The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (351 page)

“The point is,” returned Maurice, “that he’s too subtle for you. He has ways of enjoying himself that you know nothing of.”

“You’ve hit it!” ejaculated Piers. “Why didn’t we think of that? He has spent the whole year in sucking up to Aunt Augusta. He’s after her money! Gran’s wasn’t enough. He wants to be lord of the manor at Lyming!”

Although Piers was laughing as he talked, it was clear that he was half convinced of what he said. The other two looked suddenly serious. Through the tobacco smoke that enveloped them, they stared at Finch with misgiving.

“Lord, I hadn’t thought of that!” said Renny.

“You’ll think of it,” said Piers, “when Auntie’s will is read and you find yourself, with all your charms, left out in the cold.”

“Don’t be an ass!” growled Finch. “If you think I want another legacy, you’re mistaken. I went through too much with the last one.” He searched his mind for something to say that would astonish them. Something that would show himself in a quite different light from their stupid imaginings.

He burst out—“Well, I’ll tell you one thing I did. I went on a honeymoon—not my own either—a whole month by the sea.”

“Whose honeymoon?” asked Piers, unbelievingly.

“Arthur’s and—Sarah’s.”

He cursed himself instantly for having told of it. There was a roar of laughter.

Piers said—“Well, you certainly must have been a death’s head at the feast! However, I can believe anything of that sissy Leigh.”

Renny made a ribald remark in the vein of his grandmother, and Finch, furious with himself, as with them, turned away and went into the drawing-room.

He stood in the doorway a moment quieting his nerves with the peaceful, reassuring scene.

Ernest had got his magnifying glass and was showing Wakefield, who perched on the arm of his chair, the texture of the skin on the back of his hand. “Oh, Uncle Ernest, you’re just like a lovely pink hippopotamus!” Nicholas, his gouty leg stuck out stiffly, was on the piano seat, thoughtfully strumming one of the frothy melodies of his youth. Alayne sat nearby on the sofa. She held a book, but was gazing appreciatively at Nicholas’s massive grey head silhouetted against a window. Meg had unearthed an old photograph album, and sat by the fire, in a low, comfortable chair, turning its pages with an expression of pensive sweetness.

Large snowflakes drifted against the windows, clinging an instant before being dissolved by the inner warmth. The fire was of pine wood crackling noisily, filling the room with a resinous smell. Though his sister gave him an inviting look, Finch went and sat down by Alayne. He was impressed by a change in her. He could not have told what it was, but she had the appearance of belonging in the room as she had never belonged before.

She welcomed him to her side with a smile. “How nice of you to come and sit by me! You have no idea how I have missed you. You know, you were my first friend here, Finch.”

“Even then,” he said, “I was whining to you about my troubles. I was wanting music lessons!”

“What is it now? I had a feeling—from the sound of the laughter out there—that Piers was tormenting you.”

“Well, not exactly. But ragging me. And the others, too. Em an easy mark. I take all they say so seriously, and I don’t seem able to help it.”

“I know. I’ve learned things since you went away, Finch.”

“Then I didn’t imagine the change in you.”

“Is there a change in me?”

“Yes.” He hesitated and then added—“You look more like the women of our family.”

She laughed, half pleased, half rueful. “Is it an improvement?”

“I think you’re happier.”

She looked at him, startled. “Did I strike you as being unhappy?”

“No—but I thought you would never be one of us. Now, I think, you are.”

“You say ’one of us’ and yet you are not like the others.”

“Edcn says I am a Whiteoak—as much as any.”

She considered this. “Perhaps he is right. He and you both see life in a peculiar distortion of your own. You are both artists. Yet your ultimate vision is that of the Whiteoaks.”

“Perhaps.” He spoke vaguely. He was looking about the room, feeling in it an embrace of the spirit. “I like that thing Uncle Nick is playing, don’t you?”

“I haven’t been listening. I’ve been watching him. It’s the first time he has sat down at the piano this winter. I think you have brought the feeling of music with you.”

“I don’t know why I should. I’ve scarcely played for months. Renny was just asking me if I had kept my music up. Thank goodness Maurice came along just then and nothing more was said.”

“Was there something that troubled you—kept you from playing?”

His mind closed against hers. “Oh, I had a kind of nervous breakdown, I think.”

“Can’t you tell me about it?”

That was the worst of her, he thought. She was too persistent, too keen to know the why and wherefore of things.

Now he felt uneasy, and, seeing his sister’s eyes on him— “Meggie has something she wants to show me,” he said, and went across to her.

He sat down by her on an ottoman embroidered in bead-work in a design of an angel carrying a sheaf of lilies. She said:

“It’s time you came and sat by me. I was feeling jealous. I have been looking at old photographs. Isn’t this an adorable one of the uncles and our father in braided velvet dresses? Do you think Patty is like Papa?”

“A bit. But she is like Maurice, too.” He lifted her hand from the album and raised it to his cheek. “Meggie,” he whispered, “I can’t bear to see you ill. You must go to Florida. I’ll foot the bill.”

She beamed at him. “That would be lovely! And I could take Wake with me. The change would do him so much good. And, as he often says, the child has been nowhere.”

“Right you are. I’d intended doing something for each one of you, and this will be your treat and Wake’s.”

The three men entered from the hall. Renny went straight to Alayne and sat down by her side. He picked up the book she was reading, looked at the title and laid it down with a grimace. Maurice turned toward Ernest and Wakefield, putting his fingers inside the boy’s collar. Piers joined Meg and Finch. He regarded Finch with animated interest. He had convinced himself that Finch was a subtle devil well worth watching.

Nicholas continued to play half-forgotten fragments. The dogs also had come in and stretched themselves, with intermingled bodies, on the hearth rug.

Rags entered carrying the coffee which was taken in the drawing-room on festive occasions such as this.

From above, the laughter and pattering feet of the children could be heard.

Meg raised her voice. “What do you suppose Finch has done?”

“Seduced Alma Patch?” offered Piers.

“Piers! How can you! No... something much more thrilling. He has promised to send me South for my health. And I’m to take Wake with me.”

“By George, that’s good of you, Finch!” said Maurice warmly He was glad he had not joined in ragging Finch in the hall.

Wake uttered three staccato yells of triumph.

Nicholas stopped playing to demand:

“What’s the to-do?”

“It’s Finch,” answered Meg. “He’s going to send Wake and me South for our health.”

“Well, I call that handsome of him. If you two enjoy your trip as much as Ernest and I enjoyed ours it will certainly be a success.”

Renny said, looking at his boots—“I can’t let you take the kid away on a long trip like that without me.”

“Not let me take him! You must be crazy, Renny! Do you think I can’t look after him properly?”

“You’d let him over-exert and eat too many sweets. The last time he visited you he came home and had a bilious bout.”

“Rubbish! As though you watched him all the time!”

“I do.”

“Then a change from so much coddling would be good for him. I hope I can look after my own little brother!”

Wakefield sat, his bright eyes flashing from one face to another, while his fate was being discussed. Even while he
had shouted in triumph he had not really believed that the adventure would come to pass. It was too stupendous. Such things were not for him.

Everyone was against Renny in the matter, with the exception of Alayne who had not spoken. Meg turned to her and said:

“Surely you agree that Renny is being very perverse, Alayne!”

Alayne thought he was, but she said—“I think Renny understands Wake as no one else does.”

“Well, I suppose he must decide, but it seems rather hard that the child should be deprived of such a change.”

Nicholas rose from the piano seat. He said—“Give me an arm, Piers. My gout is very bad today.”

Piers went to him and assisted him to an easy chair. He sat down beside him.

“I suppose,” he said, with his prominent eyes on Finch — “that you have all heard of Finch’s honeymoon.”

“I have not heard of Finch’s honeymoon,” returned Meg with solemnity. “But I have heard other things about Finch that have upset me terribly.” She drew a deep breath, drew in her chin and looked accusingly at Renny. He had offended her.

Finch gave her an agonised look. What was she going to say? To what new torture was he to be subjected? Involuntarily he drew away from her, but she laid her arm about his shoulders, her hand with fingers outspread, in a gesture at once pliant and commanding, such a gesture as that with which a cat draws her kitten to her.

Renny did not like the look nor the gesture. He stared aggressively at her.

“Finch has brought me,” she proceeded, “a letter from Aunt Augusta. I have managed to keep what she says to
myself until dinner was over.” Finch writhed under her arm.

“What the devil does she say?” asked Renny.

Meg answered—“I need not read you all her letter. Just the bits of it that I think you should hear.” She had it ready in her free hand and held it close to her eyes, for she was short-sighted. She read:

“’I have been observing Finch closely’.” Meg turned from the letter to observe him herself closely. All the family observed him closely. Then she went on:

“’He has been in a state of melancholy brooding’.”

“Brooding on his honeymoon, I suppose,” said Piers.

“Shh,” exclaimed his sister, furiously. “This is not a matter for joking.”

“Look here,” exclaimed Finch,” I don’t know what this is all about, but you’re not to read that letter!”

“I must read it!” she continued—“’No wonder he broods, poor boy. It is terrible for him to think that he has been the
victim of mercenary
relatives. 1 feel that I must speak out to you, Meggie, so that you may use your influence to prevent my mother’s money from being scattered to the four winds. I should write this to his guardian Renny, but I find, from careful questioning of Finch, that Renny has
utterly failed
in his duties as a
guardian.
He has given him not
one word
of advice regarding investments. He has allowed this inexperienced boy to lend his money (to
give
it, one might better say) to
any
and
every
one who importuned him. I shrink from the disclosure I am about to make, but I feel it is my
duty.
I have discovered that a certain Rosamond Trent of New York—’”

Ernest interrupted in a shaking voice:

“I will not have Miss Trent brought into this!”

Nicholas gave vent to subterranean chuckles.

Ernest turned on him with an air of outrage. “Nick, this is your doing!”

“I never mentioned Miss Trent’s name to Gussie,” answered his brother.

“Finch, then, it was you!”

Finch answered heavily—“I only told Auntie that I had lent money to Miss Trent and that she had lost everything in the Wall Street crash. I didn’t mind a bit lending it. You must know that, Uncle Ernest.”

Nicholas exclaimed—“You lent her money! This is the first I’ve heard of that. Ha, the hussy! So she was just making a dupe of you, Ernie! She got at Finch’s money through you, eh?”

Ernest was too affronted for speech. He sat making faces, his fingers twisted together.

Meg could be almost heard to purr. She never released her protective hold on Finch. She said:

“I think Miss Trent’s your friend, isn’t she, Alayne?”

Alayne answered in a controlled voice—“Yes. She met Finch through me. No one can regret more than I do that Finch lent her money. I honestly believe that she will try to pay it back.”

Renny, with hands deep in his pockets, continued to stare at his boots.

“What’s this,” asked Piers, “about Uncle Ernest and Miss Trent?”

Nicholas answered, his voice indistinct with mirth— “Why, Finch and I were almost frightened to death on shipboard! We thought he was going to propose to her. You should have seen them clutched at the fancy-dress ball—she in a pink domino, he in a mauve.”

Ernest’s face went a violent pink. “I’ll not forgive you this in a hurry!” he snarled.

Nicholas ignored him—“Why he toddled all over England after her, ransacking the country for antiques for her shop!”

The colour in Ernest’s face subsided as quickly as it had risen. He said—“Miss Trent is a charming woman. It was a pleasure to me to have her company on shipboard. I enjoyed going about with her a little in England. I did not know that I was making myself ridiculous. The thought of marrying her never entered my head. If you want to amuse the family, Nick, just tell them how you made assignations with the wife who divorced you thirty years ago.”

Nicholas thrust his hands through his grey hair, making it rise into two antlers. He looked like an old stag at bay. “By God, you are a sneak. How did you know I met Millicent? It was by the merest chance. And what were you doing at the time? You were in the kitchen with that Trent woman buying the very pots and pans!”

“And you in a bedroom with the door shut, with a woman of whom you have declared you couldn’t endure the sight!”

“I’d never have married Millicent if you hadn’t put me off Ruby Fortesque!”

“Put you off Ruby Fortesque! How the devil did I do that?”

“You whined to me about how you were gone on her yourself. And then—when I left her to you—you hadn’t the guts to marry her!”

“I would have married her but that I had lost so much money through backing that disreputable friend of yours—I forget his name!”