“Aren’t you going to finish the letter to me? I am always so interested in that family.”
“Oh, there’s not much more. She speaks of how they miss Wakefield and of Finch’s illness. The poor boy doesn’t seem to be improving very fast.” She spoke in an unnatural voice. A strange brightness had come into her eyes.
Miss Archer looked at her steadily.
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Alayne, her voice trembling. “He is coming to New York! Renny!”
“I’ve been expecting it: Alayne, you must stand firm.”
“Oh, not to see me! To the Horse Show — in Madison Square Garden. You know! He’s coming to ride that awful horse Pheasant speaks of!”
“Yes, dear,” said Miss Archer soothingly. “I wish that good luck may attend him, I’m sure.”
“Aunt Harriet, I must see him! Not to talk to him! I don’t want him to know I am there. But I must see him ride. There is something in me that simply demands this final glimpse. I can’t tell what it is but it’s there. I’ve got to see him! You’d like to come too, wouldn’t you, Aunt Harriet? It is the sort of thing you have never been to. It would be an experience for you — even if you didn’t particularly enjoy it.”
Miss Archer was quite eager to go. She delighted in new experiences and anything was better than sitting at home mourning the loss of her income. She trembled to think what would have become of her if Alayne had not been at hand with her support. And Alayne must be humoured. If she wanted to see this dreadful husband of hers do high jumps on an impossible horse, why — she must see him! If only Alayne were not going to have his child! That was the complication that rose dark and almost overpowering. When Harriet Archer thought of that she was frightened by the hate that flamed in her. Once, in the privacy of her own bathroom she heard herself exclaim — “Serve him right if he fell and cracked his ugly red head!”
She heard herself say this in a harsh voice quite unlike her own. She looked in the looking glass and saw her face puffy with hate, her mouth in a new shape. She stared at her reflection fascinated. For the first time she was conscious of a second self, whose existence she had never even suspected, a vindictive self who could wish suffering to another.
But she was not ashamed. She wished him ill, only because he had caused suffering, and would be the cause of how much more, to the one she loved best in all the world. She let herself go and repeated:
“It would serve him right if he cracked his skull at this very Show!”
She was struck with horror by the thought of what such a sight might mean to Alayne, in her present state. It might be the end of her and of her unborn child! Indeed it was not safe for her to risk witnessing an accident of any sort. She must give up the thought of attending the Show.
But Alayne was stubborn. Her heart was set on going.
“But in your delicate condition it is dangerous. Just think if there was an accident — not to Mr. Whiteoak, of course, but to some rider — what a shock for you!”
“Aunt Harriet, if I can survive what I have been through, nothing can hurt me. The change will do me good.”
In truth the thought of it seemed to do her good. Either that or because in the natural course of her pregnancy she developed balance and endurance. Her appetite was good, her skin clear, she felt a desire for movement. This was well because the strictest economy was now necessary. They parted with the one maid and did the work of the house themselves. Alayne found that she enjoyed this. The house was small, in perfect order, there were all the conveniences of electric appliances, perfect plumbing and hearing. She and Miss Archer did things in their own way, to their great satisfaction, without waste and without irritation. Again and again Alayne recounted the maddening perversities of the Wragges: how on a mild autumn morning an enormous fire would blaze on the hearth, and how on a cold wet one only a handful of coals would struggle against the chill: how when the uncles had tea by themselves an enormous potful of the best tea — enough for six — was carried up to them: how there was never anything made of leftovers, which were fed to the dogs: how Rags spent hours in cleaning silver but never swept underneath the furniture: how they both were enough to drive anyone, descended from New England housewives, stark, staring mad. Miss Archer never tired of hearing of their evil deeds. They exhilarated her almost to the point of forgetting her own adversities.
She and Alayne rivalled each other in making dainty dishes. Almost every day they telephoned to the drug store for a pint of delicious ice cream. Alayne felt that she could never have too much of it.
They decided to spend the night of the show in New York at the apartment of a friend of long standing — Rosamond Trent. Alayne made up her mind, with the suddenness to which Miss Archer was becoming accustomed nowadays, to take an early train to New York and buy herself a new hat and coat on the afternoon before the Show. She was tired of looking dowdy, she said.
Rosamond Trent was delighted to have Alayne with her again — they had once shared an apartment — but she was dismayed by the change in her, which she absorbed in one swift glance. She turned to Miss Archer and said:
“After our shopping I must carry Alayne off to my pet beauty parlours. I have never seen her hair look so dull. Her skin is lovely still but there are those shadows under her eyes — and, I hate to say it, lines about her mouth! But Madame Sonia will do wonders for her.”
When she had Alayne alone she clasped her to her well-corseted bosom. “Oh, my poor darling! How appalling it all is! And how my heart aches for you!”
Alayne rather enjoyed being fussed over, wept over. She had become a stranger to that sort of thing in her life at Jalna. The air was crisp, the sun gleamed brilliantly between the quick moving purple clouds as they set out on their shopping and beautifying expedition.
Rosamond Trent’s ideas were large — especially where the money of other people was concerned. Nothing would do but that Alayne should buy a smart, military-looking, fur-trimmed coat and a little French hat to go with it. The shape of the coat was concealing and both were black, a colour which had always suited her.
As Alayne lay supine in a cubicle in the midst of the whirring, buzzing activity of the beauty parlour and gave herself up to the manipulation of practised hands, she wondered what desire had driven her to spend her money and her time in this fashion and on such an occasion. She could not tell. It was as though her nature had cried out for some respite from gloom and a denying of beauty. She had been heavy, she had been slack, she had been dragged down by the weight of her own thoughts for so long! Now, on this wild, boisterous afternoon, in the urge and press of the life about her she would behave as though all were well, as though she were enfolded in happiness and well-being instead of — she moved her head uneasily beneath the patting fingers of the masseuse and a quivering sigh escaped her.
She had forgotten that her hair could look like this, all sleek waves and glistening little curls. The beauty treatment had refreshed her and the slight makeup, so skillfully applied, had made her eyes look bright, made her look ten years younger.
Oceans of tissue paper billowed about the little room in Rosamond Trent’s apartment. Rosamond and Miss Archer stood at delighted gaze as Alayne appeared dressed for the show. She looked lovely, they declared, and the silent thought of both was that her position was tragic and they wondered what she was going to do with her life.
She seemed almost girlishly inconsequent. At the table next theirs, in a restaurant where they dined, a young man sat alone. He could not keep his eyes off Alayne. Every now and again one of the three women caught him in an admiring glance. To feel that she could attract the eyes of a man, of a young man used to the company of girls who thought of little else but their appearance, made Alayne feel almost recklessly exhilarated. She ordered wine and wondered a dozen times what Renny would think if he discovered her there. But this was the last sort of place he was likely to come. He had his own peculiar haunts among men of his own sort. What was he doing now? Was he nervous before the Sh
ow? At the thought of him a contraction, as of fear or hate, she did not know which, caused her heart to miss its beat. She lifted the glass of wine in a trembling hand, but forced her lips to smile back at Rosamond Trent. She resolutely put the thought of him, as a man, out of her mind and bent it toward the thought of him as a rider. She experienced a feeling of pride in the thought that Aunt Harriet and Rosamond would see tonight what sort of horseman he was.
She stood silent between the other women as they waited in front of the restaurant for a taxi. A cold, blustering wind raced between the tall buildings. In the taxi she was still silent. Everything about seemed suddenly unreal. She wondered where she was going and why. She could not take in what Rosamond Trent was saying. Her mind became concentrated on the vital stirring of the child within her. Marvellous, inexorable being, that unseen fourth in the taxi…. It’s imagined face flashed before her, smooth, white as an egg, with fine white hair like Roma’s. Why should she always think of Roma in connection with it? But she thought of it with aloofness, with coldness. There was no tenderness in her heart toward it.
Miss Archer looked at her anxiously as Rosamond was buying the tickets. Alayne had slipped the money into Rosamond’s hand.
“Aren’t you feeling well, dear? You are so quiet.”
Alayne forced herself to smile. “I’m all right. It is just the crowd. I have got out of the way of mixing with such hordes of people.”
Miss Archer squeezed her arm excitedly. “Isn’t it amazing? I never imagined … and such an interesting crowd … all sorts of people!”
They had good seats. Rosamond had seen to that. All about them there rose the vast tiers of faces. Below spread the course with its white gates and oxers. An event was already in progress. As they took their seats a storm of clapping broke forth. The band began to play. There was an animal vitality in the air that was almost frightening to Miss Archer. But the people about looked respectable.
Alayne held the bulky catalogue. She had herself in hand now. She looked competently through the pages for what she wanted. “Isn’t it amusing to see her, Miss Archer? She knows all about Horse Shows now,” said Rosamond.
She saw his name again and again on various days. She knew the horses he was riding. The knowledge of all she had absorbed about horses, without being conscious of it, made a gulf between her and Rosamond and her aunt. This was the fifth night. She found his name.
Champion Sweepstake — Value one thousand dollars guaranteed. No. 56 … Mrs. Spindles … ch. M. 15, 8, 5 years…. R.C. Whiteoak …
It was so strange to see his name there. So strange … so strange … and the thought that she would soon see him in the flesh…. It seemed to her an unthinkably long time since she had seen him…. She felt that everyone in the Garden must know that she had come to see him.
They watched foreign Army teams competing … French, Italian, South American officers. They watched an exhibition by Troopers of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, in their red tunics, broad-brimmed hats and black breeches. There was a glamour about them, a precision, a fineness. Miss Archer joined almost wildly in the applause.
Alayne sat rigid, her hands tightly clasped. All that passed was a dream to her, a fantasy, a nothingness till he came on. She picked him out at once among the other riders, sitting the tall, lean chestnut easily, with that accustomed droop of the shoulders. She saw the dark coat — she knew just where it hung in his wardrobe — the riding boots — she could see the row of them on their wooden trees. She was filled with wonder that he could sit there so easily, the mare sidling into her place, and be unconscious of the look that pierced him from where she sat.
The mare had been shown in other classes during the week. It was evident that she was known by some, looked on with amusement. But she had a lovely shoulder, a smooth sweep to her flanks, an iron neck and a little, clever head. Her eyes beamed, as though with a candid return of the crowd’s amusement. There were performances ahead of her that were difficult to beat. She swung in an easy canter over the tan-bark and cleared the first gate with a space to spare. But, almost as soon as she had landed, as though in an access of perversity, she reared and walked on her hind legs toward the next obstacle. A gasp of surprise followed by laughter came from the tiers of seats. Surely she could not clear the next gate But they had heard strange things of her and they held their breath to see what would happen. Her rider had evidently been prepared for this performance for, though the colour flamed into his face, he appeared calm and headed her toward the next gate.
Almost at the take off the mare lowered herself, looked closely at the gate, dropped her head, reared and again jumped clear with many inches to spare.
There was a thunder of applause which the mare accepted with an air between the mischievous and the vixenish and the man with an embarrassed yet triumphant grin.
Again she was on her hind legs! Again she minced coyly along the course. Again she lowered herself and cleared the gate like a thunderbolt. The applause thundered to the roof. The crowd loved the mare because she was strange, perverse, and triumphant.
Alayne’s hands separated, each seeking a hand of those on either side. She gripped their fingers. Hers seemed made of iron they held so fiercely. She laughed outright as the mare, on hind legs, stalked from the course and out of sight. She could imagine the hilarious stream of curses fired off above her head when those two were alone.
“Will they give him the prize?”
“Oh, but they should!”
“But how can they, when the horse behaved so?”
“She’s a devil!”
“How that man can ride!”
“There’ll have to be a tryout with the best of the others.”
Alayne’s ears drank in these ejaculations. She looked eagerly into the faces about her. She talked eagerly to Miss Archer and Rosamond Trent. They were mystified by her. She seemed beside herself with excitement. A brilliant spot burned in either cheek. She wanted the people about to know that that man was, or had been, hers.
Suddenly, at a distance, standing with some other men, she saw Piers looking unbelievably natural, laughing and talking.
In the tryout all the others had faults but the mare never ticked a bar though again and again she approached the obstacle in her own peculiar fashion. The crowd was jocular and joyful when she was awarded the prize. Now she stood immobile, beautiful, aloof, her rider scanning the faces of the audience as though for one he knew.
But that face, white and tense, was lost as a drop in the sea.
The journey home seemed very long. Snow began to fall. There had already been a few flurries but this was the first time it had come down in earnest. The flakes stuck to the windows of the taxi, which was not a very good one, and an icy draught moved the dead air in it. Miss Archer kept talking rather nervously about the show. She was very much afraid that she would take a chill and her mind was in a state of confusion after the strange evening. She was glad when they had boarded the electric train and she could snuggle into a corner of the seat and close her eyes. She thought — “There is no use in making conversation. Alayne is tired out, poor girl. How lovely she looked at dinner! And at the show! I like that narrow fur collar on her! What strange pictures come before my eyes … all sorts of coloured lights … horses bounding and caracoling — is there such a word? And that man! My first thought was he hardly seems human!… Later on I had a feeling of something very human in him … that was when he was sitting motionless on his horse … but not the sort of humanity I am used to, and the last man I should choose as a husband — if I were choosing one … I do admire his back … there’s something about it … and the way he rode that impossible horse…. I never cared for the word mare…. It is strange how in some cases the male name of animals is best and in others the female…. I rather wish Alayne had been willing to go back to Rosamond’s apartment to supper. It would have been nice … but Alayne has always liked her own way…. I do wonder if perhaps …”
The very inmost chamber of
Alayne’s mind was drained of thought. She sat sunk in her seat staring straight ahead of her, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but the weight of her body, her spiritual exhaustion. She planted her feet on the floor of the train, and through them its vibrations hummed to the very core of her.
The snow flickered past the steamy pane. The platform of the little station was white with it. The taxi they had ordered was waiting for them and, at last, they found themselves in their own living room.
“Are you glad you went?” asked Miss Archer over their hot coffee.
“Yes. I’m very glad.”
“Are you pleased that he won the prize?”
“Very…. What do you think of him, Aunt Harriet?”
“My dear, I think he is a violent-looking man. I could understand your loving Eden but … this man …”
“This man,” repeated Alayne. “No, I suppose you couldn’t understand that.”
In her own room she carefully put away the new hat and coat. Then, as though her body were of much less importance, she threw it passionately on the bed and cried far into the night.
XX
THE COMING OF WINTER
MEG AND MAURICE were effacing as well as they could the ravages that a summer of paying guests had made in their living room. Though they hoped to get other guests as agreeable next summer it was very pleasant to be alone again, to let oneself go, without regard to the opinion of outsiders.
Patience was at this moment practising on the piano with the loud pedal down: Meg was cleaning the spot on the wallpaper above the couch where a gentleman with oiled hair had been accustomed to rest his head; while Maurice, in an old shooting jacket, was putting a fresh covering on the seat of an old-fashioned, much-carved walnut chair. The noise of his hammering did not at all perturb Patience, only causing her to press the loud pedal more firmly. A canary, struck by the last pale shaft of sunlight, was singing himself hoarse in his cage.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 348
