The dark hand of the waiter taking up the tip pleased him, the faces of the other passengers interested. Round-faced, shrewd-looking New York businessmen, some of them. He thought rather ruefully: “Been looking after their interests in Canada, I suppose… Well, if we haven’t the initiative or capital to develop our own country, and if the Mother Country doesn’t do it, why, there’s nothing for it but to let the Americans undertake it.”
In the smoking compartment he had a cigar. He would have liked to engage the man nearest him in conversation, but as soon as the man showed a disposition to talk Ernest looked down his nose with an expression of absorption. He could not talk to a stranger, much as he would have liked to discuss some of the great questions of the day with someone besides his family and his few intimates. Of the last there were really only two: Mr. Fennel whose interests were centred in protecting his vegetable garden from insects and his parish from ritualism, which two elderly married ladies and a single young man were determined to introduce; and a Mr. Sinclair, the last survivor of another English family, whose father had also retired from the army and built a house five miles from Jalna. But as he lived alone, and so had no one to talk to, he came to his discussions with Ernest so full of explosive vitality that he left him exhausted, and as he believed nothing that was not in the London Times, and it was three weeks old when he got it, companionship with him had its limitations.
Ernest had travelled little in America, and had forgotten the dreadful publicity of the sleeping cars. He had difficulty, too, in putting out his light. When at last he was tucked in, the man in the berth above him snored so persistently that he could not sleep for a long while. Still, sleep came at last, fitful, restless because ot lack of air, but still better than lying awake. By sunrise he was propped on one elbow peering out of the window. He was among the first to enter the dining car, having already bought a New York paper and exchanged a dignified “Good morning” with two of his fellow passengers. He was glad that they could not know how long it was since he had travelled by night.
How good the bacon and eggs and coffee were! How interested that handsome blonde woman at the table opposite! Every time he raised his eyes she was looking at him. He hoped there was nothing wrong with his collar or tie. He passed his hand over his head to make sure that his hair was smooth. A faint colour rose in his cheeks.
His heart was thudding uncomfortably as they neared the Grand Central Station, His knees trembled as he stood while the porter brushed his clothes. Then came terrible suspense as the man disappeared with his bag, a good English bag that he had bought himself at Drew’s in Regent Street. Then relief at the capture of the bag on the platform. And scarcely had relief raised its head, like a too early spring flower, before it was frozen into dismay by the sight of a “redcap” darting into the throng, the bag clutched in his hand.
By the time the bag was recaptured, Ernest’s head was wet with sweat. He sank on to the seat of a taxi, and, taking off his hat, mopped his brow, gazing meanwhile anxiously through the window into the unbelievably crowded street. He had directed the driver to take him to the Brevoort, because it was there that he had stayed during his last trip to New York twenty years ago.
XI
ERNEST’S TACT
ALAYNE’S amazement on seeing Finch at her door was a mild emotion compared with that which she experienced when it opened upon Ernest. She would scarcely have been more taken aback had one of the tall old trees of Jalna drawn up its roots and journeyed to visit her. She suffered him to shake her hand, to imprint a kiss on her cheek. She put him into the Chinesered chair, and even then she could not believe in his reality. Her eyes sought the door, half expecting to behold the rest of the procession—Grandmother and Boney, Nicholas and Nip, Renny and his spaniels, Piers and Pheasant, little Wake.
“But, my dear child,” said Ernest, “how good it is to see you!”
“Yes, indeed,” said Alayne, sitting down near him and trying to make her voice natural, “it is delightful to see you, too.”
“You’re looking pale, dear Alayne.”
“Ah, well, you know what winter in the city is. I’ve been tired to death sometimes.”
She realized, now that the shock of surprise was passing, why he had come. He had come to take Finch home, and, if possible, she would prevent it.
She turned a look of defence on him. “I suppose you’ve come to see Finch,” she said.
Ernest was embarrassed. He wished she had not come so directly to the point. He would have liked to have a little pleasant conversation, and then have led up delicately to the object of his visit.
“Well, my dear Alayne, I suppose I shall see Finch, now that I’m here, but it really gives me a much deeper pleasure to see you.”
“You’re not really going to insist on the poor boy going back with you, surely!”
“No, no, no. But I want to talk to him, to find out how he is living—in short, to satisfy the family about him. It’s really dreadful, you know, for a mere boy of his inexperience to be turned loose in New York.”
“He’s working! And he’s treated with more consideration than he was at home. I hope you don’t mind my saying that. You know yourself that Finch was not always treated fairly.”
Ernest remained invincibly placid. “My dear girl, I don’t believe you understand us. Our family circle is very closely knit.”
“I do understand! It’s so closely knit that you won’t let one of your number escape. You want to reach out and drag him back again. I know I’m being awfully rude, but I cannot help it. It is the way I’ve always felt about your family.”
“We didn’t reach out after Eden.”
“You knew it was no use. You couldn’t control Eden. And you had no inkling as to where he was.”
Ernest regarded her with curiosity. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“What is it?”
“Have you seen Eden since you came back?”
“No, I have not. I suppose I shall never see him again. I don’t want to.”
“I’m very sure you don’t. You suffered too much because of him.” Ernest was relieved that he had successfully switched the conversation into a more sympathetic channel. He laid his long white hand on hers and gently pressed it. She experienced a sudden warmth and sense of security in being treated with affection by a much older person. It was nice, and he was nice—she had forgotten how nice, how kind. She had forgotten, too, how distinguished his appearance, and how agreeable to the ear his voice. Really, he was a dear, and she must not be too hard on him. He was less to blame than the others for the tyranny of Jalna.
He exclaimed in admiration at the compactness, the charm of the apartment. She led him about, showing him all the trig electrical devices. They delighted him. He had never seen anything like them. He must press the electric buttons and observe all the resulting phenomena. Ernest said that he wondered how she had ever endured the discomforts of Jalna.
Returning, arm in arm, to the living room, the subject of Finch was reopened, with more restraint on the part of Alayne and even greater amiability on the part of Ernest. She gave him particulars about Finch’s work, his chances of advancement.
Ernest listened with sympathy.
“But where,” he asked, “does his chance of continuing the study of music come in?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t come in at all,” she replied sadly, “but then, neither does it apparently at Jalna.”
“Oh, I think Renny may relent on that score.”
“Tell me, Uncle Ernest,” she demanded, looking him in the eyes, “was it Renny who urged you to come to see Finch or was it to please your mother? I know how she hates the thought of any of the boys leaving home.”
He was pleased at being “Uncled” by Alayne.
“My dear child,” he said, “I did not need any urging. I wanted to see the boy, and I thought what an opportunity for seeing you. You know, I had grown very fond of you.”
“And I of you! You see, I had no�
�no—”
“No nice old uncles,” he continued for her. “Of course not. Nice old aunts are one thing, but nice old uncles are quite another. Their position is unique… Now, as to Renny. If you had heard him talking to me just before I left, you would have realized how keen he is to have Finch back.”
“When I lived at Jalna,” she said, thoughtfully, “I used to think that very often in those family conclaves of yours Renny was urged”—she longed to say “harried”—“into taking a stand that—”
“No, no, no! Renny is a man of quick decisions. He knows what be wants and goes for it.”
“Yes, I know,” she agreed, in a low tone.
“When we hold those conclaves, as you call them, Renny usually has his own opinion from the beginning, but it is only after the matter has been thrashed out by the family that he gives voice to his decision, and because his decision often coincides with the conclusion the family has reached—”
“Do the family ever reach a unanimous decision?”
“If you could have heard how fully agreed we were that Finch must come home—”
“Oh, that I can understand! I wish I had not told you where he is working.”
“My dear, I shall not try to force Finch in the very least. You shall be present, if you will, when we meet, then you’ll see that I only want an affectionate talk with him.”
“But what are you going to do, then? Bribe him to go home with the promise of music lessons? Has Renny descended to bribing the boys?”
Ernest answered, impressively: “Renny had no intention of stopping Finch from playing the piano except till his examinations should be over. Once he has written on them, Renny intends, and has intended all along, that Finch shall begin taking lessons again. He may spend the whole summer making music if he likes.”
“Hmph,” muttered Alayne, grudgingly. She wished she could have felt more enthusiastic over the family’s plans for Finch.
Nevertheless, Ernest was a dear. She loved to see him sitting in her most comfortable chair making attractive but rather vague gestures with his graceful hands. She was proud of him when Rosamond Trent came in and discovered them. She had the feeling that when she had talked of Eden’s’ uncles Rosamond had pictured two rather frowsty old men, quaint relics of a bygone day. Now she saw that Rosamond found Ernest charming. She was impressed by the pleasant modulations in his voice. These he had acquired at Oxford, along with the notion that, while it might be well for some to slave, it was not well for Ernest Whiteoak.
Ernest invited the two to luncheon with him. As he walked along Fifth Avenue with them beside him, there was spring in his step and in his blood. Alayne had a look of breeding; he admired that in a woman above all things. Rosamond looked essentially a woman of the world; and he hankered for the world. Again and again he wished old Nicholas could see him. As a gesture of complete abandon, he ordered lobster. His guests ordered it, too, but without any air of recklessness. With the three bright red mounds before them, he could not help but talk of meals in Victorian London. He told of sitting at a table near Oscar Wilde, and of having seen Lily Langtry in her prime. He recalled how Nicholas had rowed for Oxford.
After luncheon they returned to the apartment and Rosamond brought out a bottle of liqueur. She had prepared a strange cocktail before they had set out.
“But I thought,” exclaimed Ernest, sipping from the diminutive green glass, “that you had Prohibition here!”
“We have,” returned Miss Trent, in her deepest contralto, “but we also have the speak-easy.”
“Speak-easy?” repeated Ernest. “But what in the world is that?”
“Happily there is no need for you to become acquainted with them. They’re stupid places. I may tell you that they are thicker than the flowers in May here.”
“Ah, we could never get on with Prohibition,” said Ernest.
“Of course you couldn’t!” she commented. “Do you like that liqueur?”
Alayne wished that Rosamond were not so keenly interested in the subject of drinking. It had an almost morbid fascination for her. It repelled Alayne to hear the solid, middle-aged woman using the current tags about Prohibition, talking as though she were a seasoned drinker. Yet it was really only a harmless affectation, the desire to be intensely modern. Rosamond was a good honest soul, a loyal, sympathetic friend.
“We couldn’t do with Prohibition at home,” said Ernest, didactically. “Our population is too small.” Miss Trent’s cocktail, the excitement of the crowded streets and restaurant, the liqueur on the return, had gone to his head. His brain was active, but his thoughts somewhat kaleidoscopic. “Think of our Boundary Line, three hundred miles of it from coast to coast—or is it three thousand?—without a single fort! Oh, no, Prohibition would mix things up dreadfully.”
His audience looked properly impressed, but Alayne suggested that he sit down. He refused, and continued to stand gracefully, holding his glass. “See what Prohibition has done for you! Why, I am told that our Nova Scotian fishermen have given up fishing. It is more profitable to smuggle. You get all you want through them.”
“Life is a strange muddle,” observed Rosamond.
“It is. And the women’s vote has made it still more so,” he murmured. “Luckily our women are British in their training, and vote as their men do. But look at the situation in the Province of Quebec! There the women have no vote. ’We are Latins!’ their Premier exclaims. ‘We adore our women, but we will not give them the vote. It is against all our instincts.’ And I must say I admire them for it.”
“Yet they haven’t Prohibition, have they?” asked Miss Trent, bewildered.
“No, and never had! Their greatest grievances are Orangeism in Ontario, emigration to the States, and, of course, smuggling, which is sometimes a source of Revenue. But the real trouble with the whole Dominion is the Boundary Line—and these Arctic expeditions—and Transatlantic flights.” He sat down abruptly.
Very soon his slight confusion passed, and he was himself again. It must be arranged when he was to see Finch. Alayne suggested that they meet in the apartment, go out to dinner together, and then to the theatre. Ernest desired that Finch should not be told of his arrival. It would be a pleasant surprise for the boy to find his uncle awaiting him. “Because, you know, dear Alayne, I’m not going to scold or threaten him. Nothing at all of that sort.”
“I should say not,” said Alayne, truculently.
But she would not agree to Finch’s meeting Ernest without preparation. She telephoned him, asking him to come to see her that evening, and announced the arrival from Jalna. She delivered Ernest’s reassuring message.
Nevertheless, Finch was shaking when he came into the room. If it had seemed strange to Alayne to see one of the older generation of Whiteoaks in New York, for Finch it was an almost staggering experience. He felt as though he were viewing his distinguished-looking elderly relative for the first time. He could not remember Uncle Ernest’s ever having been away from Jalna, and he had never been away himself till now in all his life. Even when they shook hands, and Ernest spoke kindly to him, he had a sense of unreality and, in spite of Alayne’s reassurance, a sense of foreboding.
He did not know just what he feared. His uncle could not force him to go home. At his back he had the strength of Alayne’s staunch loyalty. That day he had actually had a word of praise in the office.
“Upon my honour,” exclaimed Ernest, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, “you’re taller than ever, old fellow! And thin! He’s really thinner, Alayne, though I shouldn’t have thought it possible. And how are you getting on?”
Finch braced himself with as much manliness as he could muster, and replied: “Oh, fine, thanks. That is—all right, I think.”
“I’m glad of that. They’ll be so glad to hear at home.”
Finch was embarrassed. “Were they worrying?” he mumbled.
“Indeed they were. We were all of us greatly worried. But no need to talk; I can tell them now that you are well and sa
fe.” No word of his going back. Finch breathed easier, and yet there was a queer ache at his heart. The truth was, in the past few days he had been suffering acutely from homesickness. Under the delicate April sky the dusty never-resting traffic of the city had made him feel as he had never before felt in springtime—heavy tired, stifled, trapped. His feet dragged, longing for the springing grass. His nostrils seemed unable to draw in sufficient air to satisfy his lungs. It was only by a great effort that he could keep his mind on his work. Each night he dreamed of Jalna, and waked half expecting to find himself in his room under the eaves. More and more he remembered all that had been beautiful and kindly and pleasant in his home.
Alayne had intended that they should go to a play, but Ernest suggested grand opera because Finch was so fond of music. She had acquiesced, and Rosamond Trent had been able to arrange about the tickets. While they were at dinner, Alayne had suddenly seen Ernest’s sweet thoughtfulness in a new light. She remembered having heard him say that above all things he disliked grand opera. “He is a sly old man.” she thought. “He intends to work on Finch’s feelings through his love of music.”
The opera was Aïda. Finch had never heard it before. Tears of happiness filled his eyes, his heart was heavy with the sweetness of music. Yet it was not the music of the orchestra or the singers that moved him. It was the music of the old square piano at home. It was Beethoven’s Opus X, which in imagination he was playing. The keys, alive, eager, rose to meet his fingers. With one part of his brain he heard the music of Aïda. With another he followed himself through the intricacies of the movement.
Every now and again Ernest’s eyes slid speculatively toward him. He wondered whether the boy were happy or unhappy, whether he should have difficulty in persuading him to come home. The thought of leaving Finch in New York was intolerable to him. The thought of Jalna without Finch seemed insupportable. Not that he had ever found him anything but a commonplace, rather irritating boy. But he was a Whiteoak, one of themselves. Eden’s defection had been the first break. If Finch left home, it would seem that disintegration of the family had set in. Besides, there was Mama. It was bad for her to be worried.
Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna Page 104
