maurice, “not to make a long visit.”

“Did your father put you out?” asked Dennis.

“He did,” said Maurice solemnly. “Neck and crop.”

“I don’t mind sleeping on the floor,” said Dennis, “or on the verandah.”

“Please don’t be so persistent.” A vivid recollection of Sarah trying to force her way into his bedroom darkened Finch’s mind.

“Or,” pursued Dennis, “I could sleep in the garage. I shouldn’t mind that.”

“Perhaps I had better not come,” said Maurice.

Dennis addressed him. “I could sleep with my father, like I did one other time.”

Finch sprang up, took him by the arm and swept him through the door. Outside he said, “Dennis, listen to me. I want no more of this nonsense. When I’m ready for you I’ll send for you. Now make yourself scarce.”

When he returned to Maurice it was as though there had been no interruption. They settled down to talk round and round the subject nearest Finch’s heart but never quite touching it.

Rough Weather

A
FTER ADELINE HAD 
left Fitzturgis she was divided between a wish to run back to him with more reproaches for what she thought had been dishonourable in him and a cool reviewing of all that had been said, though she doubted her ability to keep cool. She longed to make him understand how disloyal he had been to Renny and herself — to rub it in — to make him grovel, if only for a moment. Yet she sensed something stubborn in him, something that would hug the vial of wrath to his breast. She had a sudden fear for their love. She felt an impetuous unreasoning anger toward her mother. Why should Fitzturgis have gone to her with his tale? Adeline remembered how those two always appeared to be hand in glove.