Читать книгу Finch's Fortune - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 3

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COMING OF AGE

Nicholas and Ernest Whiteoak were having tea together in Ernest's room. He thought he felt one of his colds coming on and he feared to expose himself to the draughts of passage and hall in such weather. He had had tea brought up to him therefore, and had asked Nick to join him. They sat before the open fire with the tea-table between them. Ernest's cat, with paws curled under her breast and eyes narrowed against the blaze, lay close to her master's feet, and Nicholas's Yorkshire terrier, flat on his side, twitching in a dream. The brothers divided their attention between their tea and their pets.

"He's a bit off colour," observed Nicholas, his eyes on Nip. "He hasn't begged."

Ernest regarded the little dog critically. "He doesn't get enough exercise. Why, he scarcely leaves your side. He's getting tubby. That's the worst of terriers. They always get tubby. How old is he?"

"Seven. Just in his prime. I can't see that he's tubby." Nicholas spoke testily. "It's the way he's lying. He may have a little wind on his stomach."

"It's lack of exercise," persisted Ernest. "Now look at Sasha. She's fourteen. She's as elegant as ever, but then she goes off by the hour, even since this last snowfall. Only this morning she brought a mouse from the stables. Tossed it up and played with it too." He dropped his hand, and his white fingers rested for a moment on the cat's tawny head.

Nicholas responded without enthusiasm. "Yes. That's the cold-blooded thing about cats. They'd slink off to catch mice or have a disgusting love affair if their master were dying."

"Sasha doesn't have disgusting love affairs," answered his brother with heat.

"What about that last kitten of hers?"

"There was nothing disgusting about that."

"There wasn't! She had it on your eiderdown."

Ernest felt himself getting angry and that was bad for his digestion. The recalling of that morning when Sasha, with a cry of triumph, had deposited her young on his bed (and he in it!) upset his nerves. He forced himself to say coldly–

"I don't see what Sasha's kitten has to do with Nip's getting tubby."

Nicholas had broken his last bit of scone in his tea. Now he carried it in his spoon to his mouth and almost immediately swallowed it. Why did he do that, Ernest wondered. How often their ancient mother had irritated them by this very habit! And now Nicholas was taking it unto himself! He was looking self-conscious, too. His mouth, under his drooping grey moustache, had a half-humorous, half-shamefaced twist. Ernest had frequently observed this tendency in Nick to imitate their mother since her death a year and a half ago, and it never failed to irritate him. It had been one thing to see an old, old woman–over a hundred, in fact, though you never would have thought it–eat sops. Quite another to see a heavily built man, with at least a dozen of his own teeth still in his head, commit the same breach of niceness. If only Nicholas would imitate Mamma's fine qualities, of which there were so many–but no, it was always what he himself had deplored in her lifetime that he reproduced. And there was just enough resemblance–the shaggy brows, the long Court nose–to give Ernest a queer sinking sensation.

He regarded his elder with austerity to hide what was almost pain. "Don't you know," he said, "that that is very bad for you?"

Nicholas rumbled–"Must do it–teeth are getting wobbly."

"Nonsense." Ernest's tone was sharp. "I saw you eat quite tough venison yesterday without any trouble."

"Bolted it."

"Only this morning I heard you crunching a piece of horehound."

"They do better on hard stuff. Something they can get a grip on." He took a drink of tea, staring truculently over the cup into Ernest's eyes. He knew what Ernest was driving at.

They were well past seventy and the shadow of their fierce old mother still dominated them. Snowflakes flattened themselves against the window-pane, clung there. Other snowflakes fell on these and clung. They were shutting the world out, wreathing themselves like a white muffler about the house. A quantity of drifted snow slid from the roof and was deposited on the window-sill, with a soft thud. The shadow of the old mother was shut in the room with them.

A live coal rolled from the fire, across the hearth and on to the rug. Ernest kicked at it, then snatched up the tongs and captured it. The little dog sprang out of the way in terror, then walked with an insulted air to Ernest's bed and leaped stiffly to the counterpane. Sasha, however, with only a sidelong glance at the coal, rose and stood with her forepaws against Ernest's chair. She thrust her claws into the velour and withdrew them with a tearing sound. Ernest replaced the tongs and tickled the back of her neck.

"A lot she cares for you," said Nicholas. "She only tolerates you because you're her slave. She'd just as lief I'd scratch her head."

Ernest murmured–"Sasha, Sasha," and felt familiarly for the most sensitive nerves in her neck.

"You'll get fur on your fingers. Have this piece of plum cake?"

"She's not shedding her coat." He rubbed his fingertips together. "Not a hair. No, no, have the plum cake yourself, I'm better without it." But he glanced longingly at the cake.

While Nicholas had inherited some physical resemblance to their mother, something of her rugged resolve and tenacity, Ernest had inherited only her love of food, without the grand digestion that had accompanied it. His digestion was weak, but his eyes lingered on the last piece of cake.

There had been five pieces of cake on the tea-tray, two small pieces of Swiss roll, two small currant cakes, and one largish slice of the plum cake. Why just one piece of that, Ernest wondered. It was a strange thing for Wragge to have done. It was almost as if he had hoped to cast a shadow, be it ever so slight, on their tea hour. There was something very mischievous, even sinister, about Wragge.... One piece of plum cake for two elderly men ... very strange indeed.

"I don't want it," Nicholas answered, wiping his moustache, and returning his cup to the tray. "Bad for gout. You eat it. It's supposed to be very nourishing."

"Rather odd"–Ernest tried to keep the strain out of his voice–"that he should have brought only that one piece."

Nicholas glowered at the plum cake. "Ask him what he meant by it. Anyhow, I don't want it."

"Will you eat half of it?"

"Yes, I'll take half. Perhaps Wragge thought half was enough for each of us. We're not getting much exercise."

"In that case he should have cut it into two pieces. It might easily have been cut into two."

Nicholas chuckled. "You're a funny old bird, Ernie."

Ernest smiled, not ill-pleased, and cut the cake in two portions. He crumbled his bit into morsels, but Nicholas poked the greater part of his into his mouth. Through it he mumbled:

"That cat's going to tear your chair to ribbons. Only listen to her clawing it."

Ernest put an admonishing finger under her chin.

"Naughty, naughty," he said, and her eyes glowed up at him above her three-cornered grin.

"Silly, flibbertigibbet creature," growled Nicholas.

Ernest could scarcely believe his ears. Had Nick really uttered the word or had he dreamed that he heard it from Nick's lips? Were they both dreaming? That word–their mother's, above all words–flibbertigibbet! Was Nick getting queer? Or did he delight in hurting him by conjuring up that loved presence (so recently swept away) by feeble imitations of her habits and her words? And not her nicest habits or her prettiest words either.... Well, it was in very bad taste, that was the least he could say for it.

Nicholas was looking down his long nose while he scraped the sugar from the bottom of his tea-cup that had all the pattern of gilt scrolls and red roses inside and was just plain white outside. He tried to look unselfconscious, but he did not quite succeed. There was an odd quirk to his grey moustache. Ernest made up his mind to ignore the word, to go on as though nothing had happened. He knew that was the best thing to do with young children when they had picked up a stray oath, just to pay no heed to the unseemly word and the child would, in all probability, soon forget it. It would punish Nick, too, for he always liked what he did to be noticed, commented upon. Instead of rebuking him, he would treat him as a naughty child. With sudden misgiving he wondered whether Nicholas might truly be getting childish–his second childhood–but he quickly put that idea away from him. One glance into those deep, sardonic eyes was enough to dispel it. No, Nick was sound enough except for his gout. The thing to do was to ignore the word entirely. He said testily:

"I wish you would order Nip off my bed. He's right on my new eiderdown. He may have fleas."

"He'll not have a puppy on it, at any rate."

Ernest raised his voice. "I don't like it. Please speak to him."

Nip's master rumbled–"Catch a spider, Nip!"

The terrier raised his head and peered sceptically through his fringe of hair, but he did not budge.

"No use," said Nicholas.

"Try him with cats."

"Cats!" shouted Nicholas. "Stable cats!"

Nip endured Sasha, but stable cats he would not endure. Galvanised into a hairy fury, he hurled himself from the bed to the window-seat. He cocked his head, trying to see through the snow mounded against the pane. He saw, or thought he saw, an inky form slink with lowered belly across the white expanse of the yard. He raged against the window-glass. Barks failed him. He made strangling sounds. He hurled himself from the window-seat and raged against the door. He uttered ear-splitting screams. Nicholas heaved himself out of his chair and limped hurriedly across the room. Nip held his breath while the door was being opened, then, as its edge approached him, he caught it in his teeth and bit it savagely. He gnawed it, trying to worry it off its hinges, punishing it for hindering him. Then, spitting a splinter from his mouth, he flew along the passage and tumbled down the stairs.

The brothers heard the front door bang. Somebody had let him out. They listened attentively, wondering whether it had been someone just passing through the hall or someone coming in from outside. On these long mid-winter afternoons, when it grew dark so early, the comings and goings of the younger members of the family were of intense interest.

They heard strong steps mounting the stairs, then Nicholas, standing in the doorway, regarded with approval the advancing figure. It was the eldest of their five nephews–Renny Whiteoak–and he arrived in an envelope of air so icy that Ernest, with a gesture of self-preservation, put up his hand.

"Do you mind, Renny, not coming too close to me. One of my colds threatening."

"Well, well, that's too bad." He crossed the room, leaving two heel-prints of snow on the rug, and stood on the opposite side of the fireplace. He looked down at his uncle with sympathy. "How do you think you got it?"

"I didn't say I'd got it," Ernest spoke irritably. "I said it was threatening."

"Oh! What you need then is a good dose of rum and hot water."

"That's what I tell him," agreed Nicholas, letting himself down into his chair which creaked under him, "but he always fusses more about his digestion than he does about his health."

"My digestion is my health," retorted his brother. "But let us talk of something else. It was you who let Nip out, was it?"

"Yes. You should have seen him tear through a snowdrift–after one of the stable cats, screaming like a maniac too."

Nicholas smiled complacently. "Yes. And Ernest was just saying that he's getting tubby."

Ernest asked: "Have you had your tea, Renny?"

He nodded. "In my office. There was a new foal coming and I didn't want to leave."

"I remember. Cora was going to have one. How did she get along?"

"Splendidly. She has never done so well before. She's frightfully proud of herself. When I went to her the last time she tried to tell me all about it. She stopped nozzling the foal and rolled her eyes at me and went–'ho-ho-ho-ho-ho,' like that." Renny gave a not unsuccessful imitation of a loved mare's greeting to her master after a triumphant delivery.

The uncles gazed up at him, across the thirty-five years that separated them from him, with the tolerant amusement, the puzzled admiration, he always inspired in them. He was so different from what they had been at his age. They had been lovers of fine horseflesh, but not horsey. They had been living in England at that time and had never missed the races; Nicholas had kept a quite "dashing" pair of carriage-horses, had been a bold hand with the reins, had kept a handsome Dalmatian to run beside the glittering enamel of the carriage wheels, but to have spent a winter's afternoon in a stable for the consolation of a mare in her labour would have been abhorrent to them. They saw him wiry, in rough tweeds, snow melting on his heavy boots, his knuckles looking chapped, as he spread his hands to the fire, his red hair in a defiant crest above his thin highly coloured face. They saw that face, wary, passionate, kindled by the vitality within, as the flames played over it, intensifying and sharpening it.

"Well, well," rumbled Nicholas, "that's good news."

"Are you sure you won't have some tea?" asked Ernest.

"No, thanks. Rags brought a plate of buttered toast and a pot of tea strong enough to raise your hair, to my office."

Ernest thought of the office, in a corner of the stables, its yellow oak desk, where were preserved the pedigrees of horses, overdue bills from the veterinary, newspaper cuttings concerning horse-races and shows, and carefully kept accounts of sales. He thought of the bright lithographs of famous horses on the walls, the hard chairs, the bareness, the chill, the unyielding discomfort. He shivered. Yet he knew that Renny had consumed his clammy toast and bitter tea there with the satisfaction with which a plumber might devour his lunch in a flooded kitchen. A queer fellow, but a fine fellow too. Hot-tempered, wilful. "A perfect Court," as his grandmother had used to say, who herself had been a perfect Court. They had been a family who had glorified their faults under blazing banners of tradition.

Renny sat down and lighted a cigarette. Nicholas took out his pipe. The sound of a piano came hesitatingly from below. Renny turned his head, as though to listen, then he said, with a note of embarrassment in his voice:

"He's got a birthday coming. Young Finch, I mean." And he added, looking straight into the fire–"He'll be twenty-one."

Nicholas pressed the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with his finger. He made little sucking noises, though it was not yet lighted. Ernest said eagerly:

"Yes, yes–by George, I'd forgotten! How the time goes! Of course, he'll be twenty-one. Hmph ... yes.... It seems only the other day when he was a little boy. Not so very long ago since he was born."

"Born with a caul," mumbled his brother. "Lucky young devil!"

"That's only a preventative against drowning," said Ernest nervously.

"Not a bit of it. It's luck all round. Good Lord, he's had luck, hasn't he?"

Nicholas made no effort to keep the heaviness out of his voice, no pretence of raising his head above the long wave of disappointment that, ever since the reading of his mother's will, had submerged him at intervals. He had no need to be reminded of the date of Finch's coming of age. It stood out as the day of sunny fulfilment for the boy, through the darkness of his own eclipse. "He'll be coming into his money, eh?"

Ernest thought–"It's up to me to be cheerful about this birthday. We must not seem bitter or grudging. But Nick's so selfish. He acts just as though he had been perfectly sure of the money when really Mamma was more likely to leave it to me. Or even Renny. I was quite prepared to hear that it would be Renny's."

He said–"There must certainly be some sort of celebration. A party–or treat of some kind for Finch." He still thought of Finch as a schoolboy.

"I should say," said Nicholas, "that the hundred thousand itself is treat enough."

Renny broke in, ignoring the last remark. "Yes. That's what I've been thinking, Uncle Ernie. We ought to give him a dinner–just the family, and one or two friends of his. You know–" he knotted his reddish brows in the effort to express the subtle convictions of his mind––

"I know," interrupted Nicholas, "that Piers had no party when he came of age."

"He was up North on a canoeing trip at the time."

"Nor Eden!"

"He'd just been suspended for six weeks from 'Varsity. Likely I'd give him a party! There were great doings when Meggie and I were twenty-one."

"Meggie was the only daughter, and you were the eldest son and heir to Jalna."

"Uncle Nick, do you seriously mean that you don't want any notice taken of the boy's birthday?"

"N–no. But–why pretend to rejoice over his coming into what all three of us had hopes of inheriting–more or less?"

"Then, I suppose, if I had got Gran's money, you'd have–––"

"No, I shouldn't. I'd have been comparatively satisfied–if either you or Ernest ..."

Ernest spoke, with a tremor of excitement in his voice. "Now, I'm quite with Renny in this. I think we should do something really nice for Finch. We were, all of us, pretty hard on him when we heard that he'd got everything."

Renny jerked out–"I wasn't!"

Nicholas muttered–"I don't remember your congratulating him."

"I could scarcely do that with the rest of the family on its hind-legs tearing its hair!"

After the impact of his voice–metallic when raised–there was a space of silence through which came hesitatingly from below the sound of the piano. The three were mentally reconstructing the hour when the family on "hind-legs" had created a memorable scene with the poor piano player as its centre.

Darkness had fallen outside. The invisible activities of the snow-storm were still further transforming the landscape, obliterating, softening; producing hive-shaped mounds where shrubs had been; pinnacles where had been posts; decorating with ingenious grotesqueness every projection of the house. So wasteful was the storm of its energy, its material, that, after changing the aspect of a tree by the delicate depositing of flake upon flake on each minute twig, or clinging cone, it would fling the entire erection into glittering particles with one contemptuous blast, then begin again to express the unhampered fantasy of its pattern.

Wragge, a white-faced, small-nosed cockney, with a jutting chin and impudent mouth, came in carrying a lighted lamp. The lamplight fell on the shiny sleeves and shoulders of the black coat he always wore after his morning's work was done. "Rags," as he was called by Renny and his brothers, half-affectionately, half in derision, had been brought to Canada with Renny after the War, and had married, almost on the day of arrival, another Londoner, a cook of no mean powers but with a taste for spirits and heated controversy. The pair were so firmly established at Jalna as cook and house-parlourman that the disapproval of the uncles and the genuine dislike of Renny's wife had no power to undermine their position. Wragge had been Renny's batman when he had been an officer in the Buffs, and a bond, seldom made manifest except in furtive, almost conspiratory glances between them, existed. Renny liked Mrs. Wragge's cooking, he liked her red aggressive face and stout body presiding in the brick-floored basement kitchen. He liked Wragge. And Wragge had the cocksure attitude of the unscrupulous servant who knows that his situation is secure.

He placed the lamp on the table and drew the curtains. He drew them as though he were scarcely less than the Almighty drawing the curtains of evening against the closing day. His nerves, sensitive to the moods of the family, were conscious of a feeling of dissension. He enjoyed dissension among the members of the family. Even when he felt it, rather than heard it expressed in resonant tones, it was exhilarating to him. Mrs. Wragge could always tell by the jauntiness of his descent into the basement that there were "doings upstairs." She would raise her face from peering into a saucepan and demand–"Well, and wot's up now?"

He lingered, arranging the folds of the curtains, hoping they would let themselves go a little. He noted the sombre look of Nicholas, the worried pucker on Ernest's brow, the half-grin that denoted temper in the master of Jalna. But silence prevailed.

"Shall I mend the fire a bit, sir?" he asked, looking at Renny. He spoke in a hushed tone, and the fact that the question he asked of Renny concerned Ernest's own fire was intensely irritating to Ernest. He answered sharply:

"No, don't touch it."

Rags continued to gaze, almost beseechingly, into Renny's face. "It's getting very low, sir."

It was indeed. A chill was creeping across the room.

Renny said–"It wouldn't be a bad idea to put more coals on, but, of course, if you don't want them, Uncle Ernest––"

Ernest answered only by looking down his nose and making the gentle line of his mouth firmer. Wragge turned away and picked up the tea-tray. He did not close the door behind him, but made way for two people who were just coming into the room. These were Piers and his little son Maurice, who rode on his shoulder. Mooey, as they called him, shouted, as he reached the fireside group:

"I've got a norse to wide! I've got a nish 'orsie!"

"Good boy," said Nicholas, taking a little dangling foot in his hand.

Ernest remarked: "He does not speak as nicely as Wakefield did at his age. Wakefield always spoke beautifully."

"Because he's always been such a conceited little devil," said Piers, setting his small son on the arm of Nicholas's chair, from where he scrambled on to his great-uncle's big relaxed body, repeating–"I've got a norsie to wide!"

"Now, now," admonished Piers, "less noise." Piers, like Renny, showed the vigour of an outdoor life, but his skin had the fresh fairness of a boy's, and his full lips had a boyish curve, half-sweet, half-stubborn, that could harden into a line of cruel contempt without changing the expression of his bold blue eyes.

"I wish," said Ernest, "that you would shut the door, Piers. Between the noise of the piano and the noise of the child, and the draught from the stairway and the fire being almost out, I feel my cold getting worse."

Cornering him, Renny observed–"I thought you said the cold was only threatening."

Ernest flushed slightly. "It was only threatening. Now it's here." He took out a large white silk handkerchief and blew his nose with an aggressive toot.

The piano below broke into a tempestuous Hungarian dance.

"I'll shut the door," cried Mooey, and he scrambled down, ran across the room and pushed the door so that it closed with a bang.

Ernest was fond of his nephew, he was fond of his little grand-nephew, but he wished they had not chosen this particular evening for congregating in his room. He thought rather resentfully of the number of afternoons when he sat alone, unless he went down to the drawing-room. When even Nicholas did not come to keep him company. Now, just when he was feeling rather off colour, they were crowding in. If one came others were always sure to follow. Then there was this troubling question of Finch's birthday party. He did not see any sense in it. He, like Nicholas, thought that a fortune of one hundred thousand dollars was treat enough in itself. Considering, of course, the way the lad had come by it. Mamma's leaving it to him had been such a surprise, such a shock, that to make Finch's coming of age a moment for festivity seemed too cruel. Yet, there was another way of looking at it. Might not the excitement of a party help to drown the bitterness of the moment for Finch's elders, as the clamour of a wake smothers the sorrow of the bereaved? Might they not well join their hands and sing–"For he's a jolly good fellow–," even while in their hearts they mourned–"Oh, sorrow, sorrow the day"? He grasped the nettle, as was his wont when driven to it, and, raising his eyes to Piers's face, said calmly:

"We've just been discussing some sort of celebration for Finch's coming of age. What would you suggest?"

Renny, with concentrated gaze, began to poke the fire. Nicholas turned his massive head and regarded his brother sardonically. So that was the way old Ernest was going to save his face! Well, let them see what Piers would say about it. Piers was a tough-fibred fellow, no damned sentiment about him.

Piers stood stock-still, his hands pushed into his pockets, considering the full import of the question. His mind moved slowly round it, as a horse might move round a suspicious object suddenly placed in his paddock. He knew by the way Renny beat the smouldering lump of coal in the grate, by the hunch of Uncle Nicholas's shoulders, by the nervously defiant expression of Ernest, that the discussion had not been one of purely affectionate interest in the event. How could it be? He himself, though he had never said so, had had keen hopes of inheriting Gran's fortune. She had said to him time and again–"You're the only one of the lot who looks like my Philip. You've got his eyes, and his mouth, and his back, and his legs. I'd like to see you get on in the world!" God, that had been something to go on, hadn't it? He had lain awake of nights thinking how much he looked like his grandfather. He had stood below the oil-painting of him, in the uniform of a British captain, that hung in the dining-room, trying to look more like him. He had stood under the portrait pursing his lips, denting his brow, at the same time making his eyes more prominent, till his face felt rigid and he half expected the old boy to wink at him as though they had a secret in common. But it had not worked, it had not worked. Finch, with his lanky form, his hollow cheeks, and the limp lock hanging on his forehead, had, somehow or other, wormed his way into Gran's affections, had got the money. How he had got it was a question now dead, and why dally with the corpse? The living fact was Finch's birthday, Finch's fortune dropping like ripe fruit on that birthday, into the midst of the family.

He said, in his voice that had a ring of heartiness which made the labourers of the farm he rented from Renny put up with a good deal of arrogance from him:

"I think it's a very good idea. As for the sort of thing, anything at all will please Finch. Just the idea of goodwill, and all that––"

Renny was glad of this unexpected support from Uncle Ernest and Piers. He would have given the dinner party in any case, but he preferred that the guests should not be unwilling. (Even Nicholas gave a grunt that might be taken for acquiescence.) He thought–"We're closer together than anyone knows, far closer than anyone could know."

Piers swayed a little, hands in pockets, and went on–"We gave Finch rather a nasty time after the will was read. We were pretty rough on him. He went out and tried to drown himself, didn't he?"

"No need to drag that up," said Renny.

Ernest clenched his hand and examined the whiteness of his knuckles. Nicholas pressed Mooey to him. Suddenly flames sprang from the fire, filling the room with warm colour, turning Sasha, curled on the hearth-rug, into a glowing golden ball.

"Well, there's just this need," returned Piers, "it reminds us that it's up to us to make him feel that that sort of thing's all done with. Make him feel that he's forgiven––"

Renny interrupted–"There isn't anything to forgive."

"Perhaps not. But you know what I mean. I know that all this year and a half–or whatever the time is–he's felt like a sneak––"

"And wasn't he a sneak?" demanded Nicholas.

"Yes. Probably he was. But he's got the money. And he's as weak as water. If his family don't stand by him, there'll be lots of other people who'll make up to him. Mark my words, he'll go through Gran's money in no time. And do no good to anyone–not even himself."

"A Daniel come to judgment," murmured Nicholas.

Piers smiled imperturbably. "You may be as sarcastic as you like, Uncle Nick, but you know I'm talking sound sense. Finch is bound to be a dud when it comes to handling money."

He broke off rather suddenly, halted by the expressions of the three others who could see the door to which he had his back. The door had been hesitatingly opened and Finch's long face had looked around it.

"Hello, Unca Finch!" cried Mooey. "I'm here!"

"Come in, come in, and shut the door!" said Ernest almost too heartily.

"We were just talking about you," said Piers cheerfully.

Finch stood with his hand on the door-knob, a sheepish grin making his face less attractive than usual. "I–I guess I won't come in then."

"Shall I tell him what we were saying?" Piers asked of Renny.

Renny shook his head. "Time enough for that." He moved along the settee to make room for Finch.

Finch dropped beside him, drew up one bony knee and clasped it in his long shapely hands. "Well," he said, "it's been an awful day, hasn't it? Lucky for me it's Saturday, so I haven't to go into 'Varsity. How is your cold, Uncle Ernest?"

"Getting steadily worse." Again he tooted his nose into his silk handkerchief.

"It has threatened, arrived, and grown steadily worse, all in the space of an hour," said Nicholas, in a soft voice.

"I've got one too," said Finch, and he coughed without restraint.

"You shouldn't have been hanging about the stables this afternoon," said Renny.

"I got fed up with the house. Been in all day. Swotting."

He was devoured by curiosity to know what they had been saying about him. He was sure they often talked of him. He had an uneasy and morbid sense of importance. He wished they would begin again. And yet he shrank, definitely and quiveringly, from being the centre of discussion. He was like a convert to Catholicism who dreads the confessional yet yearns for it all too frequently.

Renny was conscious of Finch's unease. Through their bodies, in contact on the settee, there passed a communion instinctive as the passage of a bird by night. As though to give the boy confidence, his elder pressed closer against him, then, lest that should seem like a caress, he turned to charring.

"You should have seen this fellow's face!" he exclaimed. "He appeared in the door of Cora's stall just as she was dropping her foal. He was absolutely goggle-eyed. You'd have thought he'd been born only yesterday himself, he looked so shocked."

"Look here," cried Finch hotly, "you know, I always keep away from those things. I didn't know what was going on till I got there. I–it's just that I don't care about seeing––"

"Of course, you don't," comforted Renny. "And you sha'n't! We'll not let you be frightened again."

"Oh, hell, I wasn't frightened! It was only so beastly–coming on it all so suddenly."

Piers observed–"You see, he had thought all along that colts were brought into the world like babies. He believed that the vet brought them in his Ford, with their manes all crimped and their tails tied up with ribbon, and a little celluloid bit in their mouths in place of a comforter!"

Finch joined, in spite of himself, in the burst of laughter at his expense.

Mooey sat up and looked from one strongly marked laughing face to another. He declared, solemnly–

"Oh, hell, I'm not f'ightened!"

His father stared at him. "What's that you said?"

"I said–" he put his hands across his eyes and peeped between his fingers.

"Well, don't say it again!"

"He should not be sworn before," remarked Ernest.

"Whose boy are you?" asked Nicholas, bouncing him.

"Yours!" shouted Mooey, reaching for Sasha's tail.

"Ah, ah, ah," admonished Ernest. "If you hurt the kittey, out you go!"

Renny had been reflecting joyously on Cora's safe delivery, on her marvellous intelligence. He said, raising his voice to drown out the others:

"I wish you could have heard her trying to tell me all about it. It was all over, and I'd been to the office for some tea I thought I'd look in to see how she was getting on before I came to the house. The vet and Wright were with her. Everything was nice and tidy. She'd got clean straw and she was nozzling the foal. But the moment she heard my step she lifted her head. She gave me a look. Well–you can talk about the looks in women's eyes, but I've never seen a look like that in the eyes of any woman I've ever known. They simply beamed. And she pricked her ears and whinnied to me–'Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho'–like that!" Softly and with scrupulous understanding he imitated the maternal whinney.

Every eye was on him. A warm receptivity drew them close to him. The hour became beautiful to him. He looked at Uncle Nicholas sucking at his pipe, the deep lines of his face relaxed into tenderness as he cherished the weight of Mooey's soft body, his years numbering only five less than eighty. At Uncle Ernest smiling in the firelight, his fingertips against the pulsing of Sasha's throat. At Piers, with his fresh ruddiness, still standing, for he seemed, like one of his own horses, either to stand or lie down. At Finch, nursing his thin knee, reflecting his own grin of triumph. At Mooey in his blue jersey suit, his white bare legs, his waving brown hair and blue eyes. Here they were collected, six males, in the generous accord of kinship, of common interest. He said to Piers:

"Tell him, if you like."

"Tell him what?"

"About his birthday."

If a bomb had been thrown at Finch he might have been less staggered. To be told about his birthday! That day which was advancing on him like a juggernaut. That day when he would come into possession of that to which he could never feel that he had the right. When he must, under the eyes of his uncles and brothers, take, as it were, the food out of their mouths. Though, in truth, none of them had seen the colour of old Adeline's money for thirty years before she had died. All that time she had been hoarding it and living on Renny–and Renny's father before him.

"My birthday," he stammered. "What about it?"

Piers had been watching Finch's face. He had read his thoughts there as one might observe the shadows of frightened birds. He answered tolerantly:

"Only that we're going to celebrate it. Give you a party of sorts. Isn't that the idea, Renny?"

Renny nodded, and Ernest said–"Yes, we were talking about it before you came in. We thought a nice little dinner–some of your own friends–and Nicholas and I, if you don't think we're too old."

"Champagne," put in Nicholas heavily. "I propose to buy the champagne. And drink some too, though it will play the devil with my gout." Something in Finch's face had touched him. He gave him a smile that was not grudging.

They were not pulling his leg. They were not trying to make a fool of him. They were in dead earnest about the birthday party. His throat contracted so that he could not speak for a moment. Then he got out:

"Why–I say–it's frightfully good of you! I'd like it, of course. But, look here, if it's going to be much trouble or expense–please don't bother! But I'd like it all right!"

But, even as he stammered the words, doubt assailed him. Could he really stand the strain of a party on that birthday? Wouldn't it be better if he were to sneak away so that the brazen glare of its sun might not beat on him as the central object of its rising?

"Look here!" he cried. "I don't think you'd better do it! I really don't think you'd better do it!"

"Why?" Four vigorous voices boomed the question at him.

"Because," he almost whispered, "I–I really think–I'd just like to spend the day quietly."

He was not, at any rate, allowed to spend the next few minutes quietly. Laughter engulfed him, closed over him, submerged him. And when, at last, there was comparative silence again, he heard himself mumbling, with scarlet face:

"Oh, well, if you really want to give a birthday party for me, you can do it! I don't give a darn."