The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (615 page)

The Spring Moves On

B
EFORE THE RECTOR
and Meg had returned from their honeymoon, Pheasant, taking little Mary with her, had set out for the long-promised visit to Ireland. Never before had she made a sea voyage, and now to set out, a little child in her care, without Piers to look after her, was almost more than she could face. Yet face it she must, for this was a season when Piers could not absent himself from the farm. It was planned that later he should follow her. The bequests from Nicholas had made so many pleasant things possible. Letters from Christian were reassuring on the subject of Maurice. They were the best of companions, Christian wrote, and it was seldom that Maurice drank more than was good for him — so seldom that this had ceased to be an anxiety. Christian himself was supremely content. Both sons were counting the days till Pheasant’s arrival.

Piers was to spend the time of her absence at Jalna. Young Philip, when the holidays came, would be there also. By a miracle, it seemed, Alayne’s domestic worries were solved. The winter had been a nightmare of makeshift. The daily help was erratic, to say the best of it. Adeline, though strong and willing, could scarcely be depended on. She was quite likely to put a joint in the oven, then ride off on her mare, Bridget, and be seen no more for hours. However, one propitious day a Dutch farmer and his wife were sent by an agency. The man intended to farm in Canada later on but first wanted to learn the methods of Canadian agriculture. The couple agreed to remain at Jalna for the season. The man was to help Piers on the farm, the wife to do the cooking. At the beginning Alayne hoped they would stay till the Wragges’ return, but after a month of the Dutch couple’s efficiency, cleanliness, and energy she frequently wished she might keep them permanently.

But the felicity in the kitchen was a dim affair compared with the exultation in the stables. The high hopes of the horsy company of Renny, Wright, Crowdy, Chase, and the trainer were filled to overflowing by the colt East Wind. In the spring races at the Woodbine blithely he blew past the winning-post a full length ahead of the favourite. Before the year was out he was to be a winner at Jamaica, New York, and Maryland — earning for Renny almost a hundred thousand dollars.

“I don’t want to crow over you, Alayne,” Renny would exult, “but you must acknowledge that I used very good judgment in buying East Wind. Think what he’s done for us.”

“It’s splendid,” Alayne would admit, “but I do hope you will save what you have made and take no further risks.”

“Trust me,” he would say. “I will show both caution and enterprise — as I always have.”

* * *

In June, when the freshness of early summer was brightly visible, even in so great a city as New York, when all the little hat shops of Fifth Avenue showed gay little hats decked with artificial flowers so natural that they looked real, and the florists’ windows displayed flowers so perfect that they looked artificial, Finch arrived there with the manuscript of his concerto to arrange for publication.

One of the first things he did was to telephone Wakefield, who promptly invited him to lunch with himself and Molly. The two made a scene of blissful domesticity as together they prepared the lunch.

“It’s glorious,” Wakefield said, “to buy your food yourself and cook it yourself, after eating in restaurants.”

“who does the cooking?” asked Finch.

“Me,” said Molly, her cheeks pink as she bent above a pan of sizzling sweetbreads.

“And she’s really good at it.” Wakefield’s eyes joined in the praise of his lips. “But I make the salad.”

It was a delicious meal and Finch did justice to it. Both Molly and Wakefield asked him many questions about his concerto, about his plans for the coming season, but neither could keep long from the subject that held their single-minded interest — the stage. They were in a new play, the scene of which was set in medieval Florence.

“You should see Molly in her costumes. It’s her best part in New York, you know. You must come tonight. I’ll get you a ticket.”

“You should see Wake,” said Molly. “He takes the part of a Spanish prince and looks it.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” said Wakefield, “that I simply resemble my Irish relations.”

They were so happy together Finch envied them — Molly with her sleek waves of golden-bronze hair, her daring, tilted profile, the golden freckles on her nose. The
picture
of what she was, the woman she was, showed in her face, as did her profession of acting. It was mobile, yet it was steady. To Finch it seemed the face of one who had been in flight but was now come to rest.

Before he left he asked, “what of your sisters, Molly?”

“Althea is here in New York, doing very well in commercial art. Garda is happily married and living in Detroit where her husband has something to do with motor cars. Gem — you remember Gem?”

“who could forget her?”

“She married Tom Raikes, you know. They went back to Wales and she bought the house we used to live in. She has two children and is expecting a third.”

“I hope she’s happy.”

“As happy as any woman living with Tom could be.”

Finch longed to speak of Sylvia but could not find the words. He lingered, hoping they would do so, but neither mentioned her name. He left them, feeling oddly depressed. Why would they not say her name? Did they avoid speaking of her because they thought Finch shrank from speaking of her? Or were they so selfishly absorbed by the fascination of their own life that they had no feeling for others? No feeling for him?

In the afternoon he was free to wander in the streets. This was new to him because on other visits he had an engagement to face or was about to sail or had just arrived and was on his way somewhere else. The day was warm. On his return to his hotel he enjoyed a cool shower.

He kept thinking of Wakefield and Molly. What right had they to be happy? They had been magnificent, he had thought, in their renunciation of each other. Often he had told himself that he could not have done it. Secretly he had been ashamed to think, had even resented, that Wakefield had developed into a stronger character than he. Now he found in himself a feeling of almost outrage because Wakefield had put aside renunciation like a suit of armour and appeared vulnerable and unashamed as Molly’s lover.

He was early at the theatre. It amused him to watch the seats filling. These were theatre-goers, he thought, and their faces were somehow different from concert-goers. There was a quite good audience. The play had been running for a week.

Three seats next to his remained vacant till just before the curtain rose. Then their occupants filed in, disturbing those in the same row with them. The three, a man and two women, murmured an apology as they passed. Finch hated late-comers and gave their dark figures a surly look. The lights had gone down. The man seated himself in the middle. The woman next Finch dropped her program. Both she and Finch bent to pick it up. Their hands touched. He saw her incline her head in thanks and felt somehow mollified.

The first act went well, though it was a little confusing. When the curtain fell the three late-comers bent to consult their programs. Finch cast a glance at the woman on his left. He saw the close curling hair, the shapely nape. There was something familiar about her. She raised her head and he saw her profile. She did not yet see him. It was Sylvia. On her other side sat Fitzturgis, and beyond him Roma. This was of Wakefield’s engineering.

Finch’s first thought was to escape. He could not meet her here, not in this way. But — if he left she would almost certainly see him go — see him running away from her. This was no chance encounter. Wakefield had arranged it. Did Sylvia possibly know that their seats were side by side? Did Fitzturgis know? But they did not glance at him. They, and Roma, appeared absorbed in each other.

After the second act came the intermission. Finch scarcely had known what was taking place on the stage during this act. He could give his mind to nothing but the fact of Sylvia’s nearness. He felt isolated with her as he had felt isolated when he played the piano for her in his own house. At moments a strange happiness surged through him and he longed to turn to her.

When the lights came up and people were pouring into the aisles on their way to the foyer he remained in his seat, as though studying his program, till the three had passed out. He watched them move along the aisle, Sylvia first, with her graceful walk, her lovely wan face and too-slim body; Roma, round-checked, smiling up at Fitzturgis. When they were lost in the crowd Finch too went out but avoided them.

Wakefield had asked him to listen to the comments of people about him concerning the play, and more especially what might be said of himself or Molly. But it was impossible. Finch was conscious of nothing but Sylvia’s nearness. He had thought he was finished with Sylvia, but now, in this crowded theatre, she was nearer to him than ever. Does anything in life ever end, he wondered. Sarah was dead, buried far away in California, yet he had not finished with her. Even at an hour such as this her pale face, her black hair appeared before him. Perhaps in her grave her black hair remained living, perhaps it had grown, longer and longer, swathing her from head to feet.... He was scarcely conscious of returning to his seat, but found himself in it. The three had not yet come back. He thrust the thought of Sarah from him. He hated the thought of her. She was dead and should have remained dead, not come back to force her cold presence on him.

He kept his head bent, reading the advertisements in his program. Roma was pressing past his knees. His little niece so near to him. Her touch made her seem a child again. Her head was bent, as she peered into his face. “Uncle Finch!” she was saying. “what a surprise!”

“Roma.” He took her hand in his. His heart warmed to her.

“Look, Mait,” she said, over her shoulder. “See who’s here.”

Fitzturgis smiled down at Finch but firmly propelled Roma toward her seat. The lights were going down. He had a brief glimpse of Sylvia’s face. Then she was sitting beside him in the dimness. He had seen, too, that she had made an attempt to change places with Roma, had heard Fitzturgis say in a low voice, “Sit down — sit down.”

The voices of the actors came loudly, meaningless, from the stage. There all was brightness, colour, movement. Here, the four whose lives were so interwoven mingled in a new pattern; here was darkness, isolation. Finch could see the paleness of Sylvia’s arms meeting in her tensely clasped hands. He remembered, he lived again, those hours at night when he had played to her, when their newly born love had been the theme of all he played. He was tremulous in that recollection, shaken by the thought that he had let her go — no, not that — had driven her out of his life.

What if now she would refuse to enter it again?

Her face was turned away. She was not looking at the stage but appeared to be studying her brother’s profile. The play had ceased to have any meaning for them. They might have been sleepwalkers for all the meaning the play had. Yet now on the stage was Wakefield uttering words of impassioned love.

“My life is yours.... Do with it what you will.... Forgive me if I cannot make myself worthy of you.... It will not be for lack of trying. Oh, my beloved....”

High-flown words, but Finch made them speak for him. He laid his hand on Sylvia’s arm. She did not move. She was now looking at the stage, as though rapt. Finch slid his hand along her arm till her hand was reached. Their two hands lay together like the hands of sleepers dreaming the same dream

His hand folded itself about hers. With all his skill as a musician he sought to give her the message which later his lips would give. She understood. Her fingers closed on his. He raised her hand to his breast.

A good moment had come in the play. There was loud applause.

THE END