Renny wrung his hand. “Too bad I didn’t see you! But surely the walk from the station…” He left the sentence unfinished, looking anxiously into his brother’s face. He asked:
“You’ve been ill, haven’t you?”
Eden gave the shadow of a shrug. “Well, not exactly down on my back, but rather rocky. I may as well tell you that I haven’t a cent—or a job. If I had one, I’m not well enough to hold it.” An abrupt, harsh cough escaped him, and he added quickly:
“I wasn’t coming in. I was going over to Meggie’s to see if she’d have me for a bit.”
For a moment Renny did not speak. He drew back a pace from Eden and stood looking at his slender form against the background of the desolated road. Behind him the fallen trees, the young green foliage, bruised and broken. He had a horrible sense of foreboding. He said, with an effort:
“Of course, Meggie will be glad to have you. And Maurice, too. I’ll drive you over now. Have you any baggage?”
“It’s at the station. I thought I’d walk. I’d forgotten how far it is. God, what a mess they’re making of the road! It used to be pretty at this time of year.”
“Yes. But they’re letting our trees alone, I’m glad to say. Get into the car and I’ll have you at the Vaughans’ in time for dinner.”
Eden sank on to the worn seat with a sigh of exhaustion. Renny started the engine and the old car, with a preliminary lurch or two, bumped up the road toward Vaughanlands.
“What have you been doing with yourself?” asked Renny. “I haven’t heard anything of you for over a year. Young Finch wrote then that he’d met you in Paris.”
“Yes… I’ve been there, and in London.”
“What about that girl—Minny Ware?”
Eden laughed easily. “Oh, she and I parted—quite amiably. Boredom on my side. A rich Jew on hers. He was fond of music and he fell in love with her voice.”
“Hm… Well, I’m glad you separated.”
“Perhaps. But I shouldn’t be in this state if Minny were with me. She always took good care of me—saw that I went to bed in decent time—fed me well—when she could manage it. I haven’t had what I should to eat lately.” He spoke lightly, but the sight of his thin knees, the thin hand lying on the knee, pierced Renny. He muttered:
“Why didn’t you come home before?”
“I had a job on a newspaper in Paris—for a while. Then I lost that, and—Minny Then I went over to London. I did some writing, but it was hard to sell things. I had pretty uncomfortable lodgings and I caught a chill; oh, I don’t know—everything went wrong, and how could I come home without the money for my passage?”
“You know I would have sent it.”
“Good old fellow! How are things with you?”
“I’m just hanging on. Times are rotten. Nobody wants to buy horses.”
“And Alayne?”
Eden succeeded in making his tone casual but Renny reddened. “She’s all right. She’s got a child, you know.”
“Yes, I heard. Good for Alayne. The image of you, Finch says.”
“More like Gran… When did you see Finch?”
“Just before I sailed. He dug up the money for my passage. He has just come to the last of Gran’s legacy—but he’ll get on. He’s attracting attention in London. I heard him play in his recital there. I was proud of him. He’d been frightfully nervous before it but he didn’t show a trace when he played. There were two musical critics behind me. They said such nice things about him that I couldn’t restrain myself. I turned round at the end and told them that I was his brother. He composes too. Has an idea for an opera in his head. Queer stuff. But, I believe, good. As I have said before, Finch is the flower of our flock.”
Renny looked gratified, but sceptical. He said:
“Wake’s coming on. You’ll be surprised when you see him. He’s as tall as you are. Has almost no trouble with his heart now. He’s just got his first dinner jacket.”
“Does he write any poetry now?”
“Not a line!” Renny’s voice had a jubilant ring.
Eden gave a short bitter laugh. “He’ll be popular with his family, then.”
“Oh, poetry is all right. But I don’t think too much of it is good for a young fellow… Have you been writing any lately?”
“Not a line!” He imitated Renny’s tone, but this was lost on his elder, who enquired:
“How is Finch? Has he put any flesh on?”
“He’s looking tired out. He spoke of coming home for a rest.”
“We’ll be glad to see him.”
The car had turned in at the Vaughans’ gate and now drew up before the door. It was wide open, and at this moment their sister appeared inside, carrying an armful of pink peonies.
She was like a peony herself, full-bosomed, fragrant, exhaling feminine sweetness. She smiled as she saw Renny, looked startled when she became aware of Eden’s presence, ran rather heavily down the steps and threw an arm about his neck. They kissed repeatedly.
“Oh, my dear boy, how ill you look! But I’m so glad to see you! It seems such ages! Why didn’t you tell me he was coming, Renny?”
“Because I didn’t know myself.” He added, with a sardonic smile that brought out a resemblance to Nicholas: “He has a way, you know, of going and coming without letting his family know.”
Eden, feeling a boy again in Meg’s presence, looked sulky.
She said, with a plump arm still around him:
“Never mind! We’ll go straight in and I’ll have places laid for you. You’re just in time for dinner.”
She led them into the comfortable sitting room, bright with flowered chintz. A canary sang noisily; a cat purred in the most comfortable chair; a raucous female voice declaimed culinary recipes from the radio. Renny flicked a finger sharply against the wires of the cage, pushed the cat from her nest, and turned off the radio. His sister watched him tolerantly. She said:
“I wasn’t listening-in. But the noise encourages birdie. And it intimidates the cat. It’s so useful in that way.”
Six-years-old Patience came running in. She had her mother’s smile and her father’s grey eyes. She clambered to Renny’s knee, hugging him closely. He kissed her demonstratively, and asked:
“Do you know who that is?”
She stared dubiously at Eden, who did not like children.
“That’s Uncle Eden,” said Renny.
“Aren’t you going to give me a kiss?” asked Eden.
She went to him gravely and they kissed without enthusiasm. Then she flew back to Renny’s knee.
Meg said—“I must go and see about the dinner. Oh, it is so nice to have you!”
When she had gone Eden asked:
“Does she eat a decent meal now or does she still live on snacks?”
“She’s the same old Meggie. Little trays—scones and honey—bread and jam—pots of tea. They set a rotten table.”
“We do not!” exclaimed Patience.
“Don’t be cheeky! And don’t tell your mother I said that or I’ll skin you alive.”
She looked momentarily subdued, and Eden remarked:
“I hope they won’t starve me.”
“Meggie will delight in feeding you up. She was wonderful with young Finch that time he was ill.”
Eden said maliciously—“Oh yes, the time he tried to drown himself.”
Renny scowled and looked at the child.
She said defensively—“I’m not going to tell.”
He hugged her to him and burst out laughing.
Maurice Vaughan came into the room. He had heard from his wife of Eden’s arrival. With the greying of his hair, his complexion had become clearer. He had put on flesh. He and Meggie were a solid pair.
After shaking hands with Eden he gave Renny an only half-concealed look of foreboding.
Eden said—“You’re looking well, Maurice. You fellows are so beastly healthy. It’s rather hard lines that I should have inherited my mother’s weakness.”
“You’d be all right,” said Renny, “if you’d take care of yourself.”
“It’s the proper thing for poets to be consumptive, isn’t it?” observed Maurice.
Meg returned to the room, beamed at her brothers and daughter and frowned slightly at her husband.
“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” she said, and seated herself on the arm of Eden’s chair and stroked his hair. “The same beautiful hair, Eden. Do you notice how grey Maurice has grown?”
“Yes. I suppose you’ve had something to do with that, Meggie?”
She answered with conviction—“He never got a grey hair on my account.”
“He certainly looks well fed.”
Patience wriggled on her uncle’s knee. “Daddy,” she said plaintively, “I don’t want to be skinned alive!”
“Be a good girl then,” said Daddy.
“The remarks she makes!” exclaimed Meg. “Sometimes I’m almost afraid for her, she’s so deep.”
“Don’t take any notice of what she says,” said Renny, “that’s the best way.”
“But fancy her having ideas like that in her little head!”
Eden turned to Maurice. “They’ve been making a shambles of the road, haven’t they?”
“I only wish,” returned Maurice in a low tone, “that the road had been widened in this direction. I’d have been glad of the compensation for my land and trees.”
But Renny overheard him and broke in, heatedly:
“I’m ashamed to hear you say such a thing! Better starve than do that!”
Maurice gave his rather hangdog laugh. “Well, it looks as though we’d starve in any case. My dividends have dropped almost to zero.”
“It’s a mercy,” cried Meg, “that Finch holds the mortgage on our place or we might be turned out.”
“He is coming home,” said Eden. “Perhaps that is his object.”
“Never! Finch would never turn his only sister out of her home!”
She had no sense of humour. The three men looked at her kindly. Maurice said:
“Finch is a good fellow. I can’t say that I quite understand him. But—as Meggie says—he’s kind-hearted.” He sat in silence a moment, tapping his teeth with his nails, obviously trying to say something that he hated to say.
At last he got it out. “Meg and I have been thinking that it would be a good idea if we’d subdivide some of our property into building lots. Put up some bungalows. People are anxious to get out of the city. I think there must be lots of people who would be glad to sell their houses and move into nice little bungalows where taxes are low and they could have a bit of garden.” All the while he spoke he fingered the leather bandage he wore on the wrist that had been shattered in the War.
Renny set Patience on her feet.
He glared at his brother-in-law, his eyes showing white around the brown iris. “You’re not in earnest!”
“Absolutely. Why not?”
“You know very well why not. You’re not quite a fool.”
Maurice’s face reddened. “It’s all very well to talk. But what are you going to do about it? We’ve got to live.”
“If you’re hard up I’ll lend you money.”
“Where will you get it? I don’t want to be inquisitive but—well, I thought you were pretty hard up yourself.”
“I am. But I’ll not stand seeing the old properties cut up.”
“This won’t affect Jalna.”
“Don’t talk rot! Of course it will affect Jalna. What sort of people are coming into those bungalows?”
“I’d see that the right sort came.”
“Don’t deceive yourself! You’ll plant a shack town at our door.” He got up and strode about the room.
“That can’t be helped,” said Meg fiercely. “We must have money. We can’t get on any longer without it. I economise in every way possible. I set a very very plain table…”
“Oh, no, no, no!” interrupted Patience, and burst into tears.
Meg gathered her child to her breast. “Whatever is wrong, my darling?”
“I don’t want to be skinned alive.”
Meg faced her brothers in her maternal splendour.
“You see. The child is unnerved. She knows that something is hanging over us,—like the sword of Damocles.”
Eden gave an hysterical laugh.
“You may laugh,” said Renny, “but this is a serious matter. I could not have believed that Maurice would suggest such a thing. And for you to back him up in it, Meggie! Why, it is horrible. Gran would turn over in her grave.”
“You talk,” said Maurice, “as though I were subdividing Jalna.”
“You are our nearest neighbour. Your people and my people have always kept up the old traditions.”
“What good does it do us to hang on to land that brings in nothing? My God, man, we’ve got to move with the times!”
“You can’t make me believe that the times are moving forward. They’re just rotting.”
“That may be true, but—I must have money.”
“I wonder,” said Meg, “if Finch could help us.”
Eden answered—“No chance of that! He’s sucked dry.”
Meg shook her head sorrowfully. “I think it is terrible the way Finch has gone through Gran’s money. I could not have believed he would be so extravagant.”
“So generous, you mean,” retorted Eden. “He has given most of it away.”
Meg ignored this. “If only the money had been left to me—her only granddaughter—it would never have been frittered away.”
Renny interrupted—“That has nothing to do with what we are discussing.”
“It has everything to do with it! If Gran had left me her money it would not be necessary for us to sell our land.”
Maurice added—“And we must think of the youngster’s future. If I had some rents coming in, things wouldn’t be so bad.”
Renny said—“Meg talks of selling, and you of renting. Which is it?”
“Well—our plans are indefinite.”
There was something aloof in Maurice’s voice—something of a cold withdrawal into himself that made Renny turn away. He picked up his hat, which he had thrown on a couch, and went toward the door.
“Why, you’re not going!” exclaimed Meg.
“You must stay for dinner,” added Maurice, halfheartedly. He shrank from the thought of a meal dominated by Renny’s arrogant opposition to his project.
“I must go. I’ve a man coming out to see a horse at two o’clock.” The same formula was always the ready excuse on his lips. And as he uttered it he moved, with something of the restiveness of a nervous horse, away from the others. He gave Meg a look in passing and she followed him to the porch.
“Eden is in a pretty bad way,” he said in a low tone. “He needs a rest and lots of good food. I had to bring him here to you—well, I couldn’t have taken him to Jalna, you know.”
She clasped his arm in her hands. “I will nurse him back to health. No matter what happens he shall lack nothing. Thank goodness, we have quantities of Jersey milk.”
“Good. I’ll send some stout and sherry. And I can give you some money next week. You’ll need it.”
“No, no. You must not. Tell me—where is Minny?”
“They’ve separated. I think that’s a good thing. He’s very thin, isn’t he?”
“Yes, the poor boy! But don’t worry! I’ll look after him. Don’t let us worry about anything!”
He smiled rather grimly but kissed her with affection, and, after half a dozen attempts, induced his car to start homewards.
IV
FINCH RETURNS
TWO MONTHS LATER Finch Whiteoak came out of the house after having eaten his breakfast in company with Wakefield on the first morning after his return from abroad. He slowly crossed the lawn, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, drinking in the familiar scent of the air with closed eyes, so that it might permeate his entire being, in the fiery darkness beneath his lids. “I am here,” he
thought, “home again, where the very air has a smell all its own. A dry, sweet stinging smell that tickles my nostrils. Every foot of this lawn has been stepped on a thousand times by every one of us. No matter where I’ve been or what I’ve seen, this place has gone with me. I could not uproot myself from it if I tried. I’ve seen places so much more beautiful, so much more spectacular, that this is tame compared with them, and yet it is so dramatic to me that the rustle of the trees makes me shiver with excitement, the neighing of that stallion in the stable is like a peal of bells to me, the sight of Rags’ shiny coat with the fringed cuff makes me want to cry. I’ll bet anything that I can walk straight across the lawn with my eyes shut and pick a golden-brown zinnia from the middle of the border.” He walked on without wavering, made a scallop to avoid the great balsam tree, and stopped just at the edge of the grass. He bent and stretched out his hand and closed it on a crisp flower-head. His fingers slid down the stalk. He broke it off and opened his eyes. He held a golden-brown zinnia with a crimson heart.
He was laughing when he heard steps on the grass behind him. He turned and saw Wakefield.
“What are you doing?” Wake asked.
“Passing a test. I came down the lawn with my eyes shut and picked a golden-brown zinnia.”
“Brilliant youth,” returned Wake, sitting down on the grass. “Here’s your reward!” He held up a harvest apple, smooth as yellow silk, with one green leaf still clinging to its stem.
Finch took it and dropped to the grass beside his young brother. He sniffed the spicy sweetness of the apple, bit into its white flesh, and said:
“Lord, I had forgotten what an apple could be!”
Wakefield looked at the hand and wrist that held the fruit. “You’re very thin,” he observed. “Thinner than I remember you. And Eden came back in an even worse condition. It’s strange. I always envy you fellows who go abroad, and yet you come home—after all your adventures and your triumphs—looking half-starved.”
“It is queer,” agreed Finch. “But I have worked frightfully hard and it’s natural to me to be thin. It’s not natural to Eden. I feel worried about him.”
“Oh, you mustn’t worry now. He has picked up wonderfully. I had a talk with him yesterday and he was looking awfully handsome, with a most beautiful colour—as fit as can be. He was wondering if those rich friends of yours, the Leighs, could help him get a job.”
Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course Page 46
