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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Do you often see Pauline?” Finch asked.

  “Scarcely ever. I brought a poem I had written to read to her. It was in the autumn. But she was playing with her pet fox and I changed my mind... I’11 read it to you, if you like, Finch.”

  “I didn’t know you wrote poetry.”

  “I have been writing it for almost a year. I sent this one to Eden. And what do you suppose he wrote back to me? He wrote—“’You are not going to be a poet. You are one!’”

  “Don’t believe everything Eden says.”

  “Wait till you hear the poem! Now that you’re going to be my friend, I’ll read it to you. I have read it to Renny.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said it was good,” said Wake, triumphantly.

  “I think you should read the poem to Pauline. I might be here too. I should like that.”

  “Should you? I will, then. Here she comes! She has been to Mass.”

  They saw Pauline Lebraux approaching along the empty white road. Her movements were uneven as she walked over the deep ruts in the snow. The sun had the warmth of approaching spring in it and the snow was becoming soft and wet. As she drew near Finch saw that she still wore no touch of colour, but that her face, under the black beret, was flushed delicately pink by the exertion. She wore goloshes, above which her black-stockinged legs showed long and thin.

  He opened the door of the car and sprang out, but, when he was face to face with her, he did not know what to say. He just stood smiling inanely, noticing the worn little prayer-book and rosary she held in her hand.

  Wakefield was out beside him. He said, in the patronising tone Finch found so irritating:

  “Pauline, do you remember my brother Finch?”

  She smiled and gave Finch her hand. Again he saw that shadow of pain in her smile. It was purely physical—the sensitive curling of the lip—but it moved him to a strange compassion toward her. In spite of the hardships which he knew she must undergo in her life, he thought of it as an idyllic one. He thought of her as a young wilding, untouched by common things.

  “I am glad you are back,” she said.

  Did she really mean that or was it just politeness?

  Wakefield said—“Pauline, I am going to read my poetry to you and Finch. Shall you like that?”

  “Oh, yes! I shall love to hear it. Is Mr. Whiteoak in the house?”

  Wakefield answered—“I think I see him by the fox pens with your mother.”

  “Won’t you come and see our foxes?” she asked Finch.

  She led the way, and, as the boys followed her, Wakefield whispered—“Her education is being neglected. She knows almost nothing—except French. Renny tried to make Alayne read French with her but Alayne refused. We had a terrible time.”

  “I feel very sorry for her. Think of her walking almost four miles to Mass! I think we ought to send a car for her.”

  “I might go with her. I think it would suit me very well to be a Catholic.”

  They found Mrs. Lebraux and Renny standing in deep snow by the enclosures. She wore a heavy jersey that had been her husband’s, breeches tucked into grey woollen stockings and moccasins. She stood leaning on a snow shovel and smoking a cigarette. She was bare-headed, and her hair, with its unusual shadings of brown and tow-colour, stood out about her face in short, thick locks. Finch’s eyes moved from mother to daughter. He was disturbed by the sharp contrast between them.

  Renny put his arm about Pauline and drew her to his side. “Are you feeling better?” he asked. “Have you got over the tragedy?”

  Mrs. Lebraux explained to Finch—“Pauline has been inconsolable. One of the vixens got out of her own pen into the next one and the foxes there attacked her. They tore off a leg and she had to be killed.”

  “It was not the pet fox, I hope.”

  “No, but one of her favourites. She is far too tender hearted. Life is going to be hard for her.”

  Finch felt angry with Mrs. Lebraux. Why should she be dressed as a man, shovelling snow, sending her child to church alone? Yet, though he felt angry, he could not help liking her.

  The snow in the pens was indented by many little footprints, but most of the foxes had hidden themselves in their kennels at the approach of strangers. However, the old dogfox stood at a distance surveying them, his clear-cut shadow bluish on the snow. Pauline had run into an outhouse to bring fox biscuits to tempt them from their dens. She had put her prayerbook and rosary into Finch’s hand to hold for her. Clara Lebraux glanced at them, then into his eyes, and said—“Poor child!”

  What did she mean by that, he wondered. There was something mysterious about her. He felt a troubling, exquisite intimacy in holding these things belonging to Pauline.

  She came back running, and threw biscuits into one pen after another. The foxes, surprised at being fed at this unusual hour, crept out timorously, snatched the biscuits, and fled with them to their kennels. But her pet fox ran to her, bounding about her like a dog. She went into the run and brought him out in her arms, displaying him proudly to Finch and Wakefield. Her face showed lively above his long fur that was electric with health and the keen air.

  On the way home Finch said—“Wake tells me that they are having rather a hard time of it.”

  Renny sent the car over a drift that almost threw the boys from their seats. “Yes. Things are rough for them. But they will make a success of it yet. Clara Lebraux is one woman in a thousand, and that little Pauline is wonderful with the foxes. She has a stove in the outhouse. Cooks meat for them. Makes all their mashes herself. The worst is that they must sell some of their best stock this spring just for lack of capital.”

  Finch asked hesitatingly—“How much would it take to tide them over?”

  “A few thousand would do wonders for them. Practically save the situation.” Finch was sitting in the front seat with him, and Renny had lowered his voice so that Wakefield might not hear. “I let them have a thousand myself—last year. But this spring—I simply hadn’t got it. They’ll have to get along as best they can.” He sighed.

  “I’d love to help them—if you think they wouldn’t mind,” said Finch in a low tone.

  Renny shot him a quick, grateful look. “Oh, would you? That would be splendid. There would be no risk, but she could not pay a high interest.”

  As they turned into the drive he muttered—“Don’t say anything of this to the family. They are down on Mrs. Lebraux.”

  Finch walked on air. He was hand in glove with Renny. Between them they were going to look after Pauline...

  What of Pauline? He could not put the thought of her out of his head. That sweet face, delicately flushed by the long walk through the snow, was between him and all he saw A bright stream flowed between Jalna and the fox farm. Along it his spirit moved in exaltation, like a ship with all sails spread in full moonlight. That other face, pale, remote, with its close-set mouth, was as a distant promontory veiled by clouds.

  XXXI

  BIRTHDAY GREETINGS

  PHEASANT had her mind set on one thing. That was that her baby should be born on Finch’s birthday.

  In the first place it would be a remarkable coincidence. A double birthday in the family would be an event of great importance. In the second place she thought the date a lucky one. Finch was talented, and he had inherited a fortune. In the third place, if the baby were born on Finch’s birthday, Finch would, in all probability, take a keen interest in it, feel a personal pride in its advancement.

  Now, here it was five o’clock in the afternoon on the first day of March and no baby! The doctor had been to see her and was coming back in a few hours. Her time was drawing near. Yet so was midnight and the second day of March. She had had a cup of tea, but she could not eat anything. She sat by the window in her dressing gown, her face flushed, her eyes feverish, her short brown hair in damp tags on her forehead. Piers was walking about the room. He fidgeted with things on the dressing table, played with the tassel on the blind. He had a reassuring smile re
ady for her when their eyes met, but when he looked at her unobserved his face wore an expression of acute anxiety.

  Above the treetops, in the translucent green sky he saw the pale curve of the new moon. He said:

  “There’s the new moon, little one! It’s a good omen!”

  “Oh, oh,” she said. “I must wish on it! But don’t let me see it through glass! Open the window.”

  He opened it and the cold air came in on her. There had been a fresh fall of snow. Every twig bore its fragile burden of whiteness. She placed herself sideways in the window. “I must see it over my right shoulder!” He took her head in his hands and turned it so that she faced the new moon across her shoulder. He pressed his fingers against her head, and a well of tenderness rising in him constricted his throat, blinded his eyes with tears. She opened hers.

  “Now,” he urged, “wish quickly! I must not let you take cold.”

  She fixed her eyes on the moon that looked no more than the paring from a silver apple, and murmured to herself— “Oh, let it come soon... More midnight, please, moon!”

  Piers put down the sash.

  “There,” she sighed. “Perhaps that will help! But I don’t feel as much like it as I did two hours ago.”

  “I wish you hadn’t set your mind on such an idiotic thing,” he said. But, in spite of himself, he was influenced by her. Then, there was the anxiety to have it all over. He counted the hours till midnight. “Try to eat something, to please me!” He brought a plate on which was a thin piece of bread and butter. He cut it into small bits and fed them to her. She held up her mouth like a young bird for the morsels. As he put the bits of bread into her mouth and saw the confiding look in her eyes he thought—“I didn’t feel like this when Mooey was born... She must be going to die.”

  They could hear Mooey and Patience laughing and running in the passage. She had been brought to spend the day with him.

  “Do those kids annoy you?” asked Piers. “Where the dickens is that Alma Patch? She ought to be minding them.”

  “Bring them in here for a moment. I’d love to see them.”

  He opened the door of the bedroom and the two came running in side by side with the air of having intended to do this particular thing at this particular moment. They had been having their tea in the kitchen. They wore their bibs, on which were buttery crumbs of toast. Patience carried a toasting fork.

  “I made toas’,” she cried. “I made my own toas’. And Mooey’s.”

  Mooey went to his mother and stood gravely by her knee. She laid her fingers among the soft rings of his hair.“Darling, would you like a baby sister?”

  “Yes.” He spoke emphatically, softly thumping on her knee with his shut fist. “She could fall downstairs.”

  “Oh, but she wouldn’t! You’d take care of her, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes. I’d pick her up and put her in a bastick.”

  “Patty, would you like a baby cousin, this very night?”

  Patience made her eyes enormous. “Oh, the darling! I’ll wide her on my pony!” She looked about the room. “Where is she? Patty wants to see her!”

  Pheasant said—“Open the window, Piers, and let the children wish on the new moon.”

  “Don’t be silly!” He patted her back. “It will only let in the cold and it will do no good—if that’s what you’re thinking of.”

  “One can never tell... Why, I’ve heard tell how, in the war, Kitchener or some other great general said—when he heard a battle had been won—’Somebody must have been praying!’ Just think of that! A great general and a battle! And this just the matter of a different birthday for my baby! Surely it might help!”

  To please her he opened the window. She turned the two little faces up toward the moon. “Now say after me—’I wish that the new baby may come before tomorrow...’” Obediently they lisped the words after her.

  “I don’t see anything religious in that,” observed Piers. “It’s purely pagan.”

  “I am tolerant,” she said sagely, “of all religions.”

  “Not only tolerant. You believe in them all.”

  Patience stabbed her toasting fork in the direction of the moon. “Patty wants the moon!” she cried. “Come down, moon, and be toasted!”

  “I’m not f’ightened,” said Mooey.

  Piers shut the window. Already the lower point of the moon had touched the treetops. She was fast sinking. Pheasant looked at Piers with a strange stare in her eyes. Then she uttered a cry.

  “Take them away! Oh, take them away from here!”

  Piers caught a child in each hand and hurried them from the room.

  But, five hours later, when he and his brothers and uncles were waiting below, the birth had not taken place. Pheasant had asked for an egg and was eating it...

  Finch stood by the window looking into the starless night while the others played a half-hearted game of bridge. How could Piers play cards when his girl lay in dreadful anticipation in a room above! He pictured himself in Piers’s position.

  He pictured a girl whose tender flesh was soon to be torn to produce his flesh conceived in a moment of uncalculating passion... He should not be able to endure it. His spirit would bear every pang... He shrank from the thought that any woman should go through that because of him... No, let him go childless to his grave rather than that... Even though it were possible to bring his child into the world without pain, better far that no child should inherit the torment of his nerves. Had he ever been really happy? He could not remember it, even in childhood. There had always been that haunting of fear, that moving shadow of the unknown.

  He could discover just one pale star. The soul perhaps of this new Whiteoak waiting to descend, when the moment came, into the troubled body.

  Nicholas was dealing and he said:

  “I remember well twenty-two years ago tonight. We sat at this very table playing cribbage—Ernest and I—your father walking the floor. We were waiting for young Finch to arrive. And he was tardy enough about it.”

  “Philip was very nervous,” said Ernest. “I remember that when we gave him a glass of rum and water, to quiet him, the glass rattled in a quite alarming manner against his teeth... Poor Mary was suffering greatly.”

  Piers held his hand above the table. “Look at that. Steady enough, eh?”

  “Yes,” agreed Ernest, “but all is not over upstairs.”

  “Pheasant will be all right,” said Renny. “The doctor is with her. And Mrs. Patch. Meg and Alayne in the next room.”

  Piers was examining his cards. “Alayne ought to be having this baby. It’s her turn,” he muttered.

  “We don’t all of us have families,” replied Renny. “I’ve responsibility enough as it is.”

  They played out the hand.

  Piers looked at his watch. Half past ten.

  “A year ago tonight,” observed Ernest, as he dealt, “we were in the midst of your birthday party, Finch.”

  Finch turned from the window. “It was a very different birthday from this. It seems years ago.”

  “You made a good speech that night,” said Renny. “You had everybody laughing.”

  Finch looked pleased. “I forget what I said. It was awful rot, I guess.”

  “No. It was very good. By the way, I met Mrs. Leigh and Ada in town today. They’re expecting Leigh and his wife next month. But you didn’t like her, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t like her.” He turned again to the window.

  “Play!” said Nicholas. His tone was testy because of the delay.

  Why had that name been spoken tonight? Why had that pale face, with its indrawn mouth, been introduced into his thoughts? It was there, outside the pane, looking in at him mocking, beseeching, by turn. It was of the figment of night. Of pale starlight. Of shadow darker than darkness. And from it issued that voice which would always trouble his soul, that voice sweeter than the sweetness of her violin.

  From above came a piercing cry Piers threw down his cards and ran up the stairs.<
br />
  At twenty minutes to twelve the new Whiteoak came weeping into the world. Meg brought the news down to them.

  She put her arms about Piers and kissed him. “A little son, Piers! Quite strong and well... And on your birthday, Finch!” She kissed him, too. “Many happy returns to you both, darling boys!”

  Piers said—“He did it, by the skin of his gums!”

  “Did what?”

  “Arrived on Finch’s birthday. Pheasant had her heart set on that.” His face was contorted. He was between laughter and tears.

  Nicholas hobbled up and down the room. “Well, well, this is good news! Another boy, eh? And on your birthday, Finch! A new Whiteoak. I remember how a year ago tonight we sat up till dawn in this room celebrating...” And he began singing in an undertone,

  “Zummer is icumen in.

  Sweetly sings cuckoo!”

  Piers’s head was hidden in the long maroon window curtain. His shoulders were shaken by sobs.

  The next day was Sunday. Just as breakfast was over, Wright brought a package addressed to Finch which he had got from the post office the night before. Wakefield carried it, with an important air, to Finch. “Wright is awfully sorry, Finch, that he forgot this last night. Whatever do you suppose it is?”

  He stood by expectantly while Finch undid it. It was a book, fresh from the press. Poetry by the look of it. Wake read the title— “New France, by Eden Whiteoak.” He wanted to take it in his hands, but Finch held him off. “No—let me see it first...”

  He took off the jacket. The cover was green with gold lettering, and there was a design of lilies. How well Eden’s name looked in the gilt letters. How jolly nice of him to have sent him this for his birthday! Finch had not known it was published yet. He raised the cover and looked inside. On the dedication page, he read—For Brother Finch.

  Wakefield read it, too. They looked at each other, stunned by the magnificence of it. Eden had dedicated his new long poem, which had taken him a year to write, to Finch! He was overcome. What had he done to deserve being singled out for such an honour. Eden... New France... For Brother Finch. God, life was terrific!