She became conscious after a time that Finch was no longer playing Bach but Beethoven. He appeared oblivious to her presence, and she was glad of that…. Her imagination now turned back to the time of her girlhood in Ireland, to the time when she had felt safe, protected, when her father and mother and brother had stood between her and all that was troubling in life. She saw herself as a long-legged tow-headed girl surrounded by primroses, bluebells, misty hills, and happy peasants. How wonderful Maitland had been, how wonderful it all had been! She smiled at the ridiculousness of it….
An hour had passed and Finch still was playing. But now he remembered her presence. His hands rested on the keys and he asked, “Tired?”
“Tired — no, rested! Please go on.”
“Something of Brahms?”
“Yes. And after that — Mozart.”
“I warn you, when I play Mozart I never know when to stop.”
“I shall be here — enjoying it — if you play all night…. If my plumage ever has been ruffled, at the present moment it is as smooth as silk.”
He gave her a glance of appreciation, both for what she said and for how she looked sitting there.
He went on playing.
The moon was gone. When, between pieces, there was a pause, the silence seemed palpable, like a silver shape, standing in the open doorway. Then, after a little, the trill of the locusts became faintly audible, grew in its tiny but persistent volume, never missing a syllable, till it was again drowned in the music.
All the pent-up desire for the piano was now loosed in Finch. The felicity he had pictured had been to play in solitude, in that house. But now he found himself playing to Sylvia, sometimes unconscious of her presence, at others acutely aware of it, as though in her he had discovered the listener perfect above all others.
Again he asked her above the music if she were tired.
She shook her head.
They lost all consciousness of time.
At last, pale but bright-eyed, he rose and came to her. He sat down beside her, looking anxiously into her face. “I’ve been an egotistical brute,” he said. “You must be terribly tired.”
“I have not felt so truly rested in years.”
“It has been … I can’t tell you what it has meant to me, having you here … just ourselves.” He added, with something of an effort, “That last thing I played — did you notice it?”
“I thought it was enchanting.”
“It’s something I’ve been jotting down at odd times. I hadn’t played it through till tonight. I played it very badly.”
“And it was your own?”
“Yes. A gavotte.”
“I wish I had known it was yours. Will you play it again for me?”
“Yes. But not tonight.”
“what time is it?”
“I’m afraid to tell you.”
“I see that the moon is gone. It must be terribly late.”
“I’ll take you back in my car, but not till I’ve made you some coffee.”
She sprang up. “Let me help.” They went together to the kitchen.
“The woman who does for me comes in by the day,” he said. “She leaves everything nice and tidy. Don’t you think so?”
“It’s adorable.” As if they were children playing at housekeeping they got the cups and saucers, the cream, boiled the kettle. When the tray was laid Finch carried it to the music-room and Sylvia brought the occasional table.
“The very thing,” he exclaimed, setting the tray on it with a triumphant air.
“I’m so glad it was decided we should have it.” There was something in the plural pronoun that struck them both like the striking of a bell. They were silent a space, as though listening to its echo in their hearts. Then, quietly, as though not to disturb someone who slept, he placed chairs by the little table, and almost formally they seated themselves. They smiled into each other’s eyes across the cups.
“Is it right?” she asked anxiously, for she had made the coffee.
“It’s just as I like it,” he said, and looked deep into her eyes.
They talked a little but could not afterward have told what they talked of. And then it happened that, standing by the window, with the dark night outside, she found herself in his arms, with her head on his breast.
“I love you,” he was saying. “I realize now that I’ve loved you from the first.”
“But you couldn’t.”
“But I did.”
“Oh, my dear.”
“Sylvia.” His lips discovered the reluctant passion of hers. She tried not to show that she loved him, but she could not help herself.
“We must marry,” he said after a little. “You will marry me, won’t you?”
“I don’t think I ought.”
He held her from him to look in her face. “But why not?”
“Some other time I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me now. I must know.”
She hid her face against him. “I cannot tell you — not now.”
But he persisted. “Is it because …” He fumbled for words. “Because of your … illness?”
“No, no. I am well enough.”
“Tell me just one thing. Do you love any other man?”
“There’s no one but you.”
“My dearest — that’s enough for me tonight. But no — one thing more! There’s nothing that could make it impossible for us to marry, is there?”
“Not for me. Possibly for you.” She withdrew from him and went to the window as though for air. “Don’t ask me now.” A shadow of unhappiness darkened her face.
“I’ll not ask you,” he said. “Tell me when you feel that you can.” He tried to look as though resigned to waiting, but he was passionately impatient, for he desired all to be settled in that very hour.
As in relief she exclaimed, “Someone is coming. I hear a car.”
“Damn!” he muttered, and followed her to the window. He pressed his forehead to the cool pane.
The light from the car blazed against the trees.
It stopped and Renny got out. He strode to the house. The two went into the hall to meet him.
“I’ve been sent by my wife to rescue you,” he said, looking hard at Sylvia. “She refuses to go to bed till you come. The others left some time ago. It’s almost morning.” He laid the blame, if blame there were, at Alayne’s door. In truth it was he who was determined to discover what kept Sylvia so late.
“It’s all my fault,” said Finch. “I’ve been playing the piano.”
“All this while?”
“All this while.”
“No wonder Mrs. Fleming looks —” He had been going to say tired, but, scrutinizing her, weariness was certainly not apparent.
As he hesitated she could not resist asking, “Well — what do I look?”
He gave her a mischievous grin. “As though you’d just been kissed,” he said.
Sylvia uttered a gasp that was half a laugh and half a cry of dismay.
“Don’t mind,” said Renny. “It’s very becoming.”
They came into the music room.
Almost apologetically Finch said, “We had coffee.”
“For the second time tonight!” Renny’s eyebrows flew up. “No wonder you are wakeful.” He stood contemplating the occasional table.
“Meggie thought we’d better bring it,” said Finch.
“That table,” observed Renny, “is really mine.”
“I know.”
“And, as Uncle Nick says, I don’t think that Gran would like her possessions scattered over the countryside.”
Finch stood, biting his thumb. “what the dickens …” he muttered; and repeated, “what the dickens …”
“Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Renny. “I’ll lend you the table, as I lent it to Meg, and say no more about it. The table remains here.”
“Thanks,” murmured Finch.
There was nothing more to be said. He followed Renny and Sylvia to the car, a
nd when Renny’s back was turned he raised her hand to his lips.
In the car, during the brief drive, she resolutely talked of music — a subject which, she guessed, was subduing to the master of Jalna.
X
Brother and Sister
SYLVIA AND RENNY parted in the hall, he descending to the basement for some obscure reason, she mounting the stairs. The door of Renny’s room stood open, an unshaded light was burning and she glimpsed the shape of a dog stretched on the foot of the bed.
A deep rumbling snore came from the room of the old uncle. The clock struck four.
A pencil of light showed beneath Fitzturgis’s door. She went straight to it and softly tapped with the tips of her fingers. Almost instantly the door was flung open and he stood there, in shirt and trousers, a look of something approaching apprehension on his face.
“I knew it was you,” he said.
“And were afraid?” She came into the room. “Poor Maitland! I’ve put you through too much.” She softly closed the door.
He scanned her pale face. “I was not afraid,” he said, “but — there’s nothing wrong, is there?”
The thoughts of both flew back to nights in Ireland, when, in the illness of her mind, she had struggled with him, been forcibly restrained by him.
“So much is wrong,” she said, “that I think I shall have to go.” She sank to the side of the bed and covered her face with her hands.
He sat down beside her and put his arm about her. “Oh, help me, help me,” she sobbed against his shoulder. “Oh, what have I done?”
“Now,” he said, in his tone of command, “let’s have no more of this lamenting. Tell me what has happened.”
“Finch Whiteoak,” she managed to get out, “is in love with me.”
If he had not known her so well, seen her in the extremity of despair, he might have laughed. Instead he pressed his arm about her and said, “That doesn’t sound very terrible to me. It’s rather sudden, but why should you feel it a calamity?”
“Because — oh, Mait, it’s so ghastly — he’s asked me to marry him and — I want to.”
“Very well then — do.”
“But I can’t — not after that affair with Galbraith.”
“My dear child, he need not be told anything of that. It’s past and done with.”
“I should hate myself if I deceived Finch. I haven’t been an admirable person, but I have been above board. I’ve got my own idea of myself and I must live up to it — to the end.”
“Tell him then.”
“I can’t.” She gripped her hands between her knees. A shudder passed through her.
He took a cigarette from the bedside table, lighted it and put it between her lips. “You’ll make yourself ill again,” he said, “if you go on like this.”
Still shuddering, she puffed at the cigarette. Then — “Oh, why did I meet Galbraith!” she cried.
“Keep your voice down,” he said, and added, with a certain hardness of tone, “You appeared to think a lot of him. You were scarcely ever apart on board ship. And afterwards, in New York.”
“I know. But now the thought of him is distasteful.”
“Perhaps Finch would become distasteful — if you lived with him.”
“Never.” She spoke with passion. “It’s utterly different — my feeling for him. I never loved Galbraith.”
“He certainly was — and still is — mad about you.”
“He had the power to give me a feeling of something like — I won’t say the word love — even a spurious kind — in connection with him — but a feeling of being enamoured. I told you at the time I was afraid to marry him. Oh, God, how I wish I’d never done it!”
“You were swept away.”
“No, no,” she denied. “I did it in cold blood. I thought I was being sensible.”
“And so you were,” he said. “You made an experiment. You are free. You have met a man you want to marry. You are a fool if you don’t.”
“I will not deceive him. Not in any way.”
“You and I,” Fitzturgis said almost tenderly, “have known trouble. I believe we have a right to reach out and grasp good luck wherever we find it. If it happens to be in the shape of someone who loves us — so much the better.”
“I wish,” said Sylvia, “I had told him tonight, but for a moment I was so happy I forgot, and, when I remembered, I couldn’t.”
“You must forget.”
“I will not deceive Finch,” she repeated. “There is something so good in him — so pure.…” She scanned her brother’s face, fearing a smile of derision, the chill of cynicism, but his eyes reflected her earnestness.
“I know,” he said.
“I have spoilt everything,” she said.
He had so often seen her despairing. He braced himself to endure this.
“Go to bed,” she said, “and forget me.” She turned as though to leave. “As for me, I shall not close my eyes tonight.”
He made a dramatic gesture toward the window. “Indeed you will not,” he said, “for the night is gone.”
She looked and saw a paleness in the east. A small bird began to sing.
“You are so well again,” he said, “it’s a shame that you should work yourself up over this.”
“Work myself up,” she repeated. “My God!”
“Sylvia,” he said suddenly, “would you be willing for me to explain to Finch Whiteoak?” In a peculiar way Fitzturgis felt himself better able to grapple with her problems than with his own.
She turned her face, wan in the increasing light, to his. “Oh, Mait, I should bless you for it. Then — if need be, I could leave without seeing him again.”
“You have some sleeping pills,” he said. “Take one. Try to get some rest.”
She cried in a ferment, “Adeline has arranged a picnic for today. A picnic!”
“She would,” he said grimly. “Well, lie down and relax if you can. Is Finch to be at the picnic?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have a talk with him first…. That will be picnic enough for him.”
“IfI thought you were joking,” she said, “I should hate you.”
“I have seldom felt less like joking.” He laid his hand on her arm and steered her back to her own room, with something of the air of a surgeon steering a patient toward an operating room.
Five hours later, with the picnic in the offing, Fitzturgis walked through the morning freshness of the ravine to Finch’s house. His expression was resolute. His very walk gave the impression that he was eager to have this meeting over and done with. If Sylvia were determined to make a sacrifice of herself he would help her out with it; but beneath his hardy exterior he concealed considerable foreboding as to what the effect of this interview might have on her nerves if Finch should turn his back on her.
He found him just finishing his breakfast and refused his invitation to drink a cup of coffee. Finch, never very good at concealing his feelings, looked surprised by this morning call. They went to the paved terrace and stood smoking and remarking the luxuriant growth of the season. Then Fitzturgis said:
“I’ve come to see you because of what happened last night between my sister and you.”
“Yes?” Finch stared at him, trying to guess what was coming.
“Sylvia, as you must know, had a bad nervous breakdown after the war. She saw her husband killed in a London raid. She should have been taken care of after that, but she went right on working — till she went to pieces. She had a bad time of it — for a long while.”
Hot colour flooded Finch’s face. He knew what was coming! He knew! This thick-set, insensate brute was going to tell him that Sylvia must not marry — that her mental balance was too precarious — that he, as her brother, must forbid it…. But Fitzturgis went on:
“There is nothing I should like so much as a happy marriage for Sylvia. Her health is good. There is nothingwrong with her.”
“Yes?” Once more the bewildered monosyllable from F
inch.
“There’s no man,” said Fitzturgis warmly, “I had rather see her marry than you.”
“Then what’s the trouble?” asked Finch.
“Nothing, I hope.” He spoke with calmness, but he bit his thumbnail, examined it, bit it again.
Finch demanded, “Does Sylvia know you’re here?”
“Yes. She wanted me to come.”
“To tell me What? Out with it, for God’s sake.”
“There was an incident,” said Fitzturgis, “in Sylvia’s life — a quite recent affair — that she thinks you should be told of. I don’t agree, but she insists.”
“why shouldn’t she tell me of it herself?”
“She is too sensitive or — she thinks you have too much moral sensibility — to hear it from her…. Oh, I don’t know…. What does a woman really think? Have you discovered?”
“Will you be good enough to tell me,” Finch said calmly, “what all this is about?”
“It’s about a chap named Galbraith — a newspaper man whom we met on shipboard. He fell in love with Sylvia. He asked her to marry him, as soon as he got his divorce which was pending. Very well. Sylvia liked Galbraith. Very much indeed. She saw him every day after we arrived in New York. As I said, she liked him. They were congenial. My older sister and my brother-in-law urged her to accept him…. She did accept him. But not in marriage…. She was afraid of marriage — till she could be absolutely certain of her feelings. And there was another thing. Since her illness Sylvia has never taken life for granted. All she has taken for granted is that there will be suffering. But she will get over that, I’m positive. Give her the right man — the right marriage — and she’ll be as sound as ever.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 491
