Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course

by Mazo de La Roche

  Finch thought a good deal about her today, recalling their strange delayed intimacy that had drawn them so mysteriously together, wondering if it were possible to him to live in a way that would have won her approbation. Still, she had known him for what he was, had loved him, had accepted him as one of “the whelps” her son Philip had got by his second wife.

  He stood in the porch sunning himself, and watched Rags furbishing up the hall. How shabby both hall and servant looked in the noonday brightness! The slender walnut banister and carved newel-post were elegant enough, but the wallpaper along the stairway showed dingy where small hands had been pressed against it. Certainly it had never been repapered in his time. The carpet on the stairs was threadbare. The Turkish rug on the floor had lost all its fringe. The fringe had reappeared miraculously on the cuff of. Rags’s coat. This cuff was being violently agitated as he polished the mirror in the hat-rack above which the carved head of a fox sneered down at him.

  “Well,” he said, seeing Finch, “many happy returns of the d’y to you, sir!”

  “Thanks, Rags.”

  “We couldn’t ‘ave a finer d’y for the occasion, not if it ‘ad been hordered! It’s a fine thing to be twenty-one, sir, and to ‘ave all the money in the family.” He looked over his shoulder at Finch with an air of innocent envy.

  Finch felt like taking the fellow by the scruff of his grizzled neck and shaking him. He said—“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Rags.”

  The little Cockney proceeded imperturbably:

  “It’s a ‘appy d’y for us all, I’m sure, sir. Mrs. Wragge was saying to me just a bit ago that she’d prayed for a fine d’y. I don’t go in for prayer much myself, but, as the saying is, strawrs tell which way the wind blows. Not that she is much like a strawr, sir. More like a strawrstack, I’d say. I ‘ardly dare to go into the kitchen this morning, she and Bessie are that worked up with excitement. And the thought of those caterers coming out from town with all their paraffinaliar!” He came to the door and shook out his cloth. He then produced a small, foreign-looking leather pocketbook from somewhere about his clothes. He proffered this to Finch with a bow.

  “Will you accept this from me, Mr. Finch, as a little offering? I brought it ‘ome with me from the War. It belonged to a German officer. And I’ve always thought that if the d’y come when I ‘ad a pot of money, I’d use it myself. But the d’y ‘asn’t come, and it looks as though it never would come—not in this country, and at this job—so, if you’ll accept it, I’ll give it to you with my best wishes, and may it always be full!”

  Finch took it, embarrassed. It was a handsome pocket-book, and there was something touching in Rags’s expréssion as he offered it; but Finch always had the uncomfortable feeling that Rags was laughing in his sleeve at him.

  “Thanks, very much,” he mumbled. “It’s an awfully good one.” He opened it, looked in it, shut it, Rags regarding him with an expression of mingled sadness and pride. He gave his duster another shake and re-entered the hall.

  Mooey was descending the stairs on his little seat, a step at a time. Finch watched him, feeling suddenly very happy. Everyone was amazingly nice to him. Renny had given him a wristwatch. Piers and Pheasant, gold cufflinks. Uncle Nicholas a paperweight, and Uncle Ernest a watercolour from the wall of his own room. Alayne had given him a crocodile-skin travelling-bag, and Wakefield a large clothes brush which, he explained, would “come in handy to whack his kids with when he had any.” Meggie’s present was yet to arrive.

  “Bump!” sang out Mooey. “I’m toming! Bump! Bump! Bump! I’m not f’ightened!”

  Finch went to the foot of the stairs and snatched him up. He put him on his shoulder, and, out of the shadows of the past came a picture of himself, caught up thus by Renny. A queer thing life... One tall strong body, one little weak body after another... Some day Mooey would stand at the foot of the stairs and shoulder some tiny boy just as today he was doing... And Mooey would be twenty-one, and whose would be the tiny boy? Some little Whiteoak, out of a Whiteoak body...

  Mooey clasped Finch’s head, and pressed his round flower-like face to Finch’s thin one. “I want to go out on the nish geen gash,” he said.

  “The grass may be green, but it’s not nice. It’s nasty and soggy.”

  “I l-like nawsty soggy fings.”

  “Very well, I’ll carry you out and stand you on your head on it.” He ran out the door and down the steps.

  “There’s a nish soggy spot,” said Mooey, pointing out a puddle.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” cried Finch. “I’ll take you to the stables to see Uncle Renny.” He had got an idea. He would find Renny and approach the subject of quitting the University this very hour. Renny was always more or less absent minded and good humoured when he was among his horses. The presence of Mooey would be a help too, for Renny had a way of staring at him speculatively and only half-listening to what was being said.

  They found the master of Jalna in the paddock, mounted on a bright bay mare which he was training as a highjumper. Two grooms stood by a hurdle, the top bar of which they raised and lowered in accordance with the shouted directions of the rider.

  Finch, carrying Mooey wrapped in a man’s jersey, stood by the enclosure unnoticed save by a casual glance. The mounting strength of the sun was poured down on this sheltered spot, giving the impression of a day in late April rather than one in early March. The intrinsic quality of all on which the sunrays fell was made evident in smell or colour. The earth, newly thawed, trampled by the feet of horses and men, gave forth a pungent and profoundly vital odour. There had been pressed and soaked and baked and frozen into it—ever since Captain Philip Whiteoak, almost eighty years before, had chosen this particular place for this purpose—rotted straw and manure, and the impalpable essence absorbed by the earth from the sanguine activities of men and beasts. Every hair in the young mare’s mane and tail seemed charged with energy. Her hide glistened as though varnished, her eyes flashed back the light. Renny’s strong-muscled, mud-spattered legs, his weather-beaten, sweating face, his bare head against which the hair was plastered, the red healthy faces of Wright and Dawlish, their capable hands that took up and replaced the fallen bar, the skin of their hands dry from the grooming of horses and stained with harness oil, all these were discovered in the spring sunlight.

  Between the two men, the mare, and her rider there existed a sympathy not needing the expression of words. When she felt panic and sheered off from the jump or valiantly essayed it and failed, a like shadow seemed to fall across all four. She blew out her breath in what seemed a great sigh. The grooms dubiously replaced the bar; and Renny, wheeling her about, drew his brows together in a rueful frown. But, when she swung clear of the hurdle, and hung like a bird for a space against the sky, before she alighted triumphant and cantered down the course, a brightness of aspect descended as the sun’s rays on men and mare. A group of cows that had collected as spectators by the fence of an adjoining enclosure looked on the scene with complete lack of sympathy. At the critical moment one might stop chewing the cud, as though the better to concentrate on what was going on, but, be the leap never so birdlike or the failure never so forlorn, the cud-chewing was resumed with an aloof serenity.

  Finch thought—“She has done well; I believe it’s a good time to speak.”

  Renny had dismounted and given the bridle to Wright and was strolling toward him, scrubbing the palms of his hands with a crumpled handkerchief.

  “Wasn’t she splendid?” asked Finch, scrutinising his elder’s face. “I think she’s going to be a wonderful jumper.”

  “I hope so. She’s a sweet thing. I intend to ride her in New York this fall, if possible.” He turned to Mooey. “Hello, what’s the matter with your nose?” He gave the small feature a decisive wipe with the handkerchief.

  “I suppose,” said Finch, “he should have something on his head.”

  Mooey, his nose quite pink, observed:

  “I’m going to jump
a nish orsey and not be f’ightened neider.”

  “He talks too much about not being frightened,” said Renny. “It sounds as though he were trying to reassure himself. I hope he’s not going to be a duffer at riding, like you.”

  “I hope not,” returned Finch dolefully. It took so little to cast him down.

  There was silence for a moment while Renny struck at the flakes of mud on his legs with his riding-crop, then Finch set the little boy on his feet, and, turning to his brother, broke out with the energy of despair.

  “Look here, Renny, it’s impossible for me to go back to ‘Varsity! I simply can’t do it!”

  Renny continued to strike at his leg with his riding-crop, but he did not speak. His face hardened.

  Finch continued—“You can’t know how it is with me. You’re always doing the most congenial work. ‘Varsity isn’t congenial to me. It isn’t anything to me but a grind and a flatness and an unreality. I don’t see any sense in sticking it out.”

  The fiery brown eyes, before which he quailed, were raised to his. “What the hell is congenial to you? I wish you’d tell me. I thought music was, and I’ve let you take lessons and spend hours practising when you ought to have been studying. Then, when you play at a recital, you play your worst, and you tell me that audiences aren’t congenial—”

  “I didn’t!” cried Finch. “I didn’t say that! I said that I was afraid of audiences—”

  “Afraid! By God—afraid—that’s the trouble! You’re always afraid! No wonder the kid there whines about not being frightened! You’ve put it in his head!”

  Finch had turned white. He had begun to shake.

  “Renny! Look here! Listen! I—I—you don’t understand—”

  “Of course I don’t! Nobody understands. You’re not like anyone else, are you? You’re a student, and you can’t study! You’re an actor, and you can’t act! You’re a pianist, and you can’t play! You’re twenty-one, and you act like a girl in her teens!”

  Finch flung out his hand. The sun touched the face of the wristwatch Renny had given him that morning. He cursed himself for a fool. Why, oh why, had he chosen this day of all days for his declaration! He dropped his arm. He was cut to the heart.

  Renny went on—“I suppose you think that because you’re of age today and are coming into some money—”

  “No! No, I don’t! I only thought I’d like to tell you—at least, ought to tell you—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me long ago? Why did you let me go on planning for your education—”

  In spite of the unhappy turmoil of his emotions, Finch could not help wondering what effort of the brain Renny had spent on him beyond the tardy digging up of his tuition fees, and the determination that he should not evade one lecture or examination.

  He got out, hoarsely—“You shall have it all back!”

  “Not a cent! I won’t have a cent of it back!”

  “But why? There’s no reason why you shouldn’t!” cried Finch distractedly.

  “There’s every reason. I won’t take a cent of it.”

  “But why?”

  “Because if I took it back I should not have reared you and educated you, as it was my duty to do.”

  “But there’s no reason in that! I know how hard it is for you to get money. All along I’ve said to myself—‘I’ll make it up to Renny!’The thought of that bucked me up to tell you this today. Renny, you must take it back!”

  “Not a penny. Well, I can’t force you to go on, but I can feel that I’ve done my best, and, if you’re a mess, it’s not my fault!” He had worked himself into a temper. He showed his teeth, Finch thought, as though he would like to bite him. Things were blurred before Finch’s eyes. The sunlit scene before him began to revolve. He put his hands on the palings and held himself together with an effort.

  Mooey looked from one uncle to the other, his lip quivering. “I’m not f’ightened!” he said.

  Renny made as if to strike him with his riding-crop. “Say that again and I’ll thrash you!” Nothing on earth would have induced him to touch Mooey with the riding-crop, but he felt and looked as though he could. Mooey raised his voice in a howl of anguish.

  At this moment Piers drove up to them in the car. He had been to the village and had brought the post. He got out with the letters in his hand. His son moved toward him screaming, in a kind of dance.

  Renny said—“That’s a nice young milksop you’ve got! He’s frightened of his own shadow! He takes after his Uncle Finch!”

  Piers’s fatherliness was roused. He picked up his child and comforted him. “What’s it all about? What’s he been doing? It seems to me that you look fierce enough to frighten anyone.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” said Renny. “Only Finch has just been telling me that he’s not going to ‘Varsity any more. It’s uncongenial to him.”

  Piers’s prominent blue eyes took in the situation. He did not speak for a moment while he turned the matter over in his mind. Then he said in his deep voice:

  “Well, it’s no surprise to me. I always knew he didn’t like college. I didn’t like it myself. I don’t see any sense in his taking a course in Arts—going in for a profession—unless he wants. If I were in his place I’d do just as he is doing.”

  Without another word Renny turned and strode toward the stable. Piers looked after the tall retreating figure with composure. “You’ve got his back up,” he said. “He’ll not get over this today.”

  “I don’t know what I’m to do,” said Finch bitterly. “I couldn’t go on with it. And I thought I could make it up to him... but he won’t let me. He simply got in a rage...”

  “Gran will never be dead while he lives! You may have her gold, but he has her temper.”

  Finch broke out—“I wish he had them both.” His jaw shook so that he had to clench his teeth to control it.

  “Keep your shirt on,” said Piers soothingly. “You won’t be twenty-one for long. My advice is to make the most of it. Go away for a while and he’ll forgive you and want you back.” He looked over the letters. “Here is one for you from England. A birthday greeting from Aunt Augusta, I guess.”

  Finch took the letter and glanced at the spidery handwriting. He turned, with an ache in his throat, in the direction of the house. ‘Thanks,” he muttered; and added— “And thanks for standing up for me.”

  “That was nothing. I don’t usually see eye to eye with you, but I do in this. You’d be a fool to waste your time in doing what you hate when you have all the world before you... Do you like the cufflinks?” Piers was one of those who find it difficult to express thanks for a gift themselves, but who take a sincere pleasure in the reiterated thanks of others.

  Finch brightened. “Oh, yes. I like them awfully.”

  “They’re quite good ones, you know.”

  “I can see that. But you and Pheasant shouldn’t have done it. It was too much.”

  “Well, I’ve never given you a present before... and, if you like them...”

  “I like them tremendously.”

  “We went into town together to pick them out. The day the car broke down and she got that chill.”

  Finch’s gratitude deepened. “I remember. It was too bad her getting a chill on my account.”

  “She didn’t mind... There goes the stable clock. I’ll be late for lunch. I don’t suppose it will amount to much today, with the dinner coming on... I’ll take the kid with me.”

  On the way to the house Finch opened his Aunt’s letter. He had a deep affection for her. She had shown him many kindnesses on her visits to Jalna, had worried considerably over his thinness, and tried unsuccessfully to fatten him. It was like her to have remembered his birthday, and to have posted her letter in time to reach him on the very day. He read, his lips twisting into a wry smile at the last paragraph:

  LYMING HALL,

  NYMET CREWS, DEVON,

  18th February.

  MY DEAR NEPHEW,

  When you receive this letter you will, I trust
, be well and happy, and at the proud moment of attaining your majority. You are arriving at manhood surrounded by the most auspicious circumstances. I only wish I might be with you to give you my good wishes in person. But I very much doubt whether I shall ever visit Canada again. The mere undertaking of the journey at my age is terrific. The sea voyage with its attendant nausea, the exhausting journey by rail in the discomfort and heat of your trains, and, added to this, the sad knowledge that my dear mother no longer awaits with extended arms for my coming. Neither do my brothers invariably show me that consideration which they should. Particularly I mention Nicholas. Mentioning him, of course, in the strictest confidence.

  I should like very much to have you visit me this summer during your holidays. Even a short stay in England at this period of your life would help to broaden you.

  I wish I could offer you lively society, as I might have done once; but those days are past. They are gone like the days when my parents entertained so lavishly at Jalna.

  But I can offer you young company in the shape of Sarah Court, your cousin once removed. She and the aunt (by marriage) with whom she lives are coming from Ireland to spend part of the summer with me. Mrs. Court’s husband was the brother of Sarah’s father. They were the sons of Thomas Court, my mother’s youngest brother. Mrs. Court is an Englishwoman, though still living in Ireland, and you would never think that Sarah herself was Irish. She is twenty-five, a quite superior girl intellectually, musical like yourself. I have always esteemed the aunt, though she is a very peculiar woman and places too much importance (in my opinion) on her high blood pressure. I am sure you and Sarah would get on together.

  If you would like to visit me, I shall write to Renny and tell him that it is my desire to have you. It was such a delight to me that he and Alayne were married from my house and spent their honeymoon nearby. Give my fondest love to my other dear nephews and nieces, my brothers (I so often long to see them), and my baby grand-nephew.