There was a sultry silence while they waited for him to go on.
Nicholas nudged him, almost gently. “Yes? You went every night to my mother’s room. You talked. Would you mind telling me what about?”
“I talked about music, but not much. She did most of the talking. The old days here—her life in India, and about when she was a young girl in the Old Country.”
Ernest cried: “No wonder she was drowsy in the daytime! Awake half the night talking!”
Finch was reckless now. They might as well have some-thing to rage about. “I used,” he said, “to go to the dining room and get biscuits and glasses of sherry and that made her enjoy it more. It helped keep her awake.”
“No wonder she was drowsy! No wonder she was absent-minded!” cried Ernest, almost in tears.
Augusta said, with dreadful solemnity: “No wonder that for the last month her breakfast trays have come away almost untouched!”
“I saw her failing day by day!” wailed Meg.
Nicholas cast a grim look at those about him. “This has probably shortened her life by years.”
“It has killed her!” said Ernest, distractedly
“He’s little better than a murderer!” said Augusta.
He could look them in the eyes now. They knew the worst. He was a monster, and a murderer. Let them take him out and hang him to the nearest tree! He was almost calm.
Their tempers were surging this way and that like waves driven by variable winds. They were all talking at once, blaming him, blaming each other, desperately near to blaming old Adeline! And the voice of Uncle Nicholas, like the voice of the seventh wave, was the most resonant, the most terrible. It was the voice of the wronged eldest son.
Presently the voice of Piers, full of malicious laughter, disentangled itself from the others. He was saying: “The whole thing is a tremendous joke on the family We thought Finch was queer. A weakling. But, don’t you see, he’s the strongest, the sanest, of the lot? He’s been pulling the wool over everybody’s eyes for years. Poor, harmless, hobbledehoy Finch! Well-meaning, but so simple! I tell you, he’s as cool and calculating as they make them! He’s had this under his hat ever since he came back from New York!”
“Rot!” said Renny.
“You’d stand up for him, Renny! Why, he’s fooled you all along! Didn’t he trick you into thinking he went in to Leighs’ to study, when he was up to his eyes in play-acting? Didn’t he trick you nicely over the orchestra? He was supposed to be studying then, and he was playing the piano in cheap restaurants, and coming home drunk in the morning! And now he’s tricked you out of Gran’s money!” The laughter had died out of his voice—it was savage.
Enraged, Finch cried out: “Shut up! It’s a pack of lies!” “Deny that you ever set out to deceive Renny!”
“What about you? You deceived him when you got married!”
“I wasn’t cheating him out of anything!”
Finch rose to his feet, his arms rigid at his side, his hands clenched. “I’m not cheating Renny! I don’t want to cheat anyone. I don’t want the money! I want to give it back! I won’t take it! I won’t take it—I won’t take it—”
He burst into despairing tears. He walked up and down the room, wringing his hands, entreating Nicholas—entreating Ernest to take the money. He stopped before Renny, his face broken into a grotesque semblance to that of a gargoyle by devastating emotion, and begged him to take the money. He was so distraught that he did not know what he was doing, and when Renny pulled him on to the window seat beside him he sank down bewildered, dazed by his own clamorous beseechings. His throat ached as though he had been screaming. Had he been screaming? He did not know. He saw them looking at him out of white, startled faces. He saw Pheasant run from the room. He saw Meggie clutching her crying baby. He heard Renny’s voice in his ear, saying: “For Christ’s sake, get hold of yourself! You make me ashamed for you!”
He put his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands. Against his cheek he felt the roughness of Kenny’s tweed sleeve, and he wanted to rub against it, to cling to it, to cry his heart out against it like a frightened little boy.
In a heavy undertone the talk went on and on, but no one addressed him. They were done with him now. They could not or would not take the money from him, but they would let him alone, and they would talk and talk, till from afar off the tidal wave he had been praying for would come roaring and sweep them all into oblivion…
The tidal wave came, and it was Rags; the oblivion, tea.
XXII
SUNRISE
AS he walked swiftly along the country road that led to the lake, the feel of the thick fine dust through the thin soles of his canvas shoes gave him an aching sense of pleasure. The balls of his stockingless feet, his toes, seemed to have acquired a new sensitiveness that morning. They pressed the earth hungrily as though to imprint on it a palpable and lasting caress.
His eyes, dark-ringed after a sleepless night, moved constantly, as though to drink in all possible beauty from the dew-drenched burnished land. They swept over a field of ripe corn, from which came a dry, sweet whisper as though all the tiny imprisoned kernels sang together. They swept hungrily over a swarthy stubble field, from which a great flock of crows rose into the blueness of the sky. They espied, bluer than the sky, the clump of chicory by the roadside. Nothing could escape them. Not the spider’s web, red as copper in the red sunrise. Not the sudden sparkle of dew on a tilting leaf. Not the slender imprint of a bird’s foot on the dust before him.
He loved it so, and he was going to leave it. So often had he traversed this road, afoot and on his bicycle, and now this was to be the last time!
He could endure his life no longer. He had thought it all out through the long night, reviewed its nineteen years of blundering, cowardice, and terrors, and he had reached the certainty that he could endure it no longer. If he had had one friend—one person who could have understood, and pitied his forlornness! There was Alayne, but she was inaccessible because of the presence of Eden. And, even if he could have gone to her and poured out his miserable heart, it would not have sufficed, for there was the family, a solid hostile wall, impervious to his tears as to his batterings. It was not to be borne! In that wall of his own flesh and blood there was no relenting crevice through which he might creep and timidly touch hands with those he loved again… He had wronged them, and there was only one way to make it right… The old uncles—wondering all these years about their mother’s money—and it had come to him! And Renny! But he could not think of Renny, and that look of shame for him on Renny’s face!
All night it had been necessary to compel his mind from the remembrance of that look. There had been moments when he had felt that he must run down the attic stairs, throw himself on his knees at Renny’s bedside, and beg him to forgive him, to comfort him, as he had comforted him after childish nightmares. Renny, whom he had wronged most of all! Well, now he was going to do what lay in his power to set things right. They would have to take the money now and divide it among them!
This morning it required no effort to keep his mind clear. It was as clear as crystal, exquisitely empty, as though washed clean by a hurricane. It was like an empty crystal bowl held up by the hands of his soul to receive the wine of duty. From every side that wine ran into it, from the pine-sweet darkness of the ravine, from the reddening fields, along the slanting rays from the sun through which God spoke to him.
He passed the crossroads. Here once they would have buried him, when his drenched body had been taken from the lake, with a stake driven through his heart A warning to those who contemplated suicide. He did not think he would have minded that. He would have been no lonelier buried at the crossroads than in the churchyard with his kin around him. What he was about to do seemed so natural that it seemed to him that all his acts for years had been leading up to this. To obliterate himself—to dash from his lips the bitter cup of living. He had brought with him into the world not much but the power of loving beauty. H
e would take out with him all that he could absorb of beauty, and perhaps God would leave that with him, while he slept, as compensation for the pain.
Oh, the caressing softness of the dust! For this last little way he would have nothing between his soles and it. He threw off his shoes and ran barefoot. He threw back his head, drinking in the cleanness of the breeze from the lake. Now he ran over dry, coarse grass, now over shingle that cut his feet, now over fine sand, hard as a marble floor.
The sun was hanging, a great lantern, just above the horizon. A red pathway crossed the lake from it to his very feet. The morning was as pure, as crystalline, as though it was the first morning that had broken over the earth. As he ran splashing into the water, fiery drops were flung up all about him. Translucent ripples disturbed the glassy surface of the lake. He ran out, his bare head empty and untroubled. He was not afraid,. He sank into the water and swam outward on his side, following the red pathway. He would swim till he was tired, and then… He embraced the gently heaving water. He flung his arms again and again across the early morning ruddiness. He closed his eyes and saw bright panels set in amethyst walls against the lids… There was no thought in him; he was empty as a crystal bowl moving through the water; feeling neither pride nor shame, exquisitely unconcerned; fragile, yet capable of receiving and holding fast the beauty that was flowing with him… He heard music…
Slowly he relaxed, and surrendered himself…
The music became by degrees blurred, resolving itself into an overpowering humming, as though the arch of the sky were the dome of a vast beehive. His ears ached with the burden of it. He longed, with a sad longing, to be free of the fantastic, terrible droning, to hear the music, pure and clear once more… It was no longer morning, red sunrise, but night, black night, and all the stars were bees, filling the universe with their humming. They swarmed in the cold black heavens, hungry for honey, ceaselessly humming…
He must conceal the fact that he is a flower, full to the brim, overflowing with honey, for, if they discover this, they will swarm down upon him and suck the sweet essence out of him, leaving him empty, bruised and forlorn… He shudders and draws his petals close about him to conceal the treasure. He is rocked on his stem, and is terrified that he will be broken from it and fall into the abyss below… His petals are now white, now red, changing their colour constantly, veined with violet and gold, drawing and withdrawing above the honey that is the centre of him…
He is convulsed with agony, for the bees have found him out. Their humming is becoming deafening, their wings clash like armour; they fly down, carrying lances to pierce him… There is one golden bee that has seized him. They struggle. He curls up his petals desperately. He tries to scream, but knows that flowers have no voice. The abyss yawns below.
The great golden bee clutches him and will not be thrown off. Another comes to its aid. They are dragging him away now, helpless, fainting. No use to struggle. His petals, red and white, are falling into the abyss. He is torn to pieces.
Eden’s face was close to his. Eden’s face, white and dripping, with a wet lock plastered over the forehead. Someone else was there too, someone who had been doing strange things to him, knocking him about. He felt weak and sick, but he managed to gasp out: “All right… all right… pretty well, thanks.”
He didn’t know why he said that, unless they had been asking him how he felt, and he knew he must conceal the terrible truth. He had completely forgotten what the truth was, but he was poignantly conscious of its terror.
Eden was saying, in a staccato way, as though his teeth were rattling: “God, what a mercy that you were here! I should never have saved him alone!”
It was Minny Ware’s rich voice that answered.
“I’m afraid you’d both have been drowned.”
“And this first-aid business—you’re simply wonderful! I’ve never felt such a duffer in my life!”
“You were splendid the way you plunged in! He’ll be all right now, I think. It’s you I feel worried about. You’ve been so ill! I must get help at once!”
Eden’s hand was on Finch’s heart. “It’s beating more regularly. You’re better, old chap? You know who I am?”
“Yes, Eden.”
With a great effort he raised his eyelids again and saw Minny Ware standing straight and flushed, a dripping undergarment clinging to her rounded body her breast still heaving from her exertions, her hair, like Eden’s, plastered against her head. When she saw him looking at her, she smiled and said: “You naughty boy! I hope you’re sorry for what you’ve done. Giving us such a fright!”
A shiver shook Eden from head to foot. She snatched up her dress and struggled, dripping as she was, into it. “I shall run to the house and get Mr. Vaughan as quickly as possible.”
“No—no. Get Renny. He’d not like it if we didn’t send for him first. Besides, he’ll get here in half the time Maurice would.”
She hesitated, disappointed. She had thought to come back with Maurice. The idea of missing any of the excitement, of losing any of the savour of being with these two males, half drowned as they were, was intolerable to her exuberant femininity. She said: “I think it would be better to fetch Mr. Vaughan.”
“Why?” Eden asked sharply.
“Because he would take you straight to his house. You’d like that better, wouldn’t you?’
“Telephone Renny—I’ll have him take us to the Vaughans’. Please be quick, Miss Ware. This poor youngster is half frozen—and I—” He shivered and smiled.
“What a beast I am!” she cried. “I’ll run every bit of the way!”
She did, and felt as though she could never tire, elated by the strange happenings of the morning. Her life at the Vaughans’ was so quiet! Her mind was fervently preoccupied with the young men at Jalna. Married or single, their doings filled her thoughts. She discussed their dispositions, their talents, and their prospects endlessly with Meg. Meg pushed her always in the direction of Renny. Rich-voiced, yearning-bosomed, she was willing to be pushed in any direction.
She had risen that morning shortly after dawn, and sat at her open window, from which she could see the road. Along it she had seen the figure of Eden sauntering. She was almost sure it was Eden, but not quite sure. At any rate, it was one of the Whiteoaks. The red sky in the east, the figure of the young man sauntering, the sudden cry of a blackbird in the elm tree near her window, had filled her heart with loneliness, with longing. She had changed into a prettier dress stolen from the house, and followed him to the shore. She had found him nursing his knees and a pipe. She had made her presence known by singing softly as she approached along the sand. He had confessed to her that he had been too restless to sleep—a lyric that struggled toward birth, and yet was perversely reluctant of delivery. She had sat down beside him, at his invitation, hugging her knees and the smell of his tobacco smoke. Together they had rescued Finch.
They had watched him run into the water and swim outward without suspicion dawning, until Minny had exclaimed over the fact that he wore trousers and shirt instead of a bathing suit. And there had been something strange, wild, and exalted about the running young figure…
He lay stretched on the sand now under Eden’s coat, his face, of a deathly pallor, half hidden in the crook of his arm. Eden crouched beside him, gripping between shaking jaws a pipe that had long been out. He patted Finch’s shoulder. “Someone will be here, old chap! Do you feel sick?”
An inarticulate sound came from the prostrate figure. Eden patted him again. “You’ll soon be all right. Those feelings come to us, but they pass. I’ve felt like doing it many a time.”
“Ugh!” He shuddered from head to foot.
Disgusted at being brought back, poor young devil, thought Eden. Preferred oblivion out there to that tidy little fortune of Gran’s. Ah, he’d been having a rough time of it— no doubt about that! But he’d get over it—live to play the fool with the money… Money. What must it be like to have money! Why the hell didn’t Renny come? If only Gran
had left the money to him! He’d have snapped his fingers in the family’s face. There he went—shuddering again! Poor little devil!
The Whiteoak car! Rattling down the stony road as though it would fly to pieces. Bang! Some rut that! Rattle, jiggle, bump. Ungodly racket, but how the old car could go! There was Renny at the wheel, his face set, too weather-bitten to show pallor even though he’d had a fright. Serve him right! Serve them all right if the kid had been drowned. Eden guessed at the scene which had brought about this reckless act.
“Hullo!” he shouted, “Here we are!’
The car bumped on to the beach, stopped with a jerk, and the master of Jalna leaped out.
He came with a long, crunching stride. “What’s this?” he asked sharply.
Eden got to his feet. “This boy’s been trying to do away with himself.”
“Do away with himself! Minny Ware told me that he’d got cramp swimming!”
“She was trying to spare your feelings! I’m not.” Eden’s face was set also. His characteristic half-smile was frozen into a queer grin. “He hasn’t been able to tell anything, but I’ll venture to say he was hounded into it!”
Renny bent over Finch. He looked into his eyes, felt his heart. “I must get him into bed. I’ve brought brandy with me.” He held the cup from a flask to Finch’s mouth, and, when he had gulped the brandy gaspingly, Renny refilled the cup and handed it to Eden. “This has been enough to kill you,” he said grimly, “after all youVe been through!”
Eden shrugged, then looked steadily into Renny’s eyes. “I have an idea,” he said, “that I’ve done the best thing in saving this youngster that I’ve done in all my life.”
“Minny Ware told me that you’d never have got him if it hadn’t been for her.”
Damn Renny! How he took the wind out of one’s sails! “She was there,” he admitted, “and I guess she never did a better thing! He must have had a hell of a time to make him do this!”
Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna Page 120
