Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  Why did God not protect him? Finch believed desperately and yet gloriously in God. During the Scripture study at school, while other boys were languishing in their seats, his eyes were riveted on the pages that seemed to burn with the grandeur and terror of God. The words of Jesus, the thought of that lonely figure of an inspired young man, were beautiful to him, but it was the Old Testament that shook his soul. When the time came for questions and examinations in Scripture, Finch was so incoherent, so afraid of disclosing his real feelings, that he usually stood at the foot of the class.

  “A queer devil, Finch Whiteoak,” was the verdict of his schoolfellows, “not in it with his brothers.” For Renny’s athletic prowess was still remembered; Eden’s tennis, his running, his prize-winning in English literature and languages; Piers as captain of the Rugby team. Finch did nothing well. As he travelled back and forth to school in the train, slouching in a corner of the seat, his cap with the school badge pulled over his eyes, he wondered, with a bitterness unusual at his age, what he would do with his life. He seemed fitted for nothing in particular. No business or profession of which he had ever heard awakened any response of inclination in him. He would have liked to stay at home and work with Piers, but he quailed before the thought of a life subject to his brother’s tyranny.

  Sometimes he dreamed of standing in the pulpit of a vast, dim cathedral, such as he had seen only in pictures, and swaying a multitude by his burning eloquence. He, Finch Whiteoak, in a long white surplice and richly embroidered stole—a bishop—an archbishop, the very head of the Church, next to God Himself. But the dream always ended by the congregation’s fleeing from the cathedral, a panicstricken mob; for he had unwittingly let them have a glimpse of his own frightened, craven soul, howling like a poor hound before the terror of God.

  “Wilt thou break a leaf driven to and fro? and wilt thou pursue the dry stubble?”

  He was growing quieter now as he hung across the sill, letting the fine mist of rain moisten his hands and head. Below, on the lawn, a bright square of light fell from a window of the drawing-room. Someone came and stood at the window, throwing the shadow of a woman into the bright rectangle. Which of them? Meg, Pheasant, Alayne? Alayne, he felt sure. There was something in the poise... Again he thought of her lips, of kissing them. He drew in his hands, wet with rain, and pressed them against his eyeballs. “For thou writest bitter things against me, and makest me to possess the iniquities of my youth.” Why could he remember these torturing texts, when nothing else would stay in his head? “Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.” He pressed his fingers closer, and there began going through his brain things that a Scottish labourer on the farm had told. The man had formerly been a factory hand in Glasgow. Finch remembered an endless jigging song he had sung in a kind of whisper, that had ribald words. He remembered a scene of which he had been an undiscovered witness.

  It had been in the pine grove, the last remnant of the primeval forest thereabout. This grove was as dark as a church at twilight, and was hidden in the heart of a great sunny wood of silver birches, maples, and oak, full of bird song and carpeted with glossy wintergreen leaves, which in springtime were starred with windflowers and star-of-Bethlehem and tiny purple orchids. There was little bird song in the pine grove, and no flowers, but the air in there was always charged with the whisperings and the pungent scent of pine needles. The deeply shaded aisles between the trees were slippery with them, and there what little sunshine filtered in was richly yellow.

  It was a place of deep seclusion. Finch liked nothing so well as to spend a Saturday morning there by himself, and give himself up to the imaginings that were nearly always free and beautiful among the pines.

  He had gone there early on that morning to escape Meg, who had wanted him to do some disagreeable task about the house. He had heard her calling and calling as he had run across the lawn and dived into the shrubbery. He had heard her call to Wake, asking if he had seen him. He had stretched his long legs across the meadow and the pasture, leaped the stream, and disappeared from the sight of all into the birch wood. His pulses had been throbbing and his heart leaping with joy in his freedom. Among the gay, light-foliaged trees he had passed, eager for the depth and solitude of the pines, which with an air of gentle secrecy they seemed to guard. But he had found that he was not alone. In the dimmest recess, where the grove dipped into a little hollow, he had discovered Renny standing with a woman in his arms. He was kissing her with a certain fierce punctiliousness on the mouth, on the neck, while she caressed him with slavish tenderness. While Finch stood staring, they had parted, she smoothing the strands of her long hair as she hurried away, Renny looking after her for a space, waving his hand to her when she looked back over her shoulder and then sauntering with bent head toward home.

  Finch had never been able to find out who that woman was, though he had looked eagerly in the faces of all the women he had met for a long time. He had even gone to the pine grove and lain there motionless for hours, hoping, yet fearing, that she and Renny would return, his heart beating expectantly at every sound; but they had never come. He often gazed with envious curiosity into Renny’s lean red face, wondering what thoughts were in his head. Piers had observed once to him that women always “fell” for Renny. He could understand why, and he reflected forlornly that they would never fall for him.

  He heard Wakefield calling to him plaintively from his bed: “Finch, Finch! Come here, please!”

  He went down the hallway, passing Meg’s door, which was covered by a heavy chenille curtain that gave an air of cosy seclusion to her sanctum.

  “Well?” he asked, putting his head into Renny’s room, where Wake sat up in bed, flushed and bright-eyed in the yellow lamplight

  “Oh, Finch, I can’t sleep. My legs feel like cotton wool. When do you think Renny’ll come?”

  “How can I tell?” Finch answered, gruffly. “You go to sleep. That’s all nonsense about your legs. They’re no more cotton wool than mine are.”

  “Oh, Finch, please come in. Don’t leave me alone! Just come and talk for a little while. Just a minute, please.”

  Finch came in and sat down on the foot of the bed. He took a lone, somewhat dishevelled cigarette wrapped in silver paper from his pocket, unwrapped and lighted it.

  Wake watched him, the strained look of loneliness passing from his little face.

  “Give me a puff or two,” he begged, “just a few puffs, please, Finch.”

  “No,” growled Finch, “you’ll make yourself sick. You’re not allowed.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, not many.”

  “You don’t call this many, do you?”

  “I’ve seen you twice, no—three times before today.”

  Finch raised his voice. “You see a darned sight too much.”

  “Why, I’d never tell on you, Finch.” Wake’s tone was aggrieved “I only want one little puff.”

  With a growl, Finch took the cigarette from his own lips and stuck it between his small brother’s. “Now, then,” he said, “make the best of your time.”

  Wake inhaled deeply, luxuriously, his eyes beaming at Finch through the smoke. He exhaled. Again, again. Then he returned the cigarette to its owner, still more battered and very moist. Finch looked at it doubtfully a moment, and then put it back philosophically into his own mouth. He felt happier. He was glad after all that Wake had called him. Poor little devil, he had his own troubles.

  The darkness pouring into the room from the strange, dreamlike world outside had a liberating effect on the minds of the two boys. The tiny light of the candle, reflected in the mirror on the dresser, only faintly illuminated their faces, seeming to draw them upward from an immense void.

  “Finch,” asked Wake, “do you believe in God?”

  A tremor ran through Finch’s body at the question. He peered at the child, trying to make out whether he had divined any of his imaginings.
/>   “I suppose I do,” he answered. Then he asked, almost timidly, “Do you?”

  “Yes. But what I’m wondering is—what kind of face has He? Has He a real face, Finch, or—just something flat and white where His face ought to be? That’s what I think sometimes.” Wake’s voice had fallen to a whisper, and he pulled nervously at the coverlet.

  Finch clutched his knees, staring at the candle that was now sputtering, almost out.

  “His face is always changing,” he said. “That’s why you can’t see it. Don’t you ever try to see it, Wake; you’re too young. You’re not strong enough. You’d go nutty.”

  “Have you seen it, Finch?” This conversation was like a ghost story to Wake, frightening, yet exhilarating. “Do tell me what you’ve seen.”

  “Shut up,” shouted Finch, springing up from the bed. “Go to sleep. I’m going.” He lunged toward the door, but the candle had gone out and he had to grope his way.

  “Finch, Finch, don’t leave me,” Wake was wailing.

  But Finch did not stop till he reached his own bed, and threw himself face downward upon it. There he lay until he heard the others coming up the stairs.

  XV

  MORE ABOUT FINCH

  THE NEXT MORNING a mild, steady wind was blowing, which had appropriated to itself every pungent autumn scent in its journeying across wood and orchard. It blew in at the window and gently stirred the hair on Finch’s forehead, and brought to his cheeks a childish pink. He did not hurry to get up, but stretched at ease a while, for it was a Saturday morning. His morbid fancies of the night before were gone, and his mind was now occupied in making a momentous decision. Should he put on some old clothes and steal out of the house with only something snatched from the kitchen for breakfast, thus avoiding a meeting with Eden’s wife, for this morning he was shy of her, or should he dress with extra care and make a really good impression on her by appearing both well-turned-out and at ease?

  Those who were early risers would have had their breakfast by now and be about the business of the day, but Eden never showed up till nine, and Finch supposed that a New York girl would naturally keep late hours. He wanted very much to make a good impression on Alayne.

  He got up at last, and after carefully washing his face and hands and scrubbing his neck at the washstand, he took from its hanger his new dark-blue flannel suit. When it was on and his best blue-and-white striped shirt, he was faced by the problem of a tie. He had a really handsome one of blue and grey, which Meggie had given him on his last birthday, but he was nervous about wearing it. Meg would be sure to get on her hind feet if she caught him sporting it on a mere Saturday. Even wearing the suit was risky. He thought he had better slip upstairs after breakfast and change into an old one. Perhaps he had better change now. He was a fool to try to please Alayne’s fastidious New York eye. He hesitated, admiring his reflection in the looking glass. He longingly fingered the tie. The thought of going to Piers’s room and borrowing one of his ties entered his mind, but he put it aside. Now that Piers was married, young Pheasant was always about.

  Damn it all! The tie was his, and he would wear it if he wanted to.

  He tied it carefully. He cleaned and polished his nails on a worn-out buffer Meggie had thrown away. Meticulously he parted and brushed his rather lank fair hair, plastered it down with a little pomade which he dug out of an empty jar Eden had thrown aside.

  A final survey of himself in the glass brought a grin, half pleased, half sheepish, to his face. He sneaked past the closed door of his sister’s room and slowly descended the stairs.

  It was as he had hoped. Eden and Alayne were the only occupants of the dining room. They sat close together at one side of the table. His place was on Alayne’s left. With a muttered “Good morning” he dragged forth his chair and subsided into it, crimson with shyness.

  After one annoyed glance at the intruder, Eden vouchsafed him no attention whatever, speaking to Alayne in so low a tone that Finch, with ears strained to catch these gentle morning murmurings of young husband to young wife, could make out no word. He devoted himself to his porridge, humbly taking what pleasure he could draw from the proximity of Alayne. A fresh sweetness seemed to emanate from her. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the movements of her hands. He tried very hard not to make a noise over his porridge and milk, but every mouthful descended his throat with a gurgling sound. His very ears burned with embarrassment.

  Alayne thought she had never before seen anyone eat such an immense plate of cereal. She hated cereals. She had said to Eden almost pettishly: “I do not want any cereal, thank you, Eden.” And he had almost forced her to take it.

  “Porridge is good for you,” he had said, heavily sugaring his own.

  He did not seem to notice that this breakfast was not at all the sort to which she was used. There was no fruit. Her soul cried out for coffee, and there was the same great pot of tea, this time set before her to pour. Frizzled fat bacon, so much buttered toast, and bitter orange marmalade did not tempt her. Eden partook of everything with hilarity, crunching the toast crusts in his strong white teeth, trying brazenly to put his arm about her waist before the inquisitive eyes of the boy. Something fastidious in her was not pleased with him this morning. Suddenly she found herself wondering whether if she had met him first in his own home she would so quickly have fallen in love. But one look into his mocking yet tender eyes, one glance at his sensitive, full-lipped mouth, reassured her. She would, oh yes, she would!

  She addressed a sentence now and again to Finch, but it seemed hopeless to draw him into the conversation. He so plainly suffered when she attempted it that she gave up trying.

  As they got up from the table Eden, who was already cherishing a cigarette between his lips, turned to his brother as if struck with an idea.

  “Look here, Finch. I wish you’d show Alayne the pine grove. It’s wonderful on a morning like this. It’s deep and dark as a well in there, Alayne, and all around it grow brambles with the biggest, juiciest berries. Finch will get you some, and he’ll likely be able to show you a partridge and her young. I’ve got something in my head that I want to get out, and I must have solitude. You’ll take care of her, won’t you, Finch?”

  In spite of the lightness of his tone, Alayne discovered the fire of creative desire in it. Her gaze eagerly explored his face. Their eyes met in happy understanding.

  “Do go off by yourself and write,” she agreed. “I shall be quite content to wander about by myself if Finch has other plans.”

  She almost hoped he had. The thought of a tête-à-tête with this embarrassed hobbledehoy was not alluring. He drooped over his chair, his bony hands resting on the back, and stared at the disarranged table.

  “Well,” said Eden, sharply, “what are your plans, brother Finch?”

  Finch grinned sheepishly. “I’d like to take her. Yes, thank you,” he replied, gripping the back of the chair till his knuckles turned white.

  “Good boy,” said Eden. He ran upstairs to get a sweater coat for Alayne, and she and Finch waited his return in absolute silence. Her mind was absorbed by the thought that Eden was going to write. He had said one day that he had an idea for a novel. Little tremors of excitement ran through her as she pictured him beginning it that very morning. She stood in the bow window looking out at the dark hemlocks, from which issued a continuous chirping as a flock of swallows gathered for their flight south.

  Rags was beginning to clear the table. His cynical light eyes took in every detail of Finch’s attire. They said to the boy as plainly, as words: “Ho, ho, my young feller! You’ve decked yerself all up for the occasion, ‘aven’t yer? You think you’ve made an impression on the lidy, don’t yer? But if you could only see yerself! And just you wait till the family catches you in your Sunday clothes. There won’t be nothink doing, ow naow!”

  Finch regarded him uncomfortably. Was it possible that these thoughts were in Rags’s head, or did he just imagine it? Rags had such a secret sneering way with him.


  Eden followed them to the porch. They met Meg in the hall, and the two women kissed, but it was dim there and Finch, clearing his throat, laid one hand on the birthday necktie and concealed it.

  It was a day of days. As golden, as mature, as voluptuous as a Roman matron fresh from the bath, the October morning swept with indolent dignity across the land. Alayne said something like this to the boy as they followed a path over the meadows, and, though he made no reply, he smiled in a way that lighted up his plain face with such sudden sweetness that Alayne’s heart warmed to him. She talked without waiting for him to reply, till by degrees his shyness melted, and she found herself listening to him. He was telling her how this path that led through the birch wood was an old Indian trail, and how it led to the river six miles away where the traders and Indians had long ago been wont to meet to barter skins of fox and mink for ammunition and blankets. He was telling her of the old fiddler, “Fiddler Jock,” who had had his hut in this wood before the Whiteoaks had bought Jalna.

  “My grandad let him stay on. He used to play his fiddle at weddings and parties of all sorts. But one night some people gave him such a lot of drink before he started for his hut that he got dazed, and it was a bitterly cold night, and he could not find his way home through the snow. When he got. as far as Grandad’s barnyard he gave up and he crawled into a straw stack and was frozen to death. Gran found him two days after when she was out for a walk. He was absolutely rigid, his frozen eyes staring out of his frozen face. Gran was a young woman then, but she’s never forgotten it. I’ve often heard her tell of finding him. She had Uncle Nick with her. He was only a little chap, but he’s never forgotten the way the old fellow had his fiddle gripped, just as though he’d been playing when he died.”

  Alayne looked curiously at the boy. His eyes had a hallucinated expression. He was evidently seeing in all its strangeness the scene he had just described.