Adeline said, “We can soon get on with our weddings now. I’ve asked Mummy and she thinks in a couple of weeks. Of course, they’ll have to be very quiet.”
Roma tossed up two mulberries and caught them.
“I may as well tell you,” she said, “that I have broken off my engagement to Norman.”
The affianced pair stared at her bewildered. Roma gave a little laugh of amusement. “You look as though something important had happened,” she said.
“I’ll bet it’s important to Norman,” said Adeline.
“He did take it rather hard.” Again she threw up the mulberries and caught them.
Adeline tried to think of something nice to say about Norman…. “His hair,” she said. “He always keeps it so beautifully groomed.”
“He will be no groom,” said Fitzturgis, “but still is perfectly groomed.”
“I don’t think this is a case for puns,” said Adeline. Looking very like her father, she demanded, “Roma, I want you to tell me this — did you break off your engagement before or after the legacy?”
Roma replied with simple, childlike sincerity, “Norman doesn’t interest me any longer.”
“That is not answering my question.”
Still sincerely Roma went on, “I’ve felt differently about him for some time. He seems shallow. He seems dull. He hardly ever smiles any more.”
“Answer my question,” repeated Adeline.
“I don’t think you ought to ask her that,” said Fitzturgis.
“I don’t mind telling,” said Roma. “I broke it off before. But I knew that Uncle Nicholas was leaving me money.”
“How could you know?”
“He told me, a few days before he died. I was alone with him for a few minutes and he told me.”
“So it’s all over between you and Norman,” said Fitzturgis.
“Yes. It’s all over.”
“I congratulate you,” said Fitzturgis.
“Now,” exclaimed Adeline, “it won’t be a double wedding after all!”
“No,” said Roma. “You can go right ahead without me.”
Dennis came from the direction of Vaughanlands and joined them. He squatted on his heels and said, “My father is going to order furniture for my bedroom right away. Then I shall go and live with him. He wants me there with him.” His greenish eyes shone beneath the blonde fringe of his hair.
“That will be fine,” said Fitzturgis.
“Yes,” agreed Dennis. “And I’m to inherit a lot of money, too, when I’m twenty-one.”
“Sez you,” observed Roma.
“But it’s true. He is,” said Adeline. “It comes from his mother.”
“what luck!” Roma sighed in envy. “How long have you known this, Dennis?”
“I heard my father and Uncle Renny talking of it this morning. I shall be able to do anything I want. I’ll buy a steam yacht, a racing car, and an island, and give them all to my father.”
Fitzturgis asked, “where is your father?” Certainly Finch had made himself scarce since their last interview. And Sylvia, poor girl, had seldom left her room, even was talking of returning to New York before the wedding.
“He has gone to Humphrey Bell’s. He told me to meet him there.” Now Dennis left them as swiftly and quietly as he had joined them. He passed through the little gate which led to the path into the ravine and stood a moment looking back at the group on the lawn, wondering what they were saying. Well, he had given them a surprise, shown them how important he was and what a lot his father thought of him. He trotted down the path, crossed the bridge, and mounted the opposite steep, with an air of bravado. His lips were compressed, his eyes coldly steady. He felt that he could look any man in the face.
But when he had passed through the bit of woodland and reached Humphrey Bell’s house a change came over him. There was no sign of life about the small house, but an empty packing-case stood on the verandah with some pieces of rather shabby luggage. Dennis stole up and examined these. On one trunk was a label with the name — Inigo Chase. Another, rather battered trunk, had C. Lebraux painted on it.
The door opened and Humphrey Bell appeared.
“Oh, hullo,” he said. “Do you want to see me?”
“No, thanks. I’m looking for my father. He asked me to meet him here.”
“Good. Come right in.” Humphrey Bell led him into his living room, and Finch was discovered, smoking a pipe by the open window. He said:
“I saw you coming, Dennis. Why did you follow me here?”
Suddenly deflated, left without an idea in his head, Dennis murmured, “I don’t know.”
Finch remarked in a complaining tone to Bell, “I don’t know what to make of him. He has the most extraordinary way of popping up at odd times — of looking as though he’d something important to say, and — having nothing to say.”
Bell asked Dennis, on a jocular note, “Come now. What important thing have you to say? Out with it.”
Dennis hung his head. “Nothing,” he murmured. He looked at the two men, beings of a world mysterious to him, of whose language he felt himself ignorant.
Finch’s pipe had gone out. Now, lighting it, he said between puffs, “My younger brother Wakefield was a precocious kid — always pushing in and trying to make himself appear impressive. But he was clever. This one …” Finch did not finish the sentence. He regarded his son with a puzzled frown. Dennis sat on a stool, his hands clasped between his knees.
From above came the sounds of furniture being moved about, voices loudly talking.
“I hope,” said Finch, “they’re not going to be noisy up there. That would be a nuisance for you.”
“They assure me they go early to bed. I do my writing late at night. Anyhow, I was forced to take someone into my house, and these people seem to be rather pleasant. I think I shall like them.”
“I used to know Mrs. Chase and her daughter,” said Finch.
“So she told me. The daughter is a nun. Mrs. Chase thinks a lot of your family.”
“She does, eh?”
“She says your family were mighty good to her.”
“It seems very strange to have her as a neighbour again,” said Finch.
“Think of me,” said Bell, “in a horsy atmosphere. I don’t know one end of a horse from the other.”
“You can count on her to mind her own business. She’s had a lot of trouble, but she inflicts her troubles on no one.”
Mrs. Chase now appeared at the door. She was a strongly made woman just past sixty. She was wearing slacks and a grey pullover. Her short hair, once fair, was mixed with white in such an odd fashion that in some lights it appeared as quite white, while in others it seemed blonde. Her face was in keeping with the oddity of her hair, for at times it looked tired and a little battered, but at others it showed a zest for life that time could not vanquish. It was the older face which she now presented.
“Oh, God,” she said, leaning against the frame of the door, “why did I come back to this house! Never stir up old memories, Mr. Bell. Let them lie mouldering where they belong.” Then she saw Finch and came to him with outstretched hand. “Finch Whiteoak!” she exclaimed. “How wonderful to see you again! And what a distinguished man you’ve become. I have two of your piano records. I like to listen to them because it makes me proud to recall how I knew you when you were a boy.”
“Thanks.” Finch gripped her hand in his strong nervous fingers. “You haven’t changed at all. Excepting your name. You’ve got married. I remember Mr. Chase. Is he as keen as ever about horses?”
“He thinks of nothing else.”
“Evidently he thought about you.”
“A little.” She now saw Dennis. “who is the little boy?” she asked.
“That’s Dennis,” said Finch, as though surprised to find him still there.
“And whose boy are you?” she asked, with her friendly smile.
“His,” answered Dennis, indicating Finch, with a possessive nod of the head. “W
e live together, in a new house.”
“He has a way,” said Finch, “of following me about.”
“And quite rightly,” she returned. “I’d follow you about if you were my father. Isn’t it wonderful, Dennis, to have such a brilliant father?”
“Is he?” asked Dennis. “I thought he just played on the piano.”
Clara was looking absently through the window into the trees. She seemed to be making up her mind as to what she would say next. But it was Finch who spoke.
“We have lately lost my Uncle Nicholas,” he said, as though imparting a piece of heavy news.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “what a distinguished-looking old gentleman! I always admired him.”
Dennis said, in his clear treble, “He left Uncle Renny a great deal of money. No one else got nearly as much.”
Finch strode across the room and took him by the collar. “Out you go,” he said, and put Dennis out through the door. When he returned he said, “That youngster has a disgusting habit of boasting — I can’t imagine why.”
“I think it’s quite natural at that age,” said Bell.
Mrs. Chase’s face was alight with interest. “I can’t think of any better news,” she exclaimed. “Your brother has always been so generous to others — it’s time he had a break.” She turned to her husband, who had come downstairs and now joined them. He was a sallow-faced thin man, with an habitually disgruntled expression. But it also was an intelligent face, and he could tell a humorous story with good effect. He was not sorry that he had married, but he was greatly surprised at himself and continued to be surprised by this woman’s presence in his life, while she now was as accustomed to him as to an old shoe. He remembered Finch and they shook hands.
“I have wonderful news,” his wife told him. “Renny Whiteoak’s uncle has left him a lot of money.”
Finch thought this remark was in rather bad taste. Mr. Chase greeted it with pessimism. “He’ll soon find ways of getting rid of it,” he said. “There’s not much object in having money in these days — what with taxes and the cost of living. I always have wondered how he managed to keep Jalna going, with such an expensive family and so many men about the stables. Has he been doing pretty well with his show horses?”
“Fairly well,” said Finch with some reserve.
“Does he ride much now?” asked Clara.
“As much as ever — and as well.”
“I have been two years in the West,” said Chase. “I’m out of touch with everyone here. We got married in the West,” and he nodded toward his wife. “She followed me out there — to marry me”
“Liar,” exclaimed Mrs. Chase. “I’d never heard of you till I met you in Calgary.”
“Well, I’m delighted to know of this legacy,” said Chase. “And so will my friend Crowdy be. You remember Mr. Crowdy?”
“I do indeed.” Finch remembered how Alayne had disliked these two horsy friends of Renny’s. He had a feeling, too, that she did not like Mrs. Chase. Well, it did not very much matter. They were not people who would intrude. But he wondered how Humphrey Bell would be able to put up with the loud-voiced pair and their friends.
Chase now exclaimed, “Here comes the master of Jalna. Gosh, I’m glad to see him.”
Clara Chase watched his approach through narrowed eyes as though at a bright light. “He’s not at all changed,” she said. She saw him bare-headed, his hair still thick, growing to a point on the forehead, red in the sunlight. She saw him lithe, narrow of hip, his back showing the droop of the horseman. She saw him as the man she had loved above all others in life. Now he was in the room and her hand was in his. She saw in his eyes a look half mischievous, half tender.
“Clara!” he exclaimed; then, shaking hands with Chase, he added, “You could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard the news.”
“Well,” said Chase, “we went about together till we’d said everything there was to say. We’d got used to each other, so we thought we might as well be married.” while making these prosaic remarks he was at the same moment giving a fond look to his wife.
“It’s wonderful luck,” said Renny, “having you two as neighbours.” He looked at them impartially.
“Thanks,” said Chase; “and, speaking of luck, our congratulations to you.”
“Me? what for?”
“Your brother tells us you’ve had money left you.”
Renny frowned. “Did he tell you the reason for it?”
“He did,” said Clara Chase, “and I was terribly sorry to hear it. One never sees the like of your uncle nowadays. How is the other uncle?”
“Dead, too.”
“How sad … but they were pretty old, weren’t they?”
“They were. It doesn’t make it any easier.”
“You are a long-lived family.”
“It’ll be my turn next.”
“In about forty years,” said Chase.
The neCentenaryomers and Renny continued to talk. Finch wandered about the room. Bell began to doubt his own right to be there. The Whiteoaks, the Chases, seemed to have taken possession. He could not understand the half of what they said and did not want to. He busied himself with the papers on his writing table, as a hint to them to depart, but with the exception of Finch they appeared not to notice. He came to Bell’s side, and, taking the picture of a woman that Bell had cut from a magazine, he asked, “who is she?”
“Nancy Mitford.”
“Never heard of her, but I like her looks. What does she do?”
“Writes books I dote on,” answered Bell.
“She’s rather beautiful and rather wicked, I should guess,” said Finch, holding the picture at arm’s length to view it.
Hearing this talk of a woman, Renny at once joined them.
“It’s Nancy Mitford,” said Finch. “She writes books that Humphrey dotes on.”
“I know about her,” said Renny, with an approving look at the pictured face. “She wrote Cranford. Alayne admires it too.”
“I’ve never had much time for reading,” remarked Clara Chase. “From now on I intend to read more.”
Her husband gave her an unbelieving look, but Renny exclaimed, “Good. Alayne has masses of books. I’ll lend you some. That is —” He hesitated and stopped.
“Thanks. But I have a subscription to a book society.”
“Have you really?” he said admiringly.
“I think,” said Clara Chase, “we’d utter go upstairs. I have things to do and Mr. Bell will want to get on with his writing.” She appeared to feel that the moment he was alone he could get on with it. “Just like a machine, when you press a button,” he thought bitterly, as he listened to three pairs of feet mount the uncarpeted stairs and move about overhead. Finch had already left and disappeared in the direction of his own house — Dennis, unseen, following him at a short distance.
Upstairs Renny exclaimed, “You have very nice quarters here. I had forgotten what pleasant rooms these are.”
“It’s my furniture,” said Chase. “Bell hadn’t a stick of furniture up here.” He stalked about the rooms with a proprietary air.
“what a charming young man Mr. Bell is,” said Clara Chase; and she added in a low voice, as she and Renny were left together while her husband went to mix a drink, “That room below is where Antoine died. Do you remember?”
“I never could forget, Clara,” he said, “or forget how brave you were.”
“Or what a friend you were.” She caught his hand in hers and pressed it.
Chase soon came back, carrying a tray with glasses. He was handy at doing things for himself, as a man who had lived much alone.
“An old-fashioned,” he said. “Is that OK?”
“Fine,” said Renny, raising his glass. “Well — here’s to happy days and many of them.”
“Thanks,” murmured the lately married pair. They linked arms and swayed a little, as though about to dance. Renny eyed them in mild appreciation of their union. Certain amorous recolle
ctions he had of Clara came to him with clarity as the drink was consumed.
She, now looking steadily at Chase, asked him, “Dare I tell Renny what is in our minds?”
Chase answered, “why not? He can do as he likes about it.”
“what’s the mystery?” demanded Renny.
“There is no mystery. Simply a plain fact. We have discovered a wonderful horse and he’s for sale.”
“A horse! A show horse?”
“He is a racehorse,” said Chase solemnly. “A two-year-old. He has already done quite well, but — he is capable of anything — if he is properly trained. If I had the money I should pay the price and consider that I had a bargain.”
“what is the price?”
“He can be bought for twelve thousand dollars.”
Renny laughed outright. “why are you looking at me with such meaning? I have no money to spend on racehorses.”
“You have twelve thousand.”
His wife added fervently, “If I had that much and nothing more I’d not be afraid to buy him.”
“I have no facilities for training a racehorse,” said Renny.
“You once won the Grand National.”
“I know, but — this I dare not risk.”
“why?” demanded Clara Chase.
“Well — as I have said, I have no trainer at my disposal. Also it would be a terrible risk. I might lose all that my uncle left me.”
“You couldn’t,” said Chase. “This horse could always be sold for as much as you had paid for him.”
“what if he didn’t turn out well? Didn’t win anything important?”
“But he would win!” cried Clara Chase. “Mr. Crowdy says he’s got a fine future. Even if I know nothing or Inigo here knows nothing, you’ll agree that Mr. Crowdy is one of the best judges of horseflesh in the country.”
Chase added, “Some Americans are interested in him.”
Renny took a sharp turn about the room. “I dare not risk it,” he repeated. Then — “where can this marvel be seen?”
“At the stables of a man named Turner. You wouldn’t know him. He’s an amateur — lately interested in racing. He has got into financial difficulties and needs cash.”
Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna Page 100
