“Mooey, are you hurt?”
He covered his face with his hands. “No. I don’t know. Let me alone.” Anger flared in his voice. “why can’t I be left alone?”
Piers’s voice came from below. “what’s the matter up there? why doesn’t someone go to Mary?”
She, hearing his voice, instead of being comforted, cried in greater panic. Pheasant, closing the door on her eldest, hastened to her youngest. In the passage she met Philip. She caught him by the arm and begged: “Go to Maurice. Quickly. Keep the door shut. Don’t let Daddy know.”
He had been interrupted in listening to a war play on the radio and was a little cross. He stood, with knitted brow and pouting lips, staring at the prostrate form of his brother.
“Want any help?” he asked.
“No. Lemme alone.” The words came thickly. He wanted sleep. Nothing else but that.
“Dad’s back.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“Wouldn’t you like to go to bed?”
Maurice uncovered his face to give Philip a look of reproach. “Isn’t it possible,” he growled, “for me to have a lil peash? Tha’s all I ask. A lil peash.”
“But you can’t lie there all night.”
“Can’t I? Wait and shee.”
Christian now came into the room. Philip turned to him with relief. “He’s tight,” he explained, as though with that figure on the floor an explanation could be necessary.
“Put out light,” said Maurice. “Hurts my eyes.”
Christian squatted on his heels beside him. He said, “Look here, old fellow, you simply must get to bed. Let us help you.” He turned to Philip. “Take his other arm. Up you come!” They heaved him, first to a sitting position, then to his feet. They stood on either side of him, holding him up. They were sober, alert, anxious.
He looked doubtfully at the bed. “Don’ wanna go to bed,” he said. “Jus’wan’you fellows to get out.” Suddenly he was truculent. “Bring that blackguard Fitzturgis here. I’d like a word with him.”
“Tomorrow,” soothed Christian. “I’ll bring him tomorrow.”
They could hear Piers’s voice from the stairway. “Hullo! where is everybody?”
Then Pheasant calling, “I’ll be right down. I’ve been shutting the windows.” She put her head into Maurice’s room. “Is he all right?” she asked.
“Right as rain,” answered Maurice and lay down on the bed.
VIII
The Sister
SYLVIA FLEMING was met at the railway station by Adeline and Finch. She had looked about her anxiously, for though this station was not so overpowering as the one she had departed from, in New York, it was still as confusing as an anthill. She was anxious about her luggage. She was afraid that in the crowd she might not be discovered by whoever had come to meet her. As it was certain to be Maitland he would almost as certainly be late in arriving. As she pressed forward with the crowd she felt anger slowly rising against him. Although her health was again normal, she felt a tremor of nerves in this throng of strangers, in this strange city. Her eyes flew from face to face, searching for her brother.
Then she was discovered by Adeline, heard her name called and, wheeling, was face to face with the young girl and with Finch.
“Splendid,” cried Adeline. “I began to be frightened.” She embraced Sylvia, then released her to Finch. She had a proprietary air toward Sylvia. She looked on her as already a sister.
“You remember my Uncle Finch, don’t you? You met him once in Ireland, and he wasn’t very pleased with me that day, was he?”
She rattled on, asking questions, not waiting for an answer. At last they were able to disentangle themselves from the crowd, retrieve Sylvia’s luggage from the customs and put it into Finch’s new car. This car he regarded with pride and a little wonderment. Strangely enough he never could get used to owning things. As Adeline was impulsively possessive, so he was reluctantly so. Whether in material possessions or in human relations, it was his nature to stand back, partly in shyness, partly in a kind of self-protective aloofness.
Now it was Adeline who drew Sylvia’s notice to the excellence of the new car, to the glimpses of lake or farm. Possessively she searched Sylvia’s face for resemblance to Maitland. Saw how her skin was more delicate, her hair fairer, her lips more consciously self-controlled, her eyes less steady. But Adeline’s heart opened to receive Sylvia — the sister of her beloved — hersister. She wondered if Finch had noticed how Sylvia had improved in looks. She was quite lovely.
Finch was conscious only that Sylvia had the same effect on him that she’d had in Ireland. His brief encounter with her there had left the imprint on his memory of the fair crisply curling hair, the large blue eyes, the pointed chin, the extreme thinness. Her hands looked almost emaciated.
When the car drew up before Jalna, Adeline said, not having spoken as they passed through the green tunnel of the balsams and hemlock that bordered the drive, because always she felt that that was a dramatic moment, “Here we are!”
It was as though the conjurer, with a triumphant smile, had lifted the hat and exclaimed, “Here is the rabbit.”
She turned to see the effect of the disclosure on Sylvia — as though she had shown her in the brief glimpse the whole florid history of the family — as though she had put in motion the entire set of Whiteoaks, to display to this neCentenaryomer, who so soon would be almost one of them, all their individuality, charm and waywardness. To Adeline’s mobile mind all this was possible.
What Sylvia saw was a solid-looking brick house, with a stone porch, so enveloped in a Virginia creeper that its colour of a faded red could only here and there be glimpsed. But it was a house with an odd, knowing air, an air of enduring and endurance, as though it stood for an idea that would not soon die. And though the windows were open to the summer air, the curtains were drawn, as if those who lived under that roof would not willingly invite the intruding gaze of even the birds.
There were plenty of those about who scarcely took the trouble to fly more than a few yards away as the three alighted from the car and Adeline said, “Welcome to Jalna.”
It had been explained to Sylvia that Renny and Fitzturgis had gone to a place some distance away on important business. She was rather pleased to meet the family in relays. Now there were present only Alayne and Archer to greet her. He surveyed her with dispassionate interest.
He said, after the first interchange was over, “We used to be a large family, you know.”
“We still are,” Alayne said, almost apologetically, “but not all under the one roof. There are nearby three other houses where members of the family live.”
“I don’t quite live in mine yet,” said Finch.
Sylvia said, “I think it’s better not to have too many in the one house — I mean all mingling together as one family. Unless, of course, a very united family, as I know yours is.”
“How do you know?” asked Archer.
“Adeline has told me.”
“I don’t feel united with anyone,” said Archer.
Adeline gave him a quelling look. “You are, whether you like it or not,” she said. She then ordered him to help her carry Sylvia’s luggage upstairs. The two heavy suitcases were little impediment to their young strength. As they passed Nicholas’s room they saw Roma sitting there with him. In the room prepared for Sylvia Archer asked, “what is Roma doing there, I wonder?”
“Up to some of her tricks, I’ll bet. Probably she’s after money.”
“But she sat with him yesterday, too.”
“Then it’s more money.”
“He’d never give her money twice — so near together. There’s something sinister in it.”
“Goodness, you’re suspicious.”
“I’m observant. I’ve observed how it bores Roma to be with Uncle Nick. Now I enjoy being with him, yet he never gives me money.”
“You’re not a large-eyed appealing young girl.”
“Neither am I an orpha
n. There’s something in being an orphan.”
He spoke musingly and Adeline did not hear him. She was absorbed in the appointments of the room over which she had taken much thought. She felt that all must be welcoming and beautiful for Maitland’s sister. Consequently she had filled every available vase with flowers. In this room there was a small grate, on the mantelshelf of which she had arranged six vases, large and small, of flowers of all colours. This was to say nothing of two large earthen jars filled with sunflowers in front of the empty grate, the grate itself replenished with ferns. Vases of pansies, sweet peas, roses and nasturtiums were on the dressing table and windowsill.
Archer regarded these decorations pessimistically. “Is this Sylvia going to stay here long?” he asked.
“As far as I am concerned,” she returned, “Sylvia may stay forever.”
“Mercy!” said Archer.
Meanwhile downstairs it had been arranged that Finch was to drive Sylvia and Adeline to inspect the new house. Only the last touches had to be added and he was soon to remove to it. Sylvia was not tired and was, she said, all eagerness to see it. Adeline wanted Fitzturgis to be present when they went on a tour of Jalna.
The front door of the new house stood open. The wholesome Finnish woman who was to work for Finch by the day was polishing windows. He said, a little apologetically, to Sylvia, “It’s really not worth coming to see. It’s very small. But I’m rather proud of it. For some time I’ve wanted a place of my own near to Jalna.”
Sylvia exclaimed in admiration. Never had she seen a house like this — small indeed, but with such large window’s looking out into what seemed a forest of stately trees. And inside, everything so new, so fresh and spotless.
“It’s adorable,” she said. “How I love new houses, new furniture. I’m accustomed to things old and fusty. This has a different smell.”
“Jalna is not new,” said Adeline, “but it’s not fusty.”
“There is something so happy about a new house,” Sylvia continued. “No memories to torment one.”
“You begin to collect memories from the very day you move in,” said Adeline. “As for this one — memories will be coming right up through the floor because it is built where an old house stood.”
“Don’t,” said Finch. “I’d rather not think of that.”
Sylvia knew his wife had died. Now she asked, “Have you children?”
He looked vague, then said, “Yes. A small boy.”
“Is he like you?” Now she looked him full in the face, wondering what sort of small boy he had been. The face of the man was so sensitive, so marked by experience, she could not picture him as a child.
Adeline said, “Dennis isn’t at all like Uncle Finch. He’s not even musical.”
“what a pity! Not inheriting that talent, I mean. It’s wonderful to be talented.”
“Have you heard Uncle Finch play?”
“I’m sorry to say, no. I’ve been in Ireland since the war, and before that …”
“Tell the truth,” said Finch. “You’d never heard of me.”
“Oh, but I had.”
“Well,” said Adeline, “you will have the opportunity now. Have you played since you came home, Uncle Finch? Surely you have on this gorgeous piano.” She wanted to show him off, show the piano off.
He stood staring at it, drinking in the beauty of its form in sensuous anticipation. Untouched, awaiting his will, it appeared too massive, too beautiful for the small house. Even in its silence it dominated the house.
Adeline put an arm round each of the others. “what fun we three shall have together!” she said. “And Mait, too, naturally. Oh, I can scarcely believe that the long time of waiting is over. All happy things seem to be happening at once.”
“when is the wedding to be?” Sylvia asked.
“In a month.” A shadow crossed her face. “We are to have a double wedding. I didn’t much want that, but Aunt Meg and Daddy think it is best. And it will certainly save money. A double wedding. Roma and Norman. Maitland and me.” Now she smiled gaily, picturing the four of them, marching triumphant down the aisle. Then she remembered how Finch and Sylvia both had lost their mates. Her eyes grew misty in sympathy and she kissed first one of them and then the other.
She flew off then to investigate a step she heard, thinking it might be Fitzturgis. Finch said, “Adeline’s so completely happy, it makes one afraid for her.”
“I am afraid for her,” said Sylvia.
“You mean no one should take such felicity for granted?”
“I suppose I mean that it’s safer to expect trouble.”
“Adeline has it in her to make a man happy.”
“I love her,” said Sylvia, “more than any woman I have ever met — if you can call her a woman. She’s really still a child.”
Adeline returned then, having discovered Dennis outside. She led him to Sylvia. “This is Uncle Finch’s cross, Sylvia. Dennis, this lady is going to be your cousin. She is Maitland’s sister.”
“How do you do?” said Dennis, offering his square child’s hand. Then he added, “They’re back.”
“Maitland and Daddy? why didn’t they come over here? Do they know Sylvia has arrived?”
“Yes. They’re having a drink.” He took a turn up and down the room with an air of possession. He asked of Sylvia, “Do you like this room?” He looked up and down and around it, as though he had designed it, built the house. “I live here,” he said. “Want to see my room?” He was so small, so young, that they had to look at him — as at a kitten, a puppy. He went and touched one note on the piano. “This piano,” he said to Sylvia, “is a concert grand. My father is going to play on it. Would you like to hear him play?” He spoke as though at his bidding Finch would sit down at the instrument and perform. Yet he cast an uncertain sidewise glance at Finch, as if to anticipate dismissal.
He had it in a quick gesture. He went to the window and stood in an attitude of unconcern looking out at the tall old trees in their dense summer foliage, their greenness unrelieved by the bright colours of flower border or flowering shrub. In the fire that had destroyed the earlier house all these had been burned and the rubble of builders had choked the roots.
Adeline now felt that Sylvia had seen enough of Finch’s bungalow. Once she knew that Fitzturgis was at Jalna her impatient desire was to return there with Sylvia. She, on the contrary, would have lingered. The glimpse she had had in Ireland of Finch had crystallized into a vivid memory. He had the most arresting, the most changeful face she had ever seen. So she thought as she moved beside him from room to room. He was shy, reserved, sensitive, and she wanted to make him forget his shyness, break down his reserve, yet protect his sensitivity. She, who had but lately emerged from a long illness of the nerves, sensed in Finch someone who had suffered as she had.
Finch drove them back to Jalna. (“We should have walked back through the ravine, Sylvia,” Adeline had cried, “but for your nylons. The brambles would have done them in.”) Dennis came with them, but Finch returned to his bungalow. “You’d better stay here,” he had said to the child and had added: “I must be alone. You understand — alone.”
On the way upstairs they discovered Fitzturgis and Roma sitting together on the window seat of the landing. They did not hear the two girls approaching till they were halfway up the stairs. Fitzturgis got to his feet, with a half-apologetic smile for Adeline and a “Hullo, my dear,” to his sister. He kissed her cheek.
Roma slid from the seat and stood with childish unconcern, waiting to be introduced. When this had been done, with a certain abruptness, by Adeline, she turned to Fitzturgis. “You are back sooner than I expected. Did you know Sylvia had arrived?”
“The business was soon settled. Your father bought the horse,” he replied to the first question, and to the second, “Yes. I was told you and Finch had gone to meet her.”
Adeline looked at him steadily. She said, “I am taking Sylvia to the stables to see the horses. Do you want to come?”
<
br /> “Horses!” he ejaculated. “Good Lord — I’ve had enough of horses for one day.”
“Very well.” She turned away. “Come along, Sylvia.” She darted up the remaining stairs, temper in every movement of her lithe body.
Sylvia followed, a smile of amusement lighting her pale face. In her room Adeline asked, “Can I help you to unpack?”
“Thanks, but I shall just change into other shoes and unpack later. I haven’t much to unpack.”
“You’ll not need a lot of clothes here. We lead a country life. Why do you suppose Maitland wouldn’t come? Even if he has seen enough horses, he’s seen nothing of me today, and you not for weeks.”
“He’s a lazy dog. Surely you have discovered that, Adeline.”
Adeline said, with passion, “I don’t want to drag him about where he doesn’t want to go, but — to think he’d prefer …” She could not finish the sentence but bit her lip in anger.
“Look here,” said Sylvia, “if you’re going to start off by taking Maitland too seriously — why, I pity you.”
“whom should I take seriously if not the man I’m going to marry?”
“what I mean is, you must take him as you find him.”
Adeline’s eyes flashed. “Well, I find him very irritating at the moment.”
Sylvia had now changed into sturdy shoes. “I’m ready,” she said, and added, “Your cousin is very pretty, isn’t she?”
“I suppose so. I haven’t thought about her looks. To tell the truth, she hasn’t interested me. Now Patience — wait till you meet Patience!”
Passing the open door of Nicholas’s room they saw him and Archer engaged in a game of backgammon.
Fitzturgis and Roma were sitting on the window seat, but he now rose and said, “Well, I see you’re ready. So am I.”
“You stay here and rest. Sylvia and I are quite happy by ourselves. Aren’t we, Sylvia?”
Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna Page 92
