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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “What’s that?” cried Ernest, shocked.

  “It’s Finch,” answered Renny.

  “What have you been doing to him?”

  “He’s crying about Auntie.”

  Nicholas hit the table beside him with the flat of his hand.

  “Explain!”

  Ernest cried—“About whom? Auntie! Augusta! Has anything happened my sister?”

  “Oh, Uncle Ernie!” wailed Meg, and ran in and threw herself on his breast.

  Nicholas heaved himself out of his chair and stood tall and commanding.

  “Tell me,” he said, in a hollow voice, “is Augusta dead?”

  “A stroke,” answered Piers.

  “And did not survive it?”

  “I’d a cable,” said Renny, “last night. From the Vicar. She’s gone.”

  Ernest began to weep, clinging to Meg, who patted his back as though he were a child.

  Nicholas ejaculated incoherently—“My sister dead! Gussie dead! Poor—poor Gussie! Why—I can’t believe it!” He looked about him bewildered. “Why, she was here such a little time ago! A cablegram, you say, Renny? May I see it, please?”

  Renny took it from his pocket and handed it to him. Nicholas, with a shaking hand, adjusted his glasses on his nose and read.

  “Let me see it too!” quavered Ernest.

  Nicholas handed it to him. Ernest peered at it through his fast-flowing tears. He could not make out the words and handed it back to his brother mournfully shaking his head. He said:

  “To think of it! And I was going to write to her today! Poor, dear Augusta! Thank God, she did not suffer long!”

  “I suppose,” said Nicholas, “that you have all known of this since last night.”

  “All but Finch and Wakefield,” answered Renny. “I told them before breakfast.”

  “And Finch broke down! Poor lad. Go upstairs, Wake, and bring him down! He must not be left up there alone.”

  “Yes, yes,” echoed Ernest, “bring Finch down! He was very fond of his aunt and he will miss her sorely. Poor dear Augusta! I should not feel so badly if I had got my letter off to her.”

  “She’d not have been there to read it,” objected his brother.

  “I know, I know, but I’d have felt happier in my mind, just the same.” He wiped his eyes on his large silk handkerchief.

  “That’s very foolish of you, Ernest. You were a very good brother to Augusta, and this is no time for futile regrets.” Nicholas took out his own handkerchief and blew his nose.

  Wakefield had gone upstairs to Finch. The doctor advanced cautiously across the hall to the door of the library Renny met him with mingled relief and bewilderment.

  “Do you need my help?” asked the doctor.

  “Not yet! And I don’t believe we shall! They’re splendid. They’re wonderful. They’re thinking of others more than themselves. They’re wanting Finch brought down. He has rotten nerves, that boy!”

  Ernest and Nicholas came forward to greet the old doctor. He shook hands with them and murmured his sympathy.

  “I had a great admiration for Lady Buckley,” and he recalled an incident of her kindness to him.

  Her brothers were pleased and joined in extolling her virtues.

  Piers said to Alayne—“This is just what I expected. But Renny is always looking for scenes.”

  “Well, I suppose he has good reason to.”

  “I knew they would feel it terribly. But they’ve lots of character. They’re not weaklings—like Finch.”

  “You’re not fair to Finch! You never have been!”

  “Perhaps. I don’t understand him. But I think I do understand my uncles, and I expected them to show a certain amount of self-control. Thank God, they’re showing it!”

  Nicholas and Ernest were indeed controlled though their faces were white and drawn. They escorted the doctor to the door and, when they returned to the library, Piers had brought a small glass of brandy for each of them. They took it gratefully. After a few sips, Ernest remarked:

  “She seemed so bright before she left Jalna! I can’t think what can have brought this on. In her last letter she spoke of walking to the village and back.”

  Renny asked hesitatingly—“Was her last letter—written after—she had heard about the mortgage?”

  “No—she had not heard about it then. But she must have had Nick’s letter telling of it in a day or two.”

  “And you haven’t heard from her since?”

  “No, not since. It would be a blow to her.” He exchanged a look with Nicholas.

  “I wonder—” Renny began but could not go on.

  Nicholas said—“If you’re worrying, Renny, because you think that news brought a stroke on Augusta, you’re quite wrong. No—she was too well-balanced for that. As a matter of fact, she complained to me, in an earlier letter, of sensations. I was more than a little anxious about her.”

  “Yes,” agreed Ernest, “it would be wrong to blame yourself for that. Augusta’s time had come and it is not for us to harrow ourselves with speculations.” He laid a kind hand on Renny’s shoulder.

  Alayne looked at them wonderingly. One never knew what storm would sweep them apart or drive them together!

  Wakefield returned to the room.

  “Finch would not come down,” he said. “He’s quiet now. He’s sitting by his window.”

  Nicholas refilled his glass. Colour returned to his lips. He said:

  “There will be a lot of things to attend to. Someone will have to go to England at once.”

  “Oh, I wish I could go,” cried Wakefield eagerly. “I’ve never been anywhere in all my life, and this would be a wonderful opportunity for me.”

  “Your turn will come later,” said Nicholas.

  “I could go,” offered Piers.

  “I don’t think,” said Ernest, “that you would know enough of my sister’s affairs to be of any use whatever.”

  “The idea!” chimed in Meg. “As though you knew the very first thing about closing an estate! I am the only niece. Maurice and I will go.”

  “I like that,” said Piers. “What the devil do you or Maurice know of such a thing?”

  “Come, children,” interrupted Ernest reprovingly, “this is no time for quarrelling. As for your Uncle Nicholas and myself, we should not consider shirking our responsibility for a moment.”

  “Do you mean to say,” cried Meg, “that you will go.”

  “Certainly we shall,” said Nicholas.

  “But who will go to look after you? You are ill and Uncle Nick’s leg is so bad.”

  “We shall manage. I’ll look after Ernie and he’ll look after me.”

  “What about the expense?” Piers asked, but no one heard him. They were all talking at once.

  It was a strange day. Mourning had returned to Jalna, not in pomp and mournful pride as in the passing of a century-old life, not in anguish as in cutting off a young life, but in ghostly bewilderment, in uncertain certainty. For, while they knew Augusta to be dead, they knew nothing of her suffering, or whether or not she had experienced a moment of conscious pain. Her figure rose before them, as they had last seen her, upright, firm in her complicated clothing, her expression composed, no shrinking from death distorting her dignity. But she was gone, her spirit lost in the mist, while they (her brothers) were safe in the dear light of common life. The shock of her sudden departure had shaken them to their depths, but it had freed them from the creeping depression of the last months. It had turned their thoughts outward instead of inward. Through their tears they saw things the clearer. They had lost Augusta. They pressed closer to the breathing kin about them. Maurice and Meg remained for the day. All day, Alayne thought, they seemed to be eating, and drinking tea, and recalling the past and discussing the impending journey to England. Renny and Nicholas sat close beside each other. Ernest climbed the two flights of stairs to the attic and brought down Finch and made him eat. Piers and Wakefield did not work. Adeline and Patience, hilarious, ran up and dow
n the house, calling to each other.

  Boney, troubled by a growth of new feathers, scratched himself constantly.

  XXXII

  PRELUDE TO FLITTINGS

  TWO DAYS after the news of Augusta’s death the post was handed to Renny and he discovered among the letters one addressed to Nicholas in Augusta’s handwriting. He was alone in his office and he laid it on the desk in front of him with a feeling of dismay. This was the first letter she had written to Jalna since hearing of the mortgage. What might there not be in its pages to distress his uncles, to harden their hearts against him? The writing was so natural, in its long spidery slant, that he had a moment’s disbelief in her death. Surely she must be there, at Nymet Crews, thinking perhaps—“Today my letter arrives at Jalna. Today Renny will hear what I think of his actions.”

  He took the letter in his hand and turned it over, examining the sealing wax with which it was stuck. He could not give it to Nicholas, and yet—how cruel to deny him the last words of his sister! He hesitated, then, making his decision, took up a paper-knife and slit the envelope. Inside there were twelve closely written pages. He looked at them but would not allow himself to read them. He turned to the last page and read at the bottom—“Love and kisses to all from your— Ever affectionate sister—AUGUSTA,” and beneath the signature, in clinging, childish habit, she had made a row of crosses to represent the kisses. Doubtless her lips had pressed those wavering marks. Renny raised the paper to his lips and so alone garnered them.

  He went then to the small stove where the fire had not yet been lighted, and, removing the lid, thrust in the letter, and touched a match to it. It flared brightly, made the sound of a hurrying wind and its char flew up the chimney.

  He sat down again and lighted a cigarette. His mind went back over the preceding day when their lawyer had brought Augusta’s will to Jalna and read it in the presence of the family. It had been a just will, he thought. Augusta had left her income, amounting to twelve hundred pounds a year, equally between her brothers. Lyming Hall was also to be theirs. At their death the house was to be sold and the estate divided in equal portions among her nephews and her niece. Her personal belongings had been bequeathed, in a manner showing real understanding of the tastes of each, to Meg, Alayne, and Pheasant. Yes, it had been a just will, and no one could complain of it.

  If Nicholas and Ernest had harboured any fear that the income might not be wholly theirs, they had been relieved of that, and if they had had hopes that the principal might be left to them direct, their disappointment was quickly lost in the thought that they were now independent men, free to do as they liked for the rest of their days without thanks to anyone. The effect on them of this knowledge was remarkable. No grief could quite beat down the wings of their exhilaration. They could not rest. They could not stop talking. They roamed from room to room examining things they had not looked at for years. They turned out unused drawers and from the contents made presents of no value to their nephews. Today Wakefield was in town procuring tickets from the steamship office for them. They were to sail within the week.

  Sarah Leigh had arrived at Jalna. It was arranged that she and Finch, Wakefield and Pauline, should take a motor trip to Quebec. Pauline would visit her grandparents there and Wakefield experience, for the first time, the adventure of travel. They were to set out the day after the departure of Ernest and Nicholas. All was confusion and excitement at Jalna.

  Finch put his head in at the door of the office. He said:

  “They’re having lemonade and cake on the lawn. They sent me over to find you and Piers. It’s awfully hot, isn’t it?” He held Sarah’s pug, which had followed him, under his arm. Renny gave an amused grin at the contrast in the two visages facing him.

  “You needn’t grin at him,” said Finch, rather huffily. “He is one of the most intelligent dogs I have ever known.”

  “Lap dog,” sneered Renny.

  “Not a bit of it. I’m carrying him because I’m afraid one of the horses might kick him.”

  When they were outside he set down the pug, which at once importantly led the way. Piers had preceded them.

  It was Indian summer and thick yellow sunshine lay sultry on trees and grass. The grass was brown and the trees blazed, bronze and scarlet. The Virginia creeper was in a crimson cloak about the house. Zinnias and nasturtiums and fiery salvia challenged each other in the borders. Chairs and tables had been carried on to the lawn and there the family was established for the afternoon. The Vaughans were there and Pheasant had brought her three children. Mooey sat on the knee of Nicholas, drinking lemonade from a green glass in which bobbed a bright red cherry. He was growing into a charming boy, thoughtful and sweet-tempered. His younger brother lay on his back staring up at the sky, his fair hair spread in a halo against the grass, while the six-months-old Philip snuggled on Ernest’s arm, their eyes vying with each other in forget-me-not blue. Patience had ridden over on the pony which had once been Wake’s. There was a tear in the seat of her riding-breeches and her hair was tumbled. As she ate her cake she rhythmically struck her leg with her riding-crop, the picture of carefree childhood.

  Against this highly coloured background the black suits of Nicholas and Ernest, Meg’s black dress, struck a sombre tone, but the faces of the wearers, though pensive, were not unhappy. A mellow undercurrent of affection buoyed up all the clan.

  When Renny and Finch appeared, Wakefield advanced to meet them, one arm embracing Sarah, the other Pauline. The two girls were now definitely a part of the family circle.

  Finch left Renny and joined the trio, drawn by Sarah’s smile. Pauline, too, was smiling at him, avoiding Renny’s eyes.

  Renny sat down beside Nicholas and began to talk, but his bright glance moved from one to another of the engaged couples. Wakefield—his boy, growing into a splendid fellow, tall, free-moving, brown as a hazelnut… Finch—returned to health, his cheeks filled out, his future assured… Sarah— well, she was a strange girl but he thought he understood her… Pauline—his eyes clouded as they rested on her, for he was not sure of her happiness, and between him and her rose the firm figure of Clara and the thought of her compassion and her surrender.

  Nicholas was saying—“Ernest and I went to say goodbye to Mrs. Lebraux this morning. It was the first time we had called there. But we thought we really should go, so that she would be assured that we harbour no ill-feeling.”

  Renny was immensely pleased. “Did you really? Well— I’m glad of that… The place doesn’t look too bad, does it?”

  “It looks very nice indeed. We were agreeably surprised. And she has made the house so very nice inside. As for the fox-runs—they are quite inconspicuous.”

  “She has worked very hard there.”

  “She has indeed! She’s not an attractive woman. She’s not particularly well-bred. Neither she nor Lebraux were what I should call out of the top drawer, but—there’s something very pleasant about her—something quite apart from feminine charm that makes her very companionable. We enjoyed our call and stayed longer than we had intended to.”

  Renny leaned forward and dropped his cherry into Mooey’s glass.

  “Another cherry for you, old fellow.”

  Nicholas beamed. He turned to Maurice. “Mooey is developing wonderfully,” he said.

  Maurice regarded his namesake without enthusiasm. He paid little attention to his own child, toward whom Meg had an aggressively possessive air, and to Pheasant’s children still less. In the midst of the family he addressed almost all his remarks to Meg—as though he did not see enough of her at home! Now he enquired of her:

  “Would it be best to have the things your aunt left you sent on to you at once or brought back when your uncles return?”

  Meg asked Nicholas—“How long shall you stay in England?”

  “Till next spring. We could not exist long away from Jalna.”

  “All those we love are here,” added Ernest, casting his eyes about the circle, and then kissing the baby.

&nb
sp; Nicholas said—“We must find a good tenant for Lyming, if possible. I wonder if you’d like to spend your honeymoon there, Finch?”

  Finch had come to the table for a piece of cake. He shook his head. “No, thanks. I should not like a honeymoon there.”

  Piers, from where he lay on the grass, looked up at him curiously. He asked:

  “When is it to come off?”

  “In the spring. I’m doing concerts all winter.”

  “I must be back to give Sarah away!” cried Nicholas.

  “I think,” said Meg, “that I shall have my things brought then. I’m so glad that Aunt Augusta left me her pearls. They go well with my skin.”

  “And don’t forget the cameos for Pheasant,” put in Piers.

  Meg was content that Pheasant should have the cameos. “They will look very nice on her,” she said graciously, “and they’re coming in again.”

  Maurice asked his wife—“What about the sealskin coat?”

  “Oh yes!” cried Meg, “don’t forget the coat. It is real seal—even if it is old-fashioned—and certainly more valuable than the watch and the Indian shawl that Gran left me!”

  “By the way,” asked Maurice, “where are those things? I never see them?”

  “Yes,” said Piers, looking full at her, “where are they?”

  Meg coloured. “Put away. I cannot use them.”

  “But where?” insisted Piers.

  “Is that your affair?” she cried hotly.

  “I don’t believe they’re in your house.”

  “They are!

  “Be careful, Meggie! You’re an awful liar!”

  “How dare you?”

  Finch growled—“Let her alone!”

  “You tell us, then,” said Piers.

  “What is this all about?” demanded Nicholas.

  “Have you dared to part with my mother’s bequest to you?” exclaimed Ernest, peering at her accusingly.

  “Don’t drop my little baby!” cried Pheasant.

  “Here, take it then.” Ernest spoke testily. “Let me get to the bottom of this matter.”

  Pheasant took little Philip and cuddled him.