“Does she like England better?”
“Oh yes, she hates the Colonies.”
Leigh exclaimed: “Colony! I like that! We’re an independent part of the Empire.”
“Of course. But I’m used to hearing us called a colony at home.”
“I should think you younger ones would object,” demurred Leigh.
“I don’t see why. If you’re a part of anything, how can it matter what you’re called?”
Mrs. Leigh said: “It doesn’t matter. We all love England; that is what matters.”
“I don’t,” said Ada. “I love Russia. I have a Russian soul.’” “But how can you tell?” asked Finch, wondering if possibly he had one.
“Because it’s never satisfied.”
He sighed. “In that case, I’m afraid it’s my stomach that’s Russian!”
Mrs. Leigh noticed that he looked as though he had been ill and asked him about his health.
“I’m awfully fit,” he insisted. “I’ve never been better. I’m just naturally cadaverous.”
“Perhaps. But more probably you have been growing very fast.” Her mind flew back to his family. “You have sisters-in-law at home, haven’t you? And one of them—the wife of a poet brother—is an American?”
“Yes… that is—they live in another house—just a little place. He’s been ill.”
“We were so intrigued when we were crossing! A young man from Philadelphia was enthusiastic over both books of your brother’s poems. The lyrics, and—” She could not recall the other.
“The Golden Sturgeon. It’s a narrative poem. I’ll tell Eden. He’d like that.”
Mrs. Leigh said eagerly: “Let me tell him myself! I shall go out and call on him and his wife.”
“They are leaving, too,” said Finch, desperately. “I’m sorry… You see, he has recovered, but he has to go to a warm climate.”
Her pretty face fell. “I’m doomed not to meet your family! Still—there’s another sister-in-law.”
“Young Pheasant. She is scarcely grown up. My uncles would be frightfully pleased if you were to call on them. There’s nothing they like better than calls. It would be better to let them know which day you’re coming. They’d make you very welcome/’ But his tone was a little anxious.
She leaned forward, smiling, her lips drawn back from her teeth. “Do you think I might just rush out for a very few minutes and entreat your brother to autograph his books for me? I bought them both yesterday. Do you think that would be too much to ask him?”
Leigh intervened. “I’ll take them out for you, if Finch thinks he would do it.”
Finch wished that Mrs. Leigh were not so interested. He began to feel that a somewhat ruthless interest was the keynote of her character. He assured her rather glumly that Eden would sign as many of his books as she desired. It was probably the first time he had been asked to autograph his poems, he added, and instantly wished he had not given his brother away.
When he had been two days at the Leighs’ he reached the point of moral courage when he could ask Leigh for a loan. It was not so easy to frame the words as he had thought. He was hot all over, and Leigh was not so casual as he had expected.
His bright glance dived into the turbid pool of Finch’s soul.
He asked: “Are you sure that you want this for yourself, old fellow? It’s quite a lot of money, you know.”
Finch nodded.
Leigh smiled. “I’m afraid you’re lying, and I love you for it. But it makes me sick to think that someone has perhaps been working on your sympathies. Perhaps trying to get money out of you that he’ll never pay back. Upon my soul, I’m afraid to lend it to you for fear you’ve got some quixotic idea in your head about helping someone who isn’t worth it.”
“But he is!” burst out Finch.
“There, you admit it! It is for someone else.”
“I’m borrowing it to please myself, but I admit I’m going to help someone—with some of it.”
“Not all of it?”
Finch said hotly: “Very well, don’t lend it to me!” “Finch, you’re angry with me. But I’m not going to get angry with you. It would be too unreal.” Leigh’s voice shook. “I’ll lend you the money. For heaven’s sake get some security, if you can, from this friend of yours!”
“I can’t take it when you feel like this about it, Arthur.” “But you must. You know that all that’s troubling me is the fear that you’ll lose it.”
“You don’t give me credit for any common sense, then!” “I know that your generosity is greater than your common sense. I’m terribly afraid that if you start off like this— lending your money before you’re in possession of it—you’re going to be an easy mark for unscrupulous people.”
It was easy to lie in the rose-and-ivory drawing-room, but how difficult up in Leigh’s study, among his intimate things, and with his clear eyes full of trouble for one’s sake.
“Arthur,” he said, “I can’t take it without telling you who it’s for, now that you’ve put things as you have. It’s for Eden.”
“Aha, one of the family!”
“Yes, but he didn’t ask me for it! I offered it. He’s been ill, you know, and he wants to go to the South of France for the winter for his health. And it isn’t only that. He has it in his mind to write something perfectly splendid. He’s got to have a year for it. It’s not like the other things he’s written— it will be a tremendous piece of work. I wish I could tell you all about it. Renny’s willing to send him to California for the winter, but that won’t do at all. There’s a special reason why he must go to France and not be bothered by a job or anything for at least a year. Look here, Arthur, you know that Eden’s poetry is good. He’s had splendid reviews. Alayne gave up her job to come and nurse him because she’s so keen about his poetry. She’s not very keen about him now, you know. They’d been separated. I think it would be beastly selfish of me if I wouldn’t put out my hand to help my own brother when he’s so clever, and his wife did, and there’s no one else!”
Leigh sprang up and came and took him by the shoulder. “Of course I see it! But why didn’t you tell me all this at first? It’s splendid of you. And look here, I won’t take a cent of interest. I want to help, too. Darling Finch, I want every-thing to be as clear as crystal between us!”
Even while Finch’s soul drew strength and happiness from Arthur’s love, it shrank within him at the thought of what Renny and Piers would have said if they could have heard that “darling Finch.” But it was all right. Arthur was exquisite, and could use exquisite words; Renny and Piers were vigorous, and used vigorous words. And somewhere in between he floundered.
A note went to Eden that day:
DEAR EDEN—
Everything is arranged, so don’t worry. Shall be home Wednesday and will bring a cheque for the amount mentioned. My friend Leigh is coming out with me. He’s anxious to meet you. He knows a great deal more about poetry than I do, so I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind reading some of your new poems to us both. We’d be pretty safe from interruption on the bridge. Leigh is bringing out your books for you to autograph. They belong to his mother, so perhaps you might think up something clever to write in them as well as your name. I guess you’ll be pleased about the money. Some financier, eh ?
Yours,
FINCH.
Now that the strain of borrowing the money was over, his promissory note carefully made out and handed to Leigh, Finch began to be almost happy. He began to realize the new amplitude which the possession of money would give to his life. He not only realized, but greatly magnified its possibilities. He had seen so little money; he had seen Renny and Piers jubilant over a small unexpected gain. Piers would be in a gale of good spirits if he got more than he had hoped for from a consignment of apples, or if one of his jerseys had healthy twin calves. Renny would raise his voice and shout his winnings at the races. From the time Finch had been in sailor suits he had known that his grandmother’s money was the subject of jealous conjecture
. He had seen the rivalry for first place in her affections from the point of view of an outsider, never in any flight of fancy picturing himself as her heir. Her decision to leave all her money to one person had always seemed to him cruel and unjust. He secretly believed that she had expressed such an intention with the direct purpose of keeping the family interest in her always at high tide, their nerves at concert pitch. She had succeeded. But now tide had ebbed into darkness, suspense no longer tightened the nerves, and Finch, looking about him, inexperienced and hungry-eyed, believed there was no limit to his power.
It was sweet to help Eden. They were travellers in a region which the rest of the family did not enter, and even though neither could fully understand the experiences of the other in that mysterious region, they knew each other as palmers to the shrine of beauty.
Finch found himself able to play the piano in front of the Leighs. His paralyzing shyness under Ada’s eyes was gone. Sitting before the keyboard, more erect than at any other time, with motionless head and flying hands, he looked and felt sure of himself. He seemed, to Leigh’s ardent eyes, capable of glorious things.
As Ada sat curled in the corner of a sofa while he played, Finch exulted in the fact that in these moments he was fascinating to her. He could tell that by the look in her eyes as they gazed at him through a veil of cigarette smoke. Yet no matter how balanced, how firm he felt, he could not recapture the amorous energy that had made it possible for him to embrace and kiss her on the evening of the play.
It was not until the night before he left that he had the courage again to approach such intimacy. They had been at a dance. She had been kind to him, dancing with him repeatedly because he was shy of other girls, and now and then throwing him an encouraging look from the arms of another partner while he stood glumly in a doorway. It was a night of sudden, intense chill; the white fur collar of Ada’s cloak was turned up against her cheeks during the ride home. Seeing her thus muffled, with only her hair, her white forehead and eyes, exposed, made Finch feel suddenly inexpressibly tender toward her. She seemed like some flower-bud wrapped in a protective sheath from which he longed tenderly to disengage her.
Arthur took the car to the garage, and as the two ran up the steps Finch put his arm about her and pressed her to his side. He put his face against her hair and murmured: “Darling Ada! You were so good to me tonight.”
“It isn’t hard for me to be good to you, Finch/’
“And I used to think you didn’t like me!”
“I like you far too well.”
“Ada, will you kiss me?”
She shook her head.
“Then will you let me kiss you?”
“No.”
“But you let me kiss you once.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Of me?”
“No, of myself.”
“You said something like that once before—about being afraid. Are you afraid of life?”
“Not a bit. I’m just afraid of my own feelings.”
To hear that she was afraid made Finch afraid, too. A shiver of sympathy, ecstatic yet terrified, ran through him. There seemed a menace in the bitter nip of the night air, in the large glittering stars. His arm relaxed and dropped to his side. He took off his hat and passed his hand over his hair, looking down at her pathetically.
“It’s frightful to be afraid,” he said. “I’m afraid of myself, too, often. And of my feelings. It takes the strength right out of me.”
She gave him a scornful little smile.
“I don’t think I understand your kind of fear.”
“I think I understand the difference,” he said. “I think yours is a hot fear, and mine is a cold. Yours makes you want to fly away and mine paralyzes me.” His eyes sought hers, eager for understanding.
She was searching for her key in a brilliant-studded handbag. He saw the shadow of her lashes on her cheek.
“If only you would let me kiss you,” he breathed, “I think we could understand each other.”
“Too well,” she answered, with a catch in her voice. She fumbled with the key against the lock.
He took it gently from her and opened the door.
The next morning he and Leigh left early for Jalna. Finch would have liked to linger in the hope that he might have a few minutes alone with Ada, but Leigh was impatient to be off. Having it in his mind to meet Eden and hear him read his poetry, he could tolerate no delay in reaching the appointed spot, even though Finch declared that Eden would scarcely be there so early. Leigh left his car near the gate, and, descending into the ravine, they made straight for the rustic bridge across the stream. Eden was not there. Still, Leigh’s desire for haste was gratified. He perched on the railing of the bridge and extolled now the beauty of the sky, now that of his own reflection in the pool below.
“If I were as charming a fellow,” he said, “in my actual person as I am in that shadowy reflection, I’d have the world at my feet! Lean over and look at yourself, Finch.”
Finch peered into the pool, as he had done a thousand times. “Mostly nose,” he grumbled.
Leigh chattered on for a while, but soon the coolness of the ravine penetrated him. There had been a dew almost as heavy as a rain. Even now moisture fell from the tips of leaves in clear drops like the first scatter of a shower. While Finch was absent the Michaelmas daisies had come into bloom. Their starry flowers, varying from the deepest purple to the blue of the September sky, hung like an amethyst mist above the banks of the stream. The leaves of fern and bracken showed a chill sheen, as though they had been cut from fine metal. The clear delicate sunlight had not yet dispelled the heavy night odours of the ravine.
“I wonder,” said Leigh, “whether your brother should come here this morning. It doesn’t seem quite the right spot for anyone with lung trouble.”
“He’s over that. At any rate, he looks pretty fit. Our doctor says that he needed rest and good food more than anything. Still,” he looked dubiously at the wet boards of the bridge, “it does seem rather damp for him.”
“Perhaps we had better go to him.” Leigh would have liked to tell his mother that he had sought the poet in his retreat, perhaps glimpsed the wife about whom an atmosphere of mystery seemed to have gathered.
“I think I hear him coming.”
“Hullo, what’s that?”
“An English pheasant. Renny is stocking the woods with them.”
She whirred heavily out of sight, young ones fluttering after her. A rabbit hopped down the path, but, seeing the two on the bridge, turned, showed a snowy stern in three successive leaps, and disappeared into a thicket.
Eden’s legs appeared, descending the path; then his body became visible, and last his head, touched by the flicker of sunlight between leaves. He was carrying some rolled-up papers. “A poet, and beautiful!” thought Leigh. “How I wish the girls were here!”
“Hullo,” grinned Finch, “we thought you had got stage fright.”
Eden stood at the end of the bridge, his eyes on Leigh. Leigh thought: “He’s smiling at me, looking at me, and yet he doesn’t really seem to see me. I don’t think I like him.”
Finch said: “This is Arthur Leigh, Eden… He has been wondering if it’s too damp for you here.”
“I’m as seasoned to damp as an oyster,” answered Eden, shaking hands with Leigh so warmly that he obliterated the first impression of inviolable detachment.
Leigh said: “I hope you are not going to be as reticent as one. I’m very keen to hear some of your poems, if I may. Did Finch tell you?”
“Yes.” The eyes of the brothers met. Understanding flashed between them. Finch thought: “I’ve made him happy. It’s glorious, this doing things for others. I can’t imagine why other rich people don’t try it!”
Eden talked freely to Leigh of his coming trip to France, unconscious that Leigh knew Finch’s motive for borrowing the money. Leigh thought: “Doesn’t he think me capable of putting two and two together? Perhaps he doesn’t care. He knows he can
make three or five of them whenever he wants.”
The sun rose high, pouring warmth into the ravine, which appeared to stretch itself, languorous and supine, under that delayed caress.
They sat down on the bridge, which was now dry, while Eden, in his deep mellow voice, read poem after poem. Some had been read before, to Alayne, but not all. They were the essence he had drawn from the past summer, what he had formed into strength and brightness from those shadowed months. As he listened to his own words, and saw the rapt faces of the two boys, he wondered whether the solution of his life might not lie in such moments. Might not the suffering he knew he had caused in the lives nearest him be justified, even be necessary to the creation of his poetry? The evil in him was inseparable from the good, like the gods, whose energies were directed first into one channel, then another. So he seemed to himself, and so less coherently he seemed to Finch, who never dared to hope that anything he might create would justify his own clumsiness in life.
There was a third listener to the reading, of whom the others were unaware. This was Minny, who, wandering into the ravine from the direction of Vaughanlands and hearing voices, had stolen from trunk to trunk of the trees till she was within sight as well as hearing. It chanced that this morning she wore a dark dress instead of the usual gay colours, so she was able to conceal herself behind a great clump of honeysuckle within a few yards of the bridge. She crouched there, her feet pressing into the moist earth, the succulent growth all about her exhaling a sweet, sticky odour, and, almost touching her face, a large and meticulously woven spider’s-web in which two jewel-like flies were caught. She felt no discomfort in her situation, but rather an increased sense of adventure. As a doe might have crept close to watch the browsing of three stags, she observed with ardent interest every detail of their faces, their attitudes and gestures. She absorbed the beauty of Eden’s voice, but the words he uttered made no more impression on her than the words of the songs she sang. Though her body ached from its crouching position, she did not grow tired or impatient, remaining after the reading was over to listen to the discussion of the poems which followed. She heard their titles without hearing them—“The Dove; Thoughts of You and Me; Resurgam; Thoughts on Death; The New Day”—yet so sympathetic was she that when Leigh’s bright face broke into merriment she smiled, too, and when the voice of Eden took on a tragic note her lips reflected this in a mournful curve. When the smoke of their cigarettes drifted about her she pitied herself that she could not share this pleasure. When Eden, dropping his voice, related something that produced a gust of hilarity, she would have given all she possessed to have known what he said.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 246
