The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (361 page)

“We’ll go round and have a look at the foxes,” returned Renny. “That will give them time to tidy up, if they want to. Mrs. Lebraux is not at all fussy.”

“Neither is Pauline,” said Wakefield. “I’ve never known such an unaffected girl. She’s just as natural and beautiful as one of her own foxes.”

Renny gave a sly look across him at Finch.

Finch thought—“So—the kid is falling in love with Pauline.”

Somehow the thought of that did not please him. Wake was too young for real love, and the idea of Pauline as the object of his first amorous flutter was irritating.

There was a scurry among the foxes as they approached. Tawny streaks slid into kennels or burrows. All except a dog fox who sat on top of one of the kennels looking contemptuously about him. He had the expression of a fox that has been hunted a score of times and has learned to sneer at his pursuers, but he had spent all his life behind wire netting, had his food without danger, his courtships without rivals, and had never heard the cry of a hound. He had been a sickly cub nursed to health by Pauline. He was her pet and would let her handle him with no more objection than the lifting of his lip. Now he knew that she was in her seat in the apple tree from where she could become acquainted with the habits of the different foxes unobserved.

She watched the three brothers approaching with a feeling of nervous excitement. If she could, she would have fled to the house, unseen by them. She drew back among the foliage of the apple tree and listened, hoping, with a kind of mischievous fear, to hear what they might say.

They stood looking at the dog fox. She could see them distinctly, hear Renny whistling between his teeth. She was conscious of his peculiar inaccessibility. Although she had not seen Finch for nearly two years, it was Renny at whom she gazed with yearning surprise, as though she recognised in him an antagonist whom she loved and feared.

Finch said—“They’ve made some improvements here. It looks better cared for than when I saw it last.” Something new in his voice held her. It was deeper. It had lost the hollow sweetness of youth. It was a man’s voice, easy, careless,
pleasant to hear. There was a new look in his face too, as though he had learned to wear a mask.

Wakefield answered eagerly—“Mrs. Lebraux is splendid. She works like a man. And as for Pauline—she’s a marvel with the young foxes—she’s as tender with them as though they were babies—
and
she’s beautiful, too. You’ll agree with me in that, Finch.”

Pauline’s cheeks blazed. She was terrified lest they should go on talking about her. She could not bear to hear more, but that Wakefield had called her beautiful filled her with a wild, voluptuous joy. She stared down at him through the leaves, joyous and terrified.

Renny’s voice cut in. “I should never call her beautiful. She’s got that startled look, like a foal, that is rather nice to see in a young girl, but beautiful, why—I wish you boys could have seen a girl named Vera Lacy I was gone on when I was your age.
There
was a beauty, if you like.”

Oh, how cruel he was to deny that she was beautiful when Wakefield had so positively said that she was!

Wakefield was asking—“Is that the one you have eleven photographs of, Renny?”

“Yes. She was always being photographed.”

“Ah, then I have you,” said Wake. “You admit that she was a beauty. Pauline is beautiful. There is a great difference.”

Renny threw Finch a delighted look, as though to say— “See how this young one is coming on!”

Finch looked glum.

Pauline peered down at the three, scarcely able to breathe for the pounding of her heart. What if she were discovered? She would never be able to face them again. She saw the faces of the two younger, each feature clear in the morning
light. But Renny’s face she could not see clearly. She saw it distorted as though through tears.

Clara Lebraux appeared from the stable, carrying on her back a sack filled with straw. She wore a man’s overall, and her cotton shirt, open at the neck, showed her rounded throat and chest as brown as mahogany. Her hair was the colour of a straw that was caught in its short denseness. Her round eyes regarded her visitors with an expression of confident friendliness.

She threw down the sack and shook hands—an agreeable smell of clean straw and warm clean flesh coming from her person.

“What have you there?” asked Renny.

“Litter for the cubs.”

She looked appraisingly at Finch. “You’ve improved,” she observed in her brusque way. “I hear you’re becoming famous.”

He blushed. “Heavens, no!”

“Well, you’ve given recitals in London.”

“I’ve a long road ahead before I become famous.”

“Are you giving any here?”

“I hope to.”

Renny said—“He is going to rest and play about for a while first. I’ve brought him over to see Pauline.”

“I thought she was out here,” answered Mrs. Lebraux. She glanced up toward Pauline’s accustomed seat, glimpsed her warning face and turned hastily away. “We’ll go indoors and find her,” she said, moving in the direction of the house.

Finch, too, had seen Pauline and followed the others, amused and curious.

They went into the shabby dining room, and Mrs. Lebraux produced a bottle of Scotch and a syphon of soda. Both boys
refused a drink, but Renny mixed one for himself and another slightly weaker for Clara Lebraux. With hers in her hand she went to the foot of the stairs and called—“Pauline!”

A voice answered from above and in a moment the young girl appeared, tall, pale, her skirt much too short for fashion, revealing her thin straight legs. She had the look, as Renny had said, of a startled foal, and Finch’s first thought was one of disappointment that she had not developed more. Then he saw her beautifully shaped eyes, her smile of a proud child, and thought—“She’s not what Wake said, but she’s fascinating.”

Her eyes searched his face, for she was afraid that he had seen her. But he successfully hid his knowledge and gave her a gently reassuring look. He held her long cool hand in his a little longer than was formal.

Renny said—“I’ve been showing Finch the sight of Vaughan’s subdivision.”

“I hope he was properly horrified. We think it a great shame,” said Clara Lebraux.

“He was so horrified that he is inclined to buy the land from Vaughan and become a bulwark of Jalna.”

“He’s the moneyed one of our family, you know,” put in Wakefield.

“What a splendid idea,” said Clara Lebraux.

Finch laughed uncomfortably. “My brothers are joking.”

“Of course we are,” agreed Renny heartily, and turned to talk in an undertone to Pauline.

Clara said to Finch—“Renny is more deeply disturbed by this talk of subdividing and building bungalows than he shows.”

Finch nodded sympathetically, but could not agree as to Renny’s reticence.

“I’m afraid nothing can be done,” he said, a note of firmness, of self-defence, in his voice.

“No. Nothing can be done. First it was the trees. And now this. It’s hard luck for him.”

“I think all the family feel it,” said Finch.

“Of course.” But her glance in Renny’s direction said— “He is the only one who matters to me.”

“I’m sorry for the Vaughans too,” she added. “They feel that they must do it, and yet they feel guilty.”

Wakefield had gone to a gramophone that stood in the small bay window and was looking over some records. Finch had a sudden vivid recollection of him as a small boy investigating the contents of the cabinet of Indian curios while his elders were too busy with their talk to notice him.

Wakefield said—“Let’s have a dance. I’ve brought Finch over especially to see what a lovely dancer Pauline is.”

“At eleven o’clock in the morning!” exclaimed Clara Lebraux. “You forget that Pauline and I are farm hands!”

“I am panting,” returned the boy, “to dance with you in your present costume. Do let us be merry, as my grandmother used to say, for in fifty years or so we die.”

Pauline looked eagerly from one to the other. “Whom shall I dance with?” she asked. “Mummy needn’t pretend that we don’t dance at this hour, for we do. She and I do tangos at any odd moment.”

“Listen to that!” exclaimed Renny. “She’ll show you up for the laggard you are, Clara!”

“Shall we shoot the dining table into the parlour?” asked Wakefield. “Or shall we dance round it and into the hall?”

“Shoot it out,” returned Clara Lebraux briefly.

The table was pushed through the archway into the parlour. Wakefield put on a record and gave it a little push.
Outside a fox was barking, but the sound was quickly drowned by the arrogant passion of a syncopated one-step.

“Let joy be unrefined!” cried Wakefield, and danced toward Clara Lebraux with inviting arms.

They were an amusing sight dancing together, he in his well-fitting grey flannels, she in her baggy overalls and ruffled tow hair. Finch watched, smiling and rather shy. He did not want to dance this dance with Pauline, and he was relieved when Renny laughingly put his arm about her and swept her into it.

The two couples danced up and down the room. Finch watched them with a smile that had both indulgence and deprecation in it, as though he were watching children whom he longed to join, yet fearing that he could not sufficiently let himself go. His mind vibrated between the hope that he might remain an onlooker and the desire to hold Pauline in his arms. What was the expression in her eyes as she looked up into Renny’s face? Utter trust—pleading—or a moth-like fascination? Her movements were extraordinarily supple and showed unexpected strength. And Renny danced as well as he rode…

The record was finished. Only a protesting buzz came from the gramophone. Wake dashed to it, wound it up, turned the record over, and bowed in front of Pauline. What a vain youngster he was! Always dashing about, posturing, even though it was scarcely noon and he dancing to a tinny gramophone. Finch hoped he would not have to dance with Mrs. Lebraux in that overall. He should feel idiotic. He turned to the window embarrassed and showed a pretended interest in a controversy going on among small birds in an apple tree.

This was a languid, sensuously stressed waltz. The beat of it swept through his nerves with passionate melancholy.
When he looked back into the room the partners had changed. Wakefield and Pauline floated together in a happy embrace. Mrs. Lebraux and Renny, with impassive faces, turned and turned again, their heads encircled by the wreath of smoke from a cigarette she had lighted.

When the waltz was over Renny looked at his wristwatch and exclaimed that they must be off as he had something to attend to before dinner.

A
FORTNIGHT LATER
Finch picked up a paper and read an account of the drowning of his friend Arthur Leigh at a resort on the St. Lawrence. He and his wife had been caught in a squall while sailing and their boat had been swamped. They had clung to the overturned boat, but Leigh had soon become exhausted and let go. Several hours had passed before Mrs. Leigh had been rescued, but she was, although suffering from shock and exposure, progressing favourably.

After the first painful start Finch read and reread the account with a numbed feeling. He said nothing of it to anyone, but went to his room, trying to realise what had happened, trying to believe that he would never see Arthur again, trying to put out of his mind the thought of Sarah.

One thing filled him with an aching surprise, and that was his lack of any poignant grief. Arthur… his dearest friend… his first passionately loved comrade… and he could think without agony of his tragic death and wonder—with a quiver of the nerves—what it would mean to him!

Sarah… How her coming had changed his feeling toward his friend! He had never really forgiven Arthur for taking
her from him, even though he had done it unknowingly. He recalled how Arthur had poured out to him the ecstasy and fear of his love. He remembered too how the ecstasy seemed always to be shadowed by the fear, how Arthur had seemed to dread being alone with Sarah. What had they made of their married life? he wondered. He had ceased even to write to them, allowing a coolness unacknowledged to grow up between him and them.

He sat down and buried his face in his hands, in order that he might recall their two faces the more clearly. Arthur’s, smooth, bright with the brightness of an untroubled boyhood. Had he ever in his life been crossed, gibed at? Not unless Sarah… But could she, could any woman with a heart, bear to hurt Arthur? Had Sarah a heart? She had passion but that was different… He saw her white, still face, her small, withdrawn mouth, secret between the arched nose and prominent chin. He saw her small cold-looking ears, the rigid plaits of her black hair… Arthur’s face retreated from him, submerged, lost in the waters of the St. Lawrence; only Sarah’s was left in its tormenting sweetness.

At last he could bear thinking of her no longer. He got up and went quickly down the stairs to Augusta’s bedroom. He tapped on the door and her deep voice said—“Come in.” She was sitting by the window sewing a button on a large white nightdress. She took off her spectacles and looked at him encouragingly, for in her opinion Finch needed encouragement.

“Auntie,” he said jerkily, “I’ve had bad news.”

She drew in her chin and her eyes widened.

“Yes? What is it, my dear?”

“It’s about Arthur Leigh. You liked him, didn’t you, Auntie?”

“Very much… Is he dead, Finch?”

“Yes. He was drowned yesterday.” He repeated what had happened.

Augusta’s sallow skin had turned pale. She reiterated:

“This is very sad! Dear me—the poor boy’s mother!”

Finch asked—“What about Sarah, Auntie? Don’t you pity her?”

“Sarah will bear up,” said Augusta cryptically.

Nicholas came in, following a loud knock. He carried the newspaper in his hand.

“I see that you know,” he said. “I was just coming to find you. It is a great pity, isn’t it?”

“It’s awful for Sarah, isn’t it, Uncle Nick?”

“Yes, yes, of course. But it is the poor lad himself I am thinking of. That girl always struck me as a heartless hussy.”