“They would,” agreed Christian. “There’s something about us Whiteoaks, we have old-time faces. We’re so damned individual — the way people used to look, before everybody was in a hurry. I find that I can’t guess what a man is by looking at him. It seems to me they all look alike — that they could change faces and never notice the difference. They all look like businessmen on their way to a conference. We’re different. Is it a good thing? I don’t know.”
Patrick Crawshay admired the picture Christian was just finishing, and bought it on the spot, also a second one to take home to his mother. He soon became as one of the family at Jalna, and popular with the men about the stables. He had the look of happy youth that has never been crossed. Having met Adeline on her visit to Ireland — the visit which had brought about her former unfortunate engagement to Fitzturgis — he thought of himself as a suitor. His mother would have liked to see him settle down in marriage. Maurice, on his part, had a mischievous hankering that his friend might yet break tip Adeline’s engagement to Philip. Philip was away from the scene. Adeline could not possibly be in love with him. Maurice did everything he could to bring her and Patrick Crawshay together. Unsuspected by his elders, he wove a net of mutual regard about the pair. He contrived to isolate them. When the three rode together he would fall behind on some pretext. When they walked he would drift away to rediscover some haunt of his childhood. When they sat together before a blazing fire at night he would put on a record of passionate or romantic music. Jealousy of Philip was his strongest emotion.
XVI
This and That
The two young men from Ireland, accompanied by Renny and Finch, went on a fishing trip. Later they went duck shooting. On this outing Finch did not join the party. As he matured, the thought of taking the life of birds, of causing suffering to them, was abhorrent to him. In all excursions, in life at Jalna, Pat Crawshay took part with happy zest. He had enough to live on, to live well. No one had ever suggested to him that he should make himself a useful member of society. His spirit was so untrammelled that it expressed itself in a remarkable way through all his body. Adeline found that she enjoyed being with him more than with any other, with the exception of Renny. He fascinated Wakefield, who found himself imitating his speech and mannerisms — acting the part, as it were, of Sir Patrick Crawshay.
In the lovely weather of Indian summer, an excursion was planned to one of the not too distant northern lakes. A son of the Rector, a boyhood friend of Finch’s, George Fennel, who had married a rich widow, offered to lend Finch a cottage on this lake. In the manner of the country it was called a “cottage,” but, in reality, was a roomy stone and stucco house, with fine gardens, overlooking the lake.
Sylvia was pregnant and had become enervated by the heat of the summer. Finch felt that a change would benefit her. He himself was tired by the stress of composition, for he took everything the hard way, and would be glad of the northern air. Sylvia’s condition was not yet noticeable. They decided to make a party of it — not a large party but only those who would be congenial to Sylvia.
Would Renny be congenial to her? Finch wondered — but there was no need for conjecture: Renny was committed to preparation for the horse show. Patrick Crawshay, Maurice, and Adeline eagerly agreed to be of the party. When Christian was invited, he said at once, “I’d love to go, Uncle Finch. I shall do a picture there.”
“Good,” said Finch. “It’s settled then. There’ll be six of us.”
“what of Wakefield and Molly?”
“Is he well enough, do you think?”
“Quite. I saw him this morning. He tells me he’s mad for a change. In fact, he’s heard of the party and wants to join it. His doctor says it will do him good, if he is careful not to overtire himself.”
“Good Lord,” said Finch, pulling nervously at his underlip. “I hadn’t thought of that contingency.”
“what contingency?”
“Molly.”
Christian stared in puzzlement. “But surely she would enjoy the change. She’s had a pretty monotonous summer.”
“I know,” said Finch, “but there’s Adeline. She’s never been to the Hut since they came.”
“How strange. I hadn’t heard. Is it by Adeline’s own wish or her parents’?”
“Of one thing I’m certain,” said Finch. “Alayne would be most unhappy if Adeline were to go where Wake and Molly are of the party.”
“why in the name of reason,” exclaimed Christian, “don’t that pair get married?”
“I’ve no notion.”
“Possibly Wake is like me” — said Christian — “reluctant to part with his freedom. I marvel when I see how some fellows — my own brothers, for instance — are ready to stick out their necks for the yoke. Look at Humphrey Bell. Nobody can make me believe that he wasn’t happier before Patience and her fat baby planted themselves on him.… I’ll never do it. Never.” And firmly he squeezed the paint from a tube.
“Marriage certainly brings an awesome responsibility,” said Finch. “I’ve been twice married.”
“Of course there are the dear little children,” Christian continued, in a sweet conversational tone. “I’m sure Humphrey enjoys the squalling of his daughter Victoria. And you have your own dear little boy, and before long you’ll have another dear little boy. Oh, Uncle Finch, it makes me so glad for you!”
Finch left him, with a grunt of mingled chagrin and amusement. There was no one from whom he could ask advice in this predicament. He made up his mind to go straight to Wakefield. He began to wish that George Fennel had not offered him the cottage or that he and Sylvia might have gone alone to it.
He strode along the path through the wood, which, because of the thinning foliage, seemed suddenly open to the sky. Along its edge fragile Michaelmas daisies grew, and sturdy goldenrod. Finch had a reckless holiday feeling and, when he glimpsed Wakefield, sitting outside the door of Fiddler’s Hut with a book, he shouted: “Hullo — Wake! what do you think of this for a morning?”
“It’s fine,” Wakefield called back, delighted to have a visitor. “Come and sit down.”
“what are you reading?” asked Finch. He peered to see the title of the book.
“It’s Hardy’s Woodlanders.”
“Appropriate to this place, but scarcely a book I should have expected you to choose.”
“I didn’t choose it. It is one of an armful Renny brought from the house. It was Alayne who chose them.”
Finch sat down and, after a space, Wakefield said:
“I long for some activity but I don’t quite know what it’s to be.”
Finch said — desperately — “George Fennel has lent me his summer cottage for a week. If this weather holds it will be lovely there. I’d like to invite you and Molly to join us, Wake, but …” He halted, then got out — “There’s Adeline.”
Wakefield stared, not at first understanding. Then he muttered, “I see. I quite understand. It’s all right.”
Finch was relieved. “I’m glad you understand, old man. I was afraid you might be hurt.”
“We have Alayne and her prejudices to consider. I don’t believe Adeline would mind — even though she hasn’t been here to see us.”
Finch’s mind was lightened of its load. After some desultory talk he hastened away to make final arrangements for the holiday. There was a supply of food to be ordered and a new warm coat for Sylvia to be bought. She was clinging, in these days of her pregnancy. Whatever Finch bought for her she would like. He tried to remember what Sarah had been before the birth of Dennis, but he could not. He could remember only her almost savage possessiveness after the infant’s arrival.
When Finch had left him Wakefield folded his arms and bent his dark brows to the point of looking tragic. He felt himself to be a martyr to his loyalty to one woman. He felt that, not for a long while, had he wanted to do anything so badly as he wanted to accompany Finch and the others on this stay of a week by the lake. He had not through his illness, after the first
sombre shock, pitied himself, but now he was fairly overcome by self-pity. He remembered how in childhood he had seen one after another of the family depart on some pleasure jaunt, and he left at home. Now he was not even at home. He was marooned in an island of greenery, in a multicoloured sea of autumn leaves. He was a castaway.
He was sitting in this attitude of dejection when Molly, returning after a shopping expedition to the village grocery, discovered him. She laid her heavy bag on the kitchen table and hastened to him. She had ready an imitation of the shopgirl to amuse him, but seeing his frown, his bent head and folded arms, she hesitated and said:
“Everything all right?”
“I suppose so.” He raised his eyes and added, “Finch was here.”
What would Finch have said, she wondered, to hurt Wakefield? She asked, “Had he any news?”
“Yes — of a sort. George Fennel, an old friend, has lent him his summer place. In this weather it will be lovely. Right on a lake, two hours’ drive from here. Finch is making up a small party.”
“Oh.” Molly tried to think what there was in this news to hurt Wakefield, for he was hurt — she was sure of that.
He said, “Of course, we’re not invited.”
“But, in any case, you couldn’t go, could you?”
“Certainly I could go. I spoke of the possibility to my doctor when he called yesterday and he said it would be good for me if I took care not to overtire myself.”
“Then why not go?” Her face which had been serious was now lit in bright expectancy. If there were any obstacle in the way, she would overcome it.
“Because,” said Wakefield, “we are not respectable.”
Now she saw clearly the reason for his pain, his disappointment. Like a child he was hurt because he was left out of a picnic.
“Don’t let’s mind,” she said. “We’ll do something else — something better.” And she cast about in her mind to discover what that something better could be.
“There’s nothing for us to do.”
“Wakefield — did Finch make it clear to you?”
“Absolutely clear. It’s not his doing — or Sylvia’s. It’s Alayne who could not tolerate our presence.”
“She is one of the party, then?”
“No, but her daughter is.”
“Would Finch invite you — if I were not to go?”
Wakefield sat upright and looked her in the eyes. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “Nothing would induce me to go without you.”
“But, Wake,” she said, “if I tell you I don’t want to go — that would be different, wouldn’t it? There’s all the difference in the world between leaving me to sulk or mourn here in the Hut, and leaving me to do the hundred things I want to do before the cold weather sets in. We’ve nearly three months more to put in here, you must remember.” She dwelt almost ruthlessly on those months, as though she pressed herself deliberately inside a hair shirt.
“I will not leave you here alone,” he said doggedly.
“But I shall be so busy! I shall be too busy to miss you.”
“Busy doing what?” he asked with severity.
She sat down beside him and took his hand in hers.
“Listen,” she said, “what is a week but seven days? They will pass like the wind. I shall be glad to get you out of the way for a bit while I put our clothes in order, houseclean the Hut, and make jelly out of a huge saucepan of blackberries I’ve gathered. You do like blackberry jelly with your toast for tea, don’t you? And I have so much mending to do.”
He weakened. He consented — though grumblingly.
When Finch came later in the day, with books for Wakefield and a box of chocolates for Molly, Wakefield said:
“I told Molly that you can’t ask us to join your party because we’re not respectable.”
“Oh, no,” Finch said miserably. “Surely you didn’t say that to her.”
“I did; and the odd thing is she doesn’t want to come. She has a thousand things to do, she says, and would be glad to be rid of me. Naturally I don’t want to leave her, but my doctor insists that a change would be good for me — at this stage.”
“All right,” said Finch, eager to have this galling affair settled. “Come along. We’ll be glad to have you. Of course it would have been better still, if you both might have — ”
He did not finish because Molly had joined them. He turned to her, his long sensitive face swept by embarrassment. But she showed no such feeling. She was so calm, so friendly, that he left the Hut comforted by the thought that she and Wakefield were a sensible and not too emotional pair. He wished that Sylvia and himself had as much sound sense.
There was not much time for preparation. It kept Molly busy to get Wakefield’s clothes in order for the outing. The fair weather held, and in warm sunshine he left the path through the wood and joined Finch, who was waiting for him in a car where Wakefield’s suitcase had already been placed. Molly had held him close and looked long in his face.
“Are you sure,” he had said, “that you don’t mind my going off like this?”
“It’s what I want. It will give me leisure to do things. Have a good time, darling. Don’t worry about me.”
He was gone and she was alone in that golden woodland that now had become a prison to her, a prison whose walls were falling, leaf by leaf, a prison from which the birds were escaping, not one by one, but in flocks. She gathered up the bedclothes from the cot where Wake had slept, and neatly folded them. She was washing the breakfast dishes when suddenly, in the doorway, little Mary appeared. She advanced, shyly but steadily with a few sprays of chicory and Queen Anne’s lace in her hand.
“I brought these for you,” she said.
“How kind of you!” said Molly. “This blue flower is just the colour of your eyes.”
Mary looked on with satisfaction while Molly placed the flowers in water. Then Molly asked:
“why have you come all this way alone? Are you allowed?”
“I heard Daddy say Uncle Wake has gone on a picnic. I thought you might be lonely — so I came.”
“You came and you brought me flowers — that was sweet,” said Molly. “Now will you sit down in this little chair while I finish my work?”
“where there are men,” said Mary, “there’s always work to do.”
“True,” said Molly, “but it’s sometimes nice to have them about.”
Mary looked steadily at her. “I think it’s better,” she said, “when they go away.”
Molly could not help laughing, so quaint the little girl looked, sitting there, with her fine fair hair falling about her face, and uttering such words. “But you’d not want your daddy to go away, would you?”
“One man is useful,” said Mary. “He can hammer. He can sharpen the carving knife. Too many men make a noise going up and down the stairs. They’re always wanting something to eat.”
“I know, I know,” Molly said sympathetically. “Men are like that.”
“I’d rather,” said Mary, “dry the dishes for you than sit here.”
“Good.” Molly put a tea towel into the deft little hands.
When Mary had dried the dishes she stood on a chair to put them into the cupboard. This done, she asked:
“Are you going to live here alone?”
“For a little while.”
“It’s better to live alone.” Mary gave a smile, almost mischievous. “Then you can hear all the nice things and not the noise.”
“what sort of things, Mary?”
“The secret things.” And the little girl laughed, with the air of a conspirator.
Now they both were conscious of the sound of steps scuffing the dead leaves on the path. Startled, they turned, to see Piers’s fox terrier looking in the door at them, then Piers himself. He was as sound, as well-coloured as an apple that might take a prize at a country fall fair. He nodded, in his offhand way, to Molly and gave her his offhand smile.
“Deserted, eh?” he said.
“
For a short while.” She smiled nervously, wondering what he had in his mind.
Nothing, apparently, but the quest for his daughter. “You oughtn’t, you know, run off by yourself like this,” he said to her with a show of sternness.
“She’s been drying dishes for me,” said Molly.
“That’s the way with young’uns,” said Piers. “when her mother wants her to do something, she runs off.”
Mary went to him and slipped her tiny hand into his large warm one that closed on it with tender paternal possessiveness.
“Shall you mind being alone?” he asked Molly.
“I have lots to do.” She spoke defensively.
“But not what you’d like to be doing, I’ll wager.”
Still with that offhand smile he added, “what a little fool you are.”
“what do you mean?” She spoke scarcely above a whisper.
“Wasting your life here. And your talent. I don’t know how good an actress you are but you’re a very pretty woman, and I tell you there’s no future for you as Wake’s mistress.” Suddenly he looked serious. “Don’t be angry, or hurt,” he said. “I mean to be kind. I like you, Molly, and now that you have Wakefield nursed back to health I think it’s time for you to think of yourself.…
“Come, Mary.” With his daughter, and his fox terrier, he disappeared along the path looking, it seemed to Molly, all the more resolute because he had an artificial leg.
She was left alone in the silence, where there was only the beating of her own heart. She wished Piers had not come, for her mind had already been made up. Through the open doorway she could see the falling leaves, some dun-coloured, some still green, but mostly varied in scarlet and gold. They were, she thought, as the minutes in the hour, the hours in the day, the days in the year, the years in a lifetime.
XVII
Seven by a Lake
Wakefield was tired when Finch’s car turned into the drive, behind the high cedar hedge of the house that was built of stucco and stone, with a green roof, and two massive stone chimneys. The lake was hidden by trees. Finch, Sylvia, Wakefield, and Adeline were in this car. Already the other car stood at the door, empty, and its occupants — Christian, Maurice, and Patrick Crawshay — were exploring the house.
Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna Page 128
