She threw her arms about him from behind. “There can never be another like me!”
“You can’t have it here, can you?” asked Finch.
“With Henriette as midwife! No — I’ll find a proper place.” She spoke with confidence. He had a rush of tenderness, picturing as a dreadful upheaval all she would have to go through.
He had to be away for several weeks on a tour. It was a success. He came back feeling well and happy. But he found a changed Sarah. She had been suffering from ills peculiar to her condition. She was pale and despondent. She threw herself into his arms and wept. She said she must have sea air and wanted to go to the Cornish coast.
Finch wondered why she should choose the place where she had spent the honeymoon of her first marriage, but he said: —
“Very well. We’ll go there, if we can find a house. It’s pretty difficult at this late hour.”
“Henriette knows of one through a friend of hers. She is cook in a family who find they can’t go. There’s nothing I want to do so much.”
The thought of being by the sea drew Finch almost equally. He had been too long among crowds. His dismay at the thought of the coming child was calmed by the picture of a lonely cottage on a Cornish cliff, of lonely wanderings over the rocks when the tide was ebbing.
The place turned out to be neither a cottage nor remote. But the white house, one of a group of half a dozen, was airy, open to the west wind and furnished with just the sort of things Finch liked. They had brought Henriette with them. There was a gale and lashing rain the day they arrived. It was always so wherever they went. It rained and it blew all the first day. Henriette was in a mood of deep despondency. It was her belief that nature should be kept under control as it was in the London parks. When she saw the ragged cliffs, the momentous boulders, the raging sea and the great slate quarry — now overgrown by grass and flowers — in the hillside behind the house, she shook her head and her pendulous underlip trembled.
“It was never meant to be,” she said.
But Sarah was happy to settle down here for a month. She ran from room to room placing things to her taste. Every time she and Finch met she threw both arms about him and pressed herself close to his breast.
“I’m so blissfully happy,” she said. “I scarcely think of the baby. It’s just you and I together by the sea. Do you think it will be fine tomorrow?”
“I’m sure of it,” he answered, laying his cheek against the glossy convolutions of her plaits.
But there was an unreality about her to him. She was a new, a dual being, the one he knew and the one unseen and unborn. And both these were bound up in each other and antagonistic to him. He had no sense of having begotten the child. As he saw Sarah’s form enlarge with its growth he felt a shrinking from her and a distaste for all that was to come. Her greed and her erratic appetite set him on edge. He thought with horror — “Am I going to turn against her again? I mustn’t! I mustn’t! I’ll not let myself. Every time I feel one of these sensations, I’ll go straight to her and kiss her.” But this brought no relief.
The sun came out warm and bright. Finch took Sarah for walks on the smooth grassy downs along the cliff. She delighted to go as far as the nearest resort and sit in a sheltered spot watching the bright-coloured surf bathers riding through the foam. But when Finch spoke of joining them himself she was horrified.
“And see you drown before my eyes! Never! My father was drowned, my first husband was drowned. Once I was almost drowned. Do you remember how you and Arthur saved me? The sea is my enemy!”
“Then why do you want to be beside it?” he asked coldly.
“To watch it,” she answered, with a sly smile. “One needs to watch one’s enemies.”
The morning walk was all she could do in a day. That left him free to wander on the shore in the afternoon. He would lie on the sands in the bay where the green waves scampered in like playful children trailing seaweed. He would loiter on the rocky headland when the waves had retreated, leaving their toys behind them. He would peer fascinated into pools where miniature forests and grottoes had been arranged by the salty fingers of the sea. Then he made himself no more than a receptacle for the mysteries of the shore.
A strange communion existed in these days between himself and Henriette. He had a feeling that Henriette knew a good deal about him. She too wandered on the shore, leaving large fiat footprints on the sand. Once he espied her in a solitary orgy of paddling, her heavy black skirt drawn up to her knees, disclosing enormous white legs that took dancing steps in the foam. The kitchen was briny with the treasures she had collected, shells of all sorts, starfish and limpets. Once she came trailing seaweed as long and limp as herself.
“It goes pop when you squeeze it,” she said. “I’ve popped it till I’m worn out.”
Another day she brought home a jellyfish. “You can see its innards,” she mourned. “It was never meant to be.”
She and Finch made a bargain that they would not speak of war in front of Sarah. She should have this time in peace. They kept the newspapers from her and she never asked to see them. She was satisfied with her magazines and library books. She became more and more engrossed in herself. She would send Finch across the downs to the distant village to buy some pastry or cheese she fancied. He marveled at the amount of Cornish cream she could eat.
He went in the early morning to bathe, his towel about his shoulders. He grew tanned and the hollows in his cheeks filled out.
They motored back to London on the last day of August. Three days later he ran down the basement stairs to Henriette.
“War is declared,” he said. “How shall I tell my wife?”
“I’ll tell her,” said Henriette. “I’m a good bearer of bad news.”
“I’m afraid it will be a great shock.”
“Yes, it will be enough to bring on a premature birth.”
“Had I better fetch a doctor before we tell her?”
“No. Just ’old yourself ready.” She plodded up the two flights of stairs.
She loomed dejectedly in Sarah’s doorway.
“The worst ’as ’appened,” she said.
Sarah sat up in bed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked wildly.
“War. It’s declared — in all its ’orrer.”
“War! Why — I thought that scare was over!”
“We kept it from you as long as we could. Now you must face it like the rest of us.”
It was strange, but this way of breaking the news suited Sarah. She took it quietly. She asked Finch: —
“Do you think we shall be bombed?”
He was sitting on the side of the bed with her in his arms.
“You must go into the country where you’ll be safe.”
“You too! I’ll not leave you!”
“There’ll probably be work here for me.” He knew that neither his eyesight nor his nerves would pass an army test.
“I shall die if we’re separated.”
“We’ll not talk of that yet.”
Her arms tightened about him.
“You’ve something in your mind! Something against me! I can feel it.”
“My one thought,” he said, “is to do what is best for you and — the child.”
“You’re as cold as ice!” she cried. “You don’t love me any longer. You hate the thought of the baby. If you loved it you’d call it our baby, not the child!”
“Give me time,” he said. “You can’t expect me to love something unborn.”
“You hate our baby,” she kept repeating.
He could not tell her that it was not a baby to him but one of those embryo creatures he had seen in pictures. Yet, he calculated, by now it must have features and hands.
“I’ll wager anything,” she went on, “that Renny loved Adeline before she was born.”
“If you compare me to him it must always be to my disadvantage.”
She dragged herself away from him and, crouching on the bed, made her pale face into a
mask of hostility.
“Now you are deliberately tormenting me. You know that I hate Renny more than anyone on earth. Yet you accuse me — what are you accusing me of?”
“My God!” he cried, in exasperation. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I merely said that in my opinion …”
“You didn’t say in your opinion! You said in my opinion.”
“I said neither thing. I only said …”
“I don’t want to hear it repeated!”
“You’re absolutely unreasonable.”
“What can you expect? You’ve known all along that war was coming. Now you let it burst on me in one flash and expect me to be reasonable. But you’ll not have me with you much longer. This is going to kill me!”
“Sarah!”
“Don’t put your hand on me!”
He flung out of the room.
“Come back!” she shrieked. “Would you leave me alone at such a time?”
He came back and stood at the foot of the bed.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to remember that I’m a pregnant woman and that this is your child.”
“Have I ever forgotten it?”
“You’re utterly self-centred. God pity the woman who marries an artist!”
“You said to me not a week ago that you pitied Alayne and Pheasant from the bottom of your heart.”
“I pity them because they don’t know anything about love as I know it.”
“Perhaps Renny and Piers are the happier for that.”
“Never mind — I shall die!”
“You must be mad to say such things, Sarah.”
“If I am, you have driven me to it.” She threw herself violently on the bed and rolled in her bulk on it.
He tried to take her in his arms but she fought him.
“I shall die!” she moaned.
“Sarah …” He began to shake with sobs.
She lay still, feeling the reverberation of his sobbing through her body. The child leaped inside her.
Suddenly she was almost tranquil. She laid her hands on his head and drew it to her breast.
XXI
IN THE KITCHEN GARDEN
NICHOLAS WHITEOAK WAS taking advantage of the warm sunshine and having a little exercise in the kitchen garden. There would not be many more days like this. It was as though October, with her apron full of fruit, had picked out the most symmetrical and gayest-coloured peach and presented it to her child. He was eighty-eight years old that month.
He wore a brown and buff check jacket, an old favourite of his, and a brown silk tie with yellow flecks that Alayne had given him on his birthday. His iron-grey hair was still thick and would last him the rest of his life. He was freer of gout than he had been in years. Yet it was obvious to those who knew him that the last twelvemonth had aged him greatly. His broad shoulders were more bent; his mouth, under his grey moustache, was gentler and less humourous; his brown eyes sometimes looked vague and even confused. He continually said, “My memory is going,” but he always straightened his shoulders as he said it and would have been hurt if anyone had agreed.
The kitchen garden was a perfect place for walking in the fall. There was no grass to hold the heavy dew and the narrow paths were dry as pavement. Already they were strewn with little yellow leaves from the row of Lombardy poplars that edged one side of the garden. Between the poplars he had a view of the stables and the paddock where a show horse was being taken over some hurdles by Piers. It was very companionable. Companionable too was the sight of Mrs. Wragge, taking armfuls of billowing white sheets from the line, and the pigeons walking on their pink feet among the raspberry canes picking up late raspberries. There were quite a few of these and he tried one himself but found it disappointingly sour.
He examined the cucumbers, abundant and roundly curved, still clinging to their leafless vines. He tapped a marrow with his stick and it gave a faintly hollow sound. The cabbages were a fine crop, their centres smooth and hard, their outer leaves crisply crinkled. He knocked a fat green worm from one of them and trod on it. The parsley was of an amazing strength and greenness. It looked as though no frost could kill it. The mint was up to his knees and covered with tiny purple flowers. It was curious, he thought, how he took more and more pleasure in these trivial things. They somehow gave him a feeling of reassurance. He picked a leaf of mint and crushing it between finger and thumb sniffed its herby sweetness.
The war had been a shock to him. Well, Mr. Chamberlain had said there’d be peace for all our time — and it hadn’t lasted even his short time! Why, the entire House had been deeply moved by the Four Power Conference and its agreement. Small wonder if an old man, away out here in Canada, had been taken in!
He moved slowly along the path, his feet scuffling through the dead leaves. A yellow caterpillar was coming in furry waves toward him and he wondered whether or not it would get out of his way. Evidently he was too colossal for its notice. He just managed to avoid it. The asparagus bed was the prettiest thing in the garden. When he had looked out of the bathroom window that morning he had seen it silver-grey with dew. There must have been a ground frost, too. Even now the feathery plumes bent under the weight of moisture. A fine monarch butterfly hovered above them for a space, then darted to the nasturtiums that covered the low picket fence surrounding the garden.
The gate at the farther end opened and his brother Ernest came through it. He moved briskly toward Nicholas, greeting him with: —
“Good morning, Nick. Getting the sunshine? That’s right. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
Nicholas gave an affirmative grunt and smiled at his brother. Ernest said: —
“I’ve just had the London Times. I brought it over so we could read the leader together.”
“I hope there’s no more bad news,” said Nicholas.
“No, no. If there were, we should have heard it over the radio.”
“Of course.” But he looked unconvinced.
“The loss of the Royal Oak was a terrible thing,” he said.
Ernest turned to walk beside him. “We’ll have to face things as they come, Nick. What I dread is our nephews’ joining up.”
“I was thinking of Wakefield,” said Nicholas, “as I was walking here. You know, I miss him greatly. I can’t believe he’s grown up and gone away. He always liked to walk with me here and this morning I could just feel his little thin hand resting in mine.”
“That’s because you’ve been worrying a bit about him, Nick. But you mustn’t worry. It’s bad for you. That’s what I tell Harriet. She worries herself ill over the news.
I tell her not to listen to it but she’s always at the radio. This morning I made her stay in bed.”
“Quite right…. There’s a fine lot of carrots, isn’t there?”
“Fine. Harriet has bought a little squeezer thing and we each drink a glass every day. She has great faith in vegetable juices. I may say that she has revolutionized my diet.”
Nicholas grunted and stared at a hummingbird whose beak was probing a flame-coloured nasturtium.
“Look,” said Nicholas, nudging Ernest in the side. “Look!”
“Pretty thing. Mamma always admired them. Do you remember? She used to say — ‘I like small, wicked things and there’s something wicked in a hummingbird.’”
Nicholas grunted again. He held Ernest stock-still so they might not disturb the bird. But he was put to flight by the approach of Meg, who came hurrying into the garden. It was not often that she hurried, so they turned to her expectantly.
“Hullo, Uncles!” she cried. “How are you both?”
Both said they were well and waited for her to go on.
“I’ve had such an exciting cable from Finch!” she said. “Sarah is going to have a baby and he wants her to be out of England. He cabled to ask if we would take her into Vaughanlands and, of course, I cabled back that we’d be delighted. But, upon my word, I tremble to think of having Sarah Court, in that condition, on my hands. I
t seems quite unnecessary that she should have a child. Still, it’s wartime and babies seem to come along then. And we also must be tolerant. Sarah has plenty of money so, if Finch’s earnings cease, he needn’t worry. Nor need we. I must say Maurice and I will be grateful for the extra money now. I think she ought to pay well — considering everything, don’t you? She’s bringing a maid with her.”
Her uncles agreed that Sarah should pay well for the accommodation. It was lucky for her that her money was invested in Canada. They were glad that the new Whiteoak was to be born so near home but it was difficult to think of Sarah as a mother.
Meg slipped her arms through her uncles’ and so linked, they strolled up and down the sunny path. For a woman of her age her skin was unusually clear and elastic but she had a slight double chin. She was not at all sensitive about it. She considered that the time had come when a double chin was becoming to her and, if she had been asked to part with it, it is doubtful whether she would. She discovered a little clump of French marigolds in a corner behind the Brussels sprouts and she stuck one in each of the old men’s coat lapels. The three were deliberately gay, as though they would ignore the black cloud arching above the horizon. The warm contact of their bodies reassured them. As a family it was noticeable how often they touched each other. Old Adeline had always wanted her descendants close about her. She had liked to sit with one on either side, holding their hands. The uncles leant on the shoulders of their nephews. Meg stroked her brothers’ heads and never, unless in a state of indignation, met them without a kiss. The younger boys had clung to Renny’s sleeve or his fingers. They alone knew how many times he had smacked, cuffed, or hugged them. Young Adeline was lavish of her kisses. At times Renny might have been seen stroking the walnut newelpost of the stairs which was carved in a design of hunches of grapes and their leaves. His thin muscular hands seemed curved to fit the flank of a horse. There were times when Finch caressed the keys of the piano in soundless communion. So, in common with the world of nature which is ever reaching out toward the pleasure of touch, the Whiteoaks drew strength from that sense.
Ernest and Meg did their best to keep Nicholas’s mind off the war but it was not easy.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 383
