Читать книгу Finch's Fortune - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 4

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THE TWO WIVES

While the men of the family were gathered in the lamplight in Ernest's room, the two women of the family and the youngest brother, Wakefield, a boy of thirteen, were sitting in the twilight of the drawing-room below. The windows of this room faced south-west, so that a reluctant daylight still made the occupants visible to each other. Finch had been playing the piano to them before he had been drawn upstairs by the magnet which a group of the Whiteoaks in talk together invariably became to one of their number outside the circle.

"I don't see why he should have gone," remarked Pheasant. "It was so nice having him play to us in the twilight." She had drawn her chair as close as possible to the window to catch the last light on the diminutive jersey she was knitting for Mooey. She felt rather than saw the way with the needles now, her cropped brown head drooping on her slender neck above them.

"It's the same old thing," said Alayne quietly. "They can't keep away from each other. It's that amazing fascination they have for each other." Then, remembering that Wakefield was curled up in a wing chair in a dim corner of the room, she added, with a constrained lightness in her tone–"I've never known a family so attached."

Wakefield asked, in the clear, probing voice of the precocious child:

"Have you known many families, Alayne? You are an only child, and almost all the friends you ever talk about are only children. I don't see how you can know what other large families are like."

"Don't be so cheeky, Wake," said Pheasant.

"No, but truly," he persisted, raising his face, a small white disc, in the shadow of the chair, "I don't see how Alayne knows really anything about large family life."

"I know all that I need to know," returned Alayne, with a little asperity.

"All you need to know for what, Alayne?"

"Why, for understanding this particular family. Its peculiarities and its moods."

He was sitting cross-legged, his hands clasped before him, and he began to rock gently on his buttocks, as boredom gave place to enjoyment. "But I don't think, Alayne, that understanding a family's peculiarities is all you need to understand when you've got to live with them like you've got to live with us, Alayne, do you?"

"Wakefield, you should not say the name of a person you are talking to so often!"

"You mean that I should not say your name because I talk to you so often?"

"No, I mean that you should not say my name so often when you talk to me!"

"Then, why don't you say what you mean, Alayne?"

"Wakefield!"

"Now you're saying my name every minute! In fact, you're saying nothing else. Isn't that rather unreasonable?"

Pheasant was making suffocating sounds. Alayne controlled her desire to quarrel with her small brother-in-law. She said:

"Well, perhaps it is. What is it that you think I should understand since I must live with you all?"

Continuing to rock himself, he answered–"It's why we're so fond of each other and why we can't keep away from each other. That's what you ought to understand."

"Perhaps you'll be good enough to explain it to me."

He unclasped his hands and spread the fingers. "I couldn't possibly explain. I feel it, but I can't explain it. Doesn't your woman's infruition tell you?"

Alayne forgave him his precocity, his impudence, for that exquisite mistake. She laughed delightedly. But Pheasant, not far from childhood herself, saw nothing amusing in the word. She said:

"I think it's a very good word. It sounds like a very good psychological kind of expression."

"I am wondering," said Alayne, for she was rather tired of the little boy's presence in the room, "why you don't go up to join the others. How can you be happy away from them?"

"I'm not happy," he answered sadly. "I'm just killing time. I'd join the other men like a shot, only that I'm not on speaking terms with any of them."

"But why? What has happened?"

"Oh, just one thing and another. I hate talking about old quarrels and bygone feuds. I feel myself getting friendly towards them even now. I think I will go upstairs." But he lingered, for he loved the society of women. In his own rather aloof way he loved his two sisters-in-law. He respected Alayne, but it was his delight to draw her into a quarrel. He patronised Pheasant, whom he called "my good girl" or even "my good woman." His delicacy kept him indoors in rough weather such as this. So he passed his time threading his way in and out of the various relationships of the family, his sensitive nerves alive to all that went on. He was happy, yet he was lonely. He was reaching the age when he began to be afraid that he was not understood.

The twilight was turning to dusk, and Pheasant rose to light the squat lamp that stood on the centre-table.

"Light the candles instead," pleaded Alayne. "Let us have something different for this evening."

"Yes, do!" cried Wakefield. "It may cheer us up."

A shout of laughter came down to them from Uncle Ernest's room.

"Just think of the good time they're having," said Wakefield ruefully.

Alayne had risen too. She went to him and stroked his head. "Are you sure you're not yet friendly enough to join in?" she asked.

"Not yet. Besides, I like the candle-light."

The candle-light, she thought, liked him. It played across the clear pallor of his face and in the brown depths of his eyes as though in a conscious caress. It had a mind to Pheasant too, as she sat down under the branching silver arms, shining with a kind of tremulous serenity on her thin young hands as they moved above the scarlet of the little jersey.

Alayne began to walk restlessly about the room looking intently at objects, the minutest details of which she already knew by heart, picking up a small china figure and holding it in her two hands, as though to absorb something of its cool smoothness. She saw her reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece and furtively examined it, wondering whether or not her looks had failed her in the past year. Sometimes she thought they had. And, if they had, or were failing her, small wonder, she thought. She had been through enough to fray the velvet edge of any woman's bloom. Her first marriage–that disastrous marriage with Eden. His infidelity. The torture of her thwarted love for Renny. Her separation from Eden. Her return to New York and the exactions of her work there. Her second visit to Jalna to nurse Eden through his illness. His affair with Minny Ware. Their divorce. Her marriage to Renny last spring. All this in four years and a half!

Small wonder if she had changed! Yet–had she changed? That was what she was trying to make out in the glass. But one could never really tell in candle-light. It was so flattering. Wakefield, for instance, who often looked sallow in the daytime, had a white flower-petal skin in this light, and there was the lovely pointed shadow of Pheasant's eyelashes on her cheek.

She drew a step closer to the glass, pretending to be interested in Pheasant's work, but her eyes returned to the scrutiny, almost sombre, of her own reflection. She saw the glint of the candle-light on the brightness of her hair, how it touched her cheek bones and the explicit curves of her mouth. No, she was not going off in her looks, but she had become quite definitely a woman. There was no girlishness in that face, the contours of which had come to her from the Dutch ancestry of her mother. She fancied that the salient expression of her face was one of stolidity. It showed, too, endurance, but not patience. Intellectuality subservient to passion. That capability for passion that might submerge all else seemed to her to have been grafted on to her original personality, her original conception of herself, at any rate, as a new species of tree capable of bearing extravagant flowers and fruit, might have been grafted on one of conventional species.

She had been married to Renny almost ten months, and she understood no better than before she had married him what his conception of life and love truly was. What did he think? Or was he guided only by instinct? What did he really think of her, now that he had got her? He had no taste for self-analysis. To dig into the depths of his desires, his beliefs, and produce the ore of his egoism for her inspection, would have been abhorrent to him. And apparently he had no curiosity about her beyond the most primitive. His absorption in his own life was immense. Did he expect her, she wondered, now that she was harnessed to his side, to gallop through her life without question, sniffing the bright air, grazing in the comfortable pasture, and returning at night to the dark privacy of their mutual passion? He had none of her relentless desire to see things clearly. His conception of their relationship was so simple that it was almost repellent to her finical mind.

She turned hurriedly from the glass, for she saw Wakefield's eyes on her. She began once more to pace up and down the room, her hands clasped behind her back, as she had often seen her father pace in his study. She smiled ironically, wondering if all these stirrings in her mind might possibly be reduced to the old feminine questions–"Does he still love me?" "Does he love me as much as ever?"

She heard him coming down the stairs noisily (as he always did) as though there were not a moment to spare. He seemed to her like the winter wind, sharp, full of cold energy, rushing by her. He must not pass the door of the drawing-room, perhaps go out again, without speaking to her! She went swiftly to the door, but, just as she reached it, he opened it wide. He stood, startled and smiling to find her so close to him.

"I was coming to find you," he said.

She returned, with childish reproach in her voice:

"I have been here all the afternoon. I heard you going upstairs ever so long ago."

"Yes? I heard the piano as I passed, so I supposed Finch was playing to you. You know I can't sit down and listen to music in the middle of the afternoon." He put his arm around her. His eyebrows shot up as he saw the lighted candelabrum. "Well, you are a ghostly-looking trio! What's the matter with the lamp?"

Pheasant answered–"We like the candle-light. It's so mysterious."

His eyes rested appraisingly on the slender curve of her neck. "It's becoming, at any rate. I didn't know you'd such a pretty little neck, Pheasant."

"I was just thinking," said Wakefield, "that she looks like Anne Boleyn. What a nice little neck for the headsman!" He uncurled himself and came over to the two, pushing his dark hair from his forehead, smiling up at Renny.

Pheasant dropped her knitting and clasped her neck with her fingers. "Oh, don't, Wake! You make me shiver!"

That was just what he liked. "You may well shiver, my girl," he said. "You're just the sort who would have lost her head in those days!"

Renny drew the boy to his side and kissed him. "How have you been to-day, youngster?" he asked, with a solicitude that had once been touching to Alayne, but of late had more often irritated. He felt nothing of her irritation, but Wakefield did. He pressed against his brother, putting his arms under his coat, and looked sideways at Alayne, as though to say–"I can get nearer to him than you can." He murmured–"Not very well, thanks, Renny."

Renny sighed. "Too bad." He bent and kissed him again. "Now, I'll tell you something to cheer you. Cora has had a fine little foal this afternoon, and they're both as well as possible." He turned to Alayne. "You know, out of four foals she's lost two, and the others were weakly–but this! Why, it's a regular rip!"

"How splendid," said Alayne, trying to feel excited. Her voice was drowned in the enthusiasm of Pheasant and Wakefield.

Was it a filly? Was it like the dam or the sire? A filly. The very image of Cora. Up on its legs. A very grenadier of a foal. They talked all at once, their eyes shining. Mooey's jersey dropped to the floor.

Renny disengaged himself from Alayne and Wakefield and stood in the middle of the room making quick gestures as he talked, his highly coloured face alight. He repeated to them the story of Cora's sagacity, of her greeting to him after her labour, imitated that whinney so fraught with meaning.

Alayne watched him, scarcely hearing what he said, preoccupied by her love for him, by the fascination his presence had for her. She waited impatiently for him to finish his recital, eager to draw him away upstairs, where she might have him to herself, away from these others who seemed always coming between them. She held a pinch of his tweed coat in her fingers and, when the opportunity came, she drew him towards the door. "Come upstairs," she said, "I have something in my room I want to show you."

"Can't we see it later?" he asked. "Won't it be cold up there for you?"

"That doesn't matter."

"I'll come, too!" Wakefield clasped Renny's arm.

"No," said Alayne sharply. "It's much too cold for you up there."

But he walked doggedly behind them into the hall and followed them up the stairs. Renny hesitated at the door of his room. "Is it in here you want me to go?" He spoke like an obedient but slightly unwilling child.

"No; in my room."

She stood with her hand on the door-knob letting him go past her into the room, but, as Wakefield attempted to pass, she gave him a look so forbidding that he drew back and leaned across the banister pretending to gaze at something in the hall below to hide his chagrin.

She closed the door behind her and looked at Renny with a sudden feeling of wry amusement. She was like a gaoler, she thought.

This room had been his sister's before her marriage. It now bore little evidence of the padded, curtained, frilled comfort that had been Meg's delight. It was almost austere, the cretonne of mauve and cream, the few pictures in a small group together. In the summer, when she had furnished it with furniture that had been her mother's and stood a single porcelain vase on the mantelpiece with a spray of delphinium in it, the effect had been charming. The window had been open and the drawn-back curtains had discovered the warm beauty of the garden. But now, in the chill of winter, with the February snow furring the pane, the room looked aloof and colourless, even to her. To Renny, it struck a chill to the heart. She realised that she should not have brought him here, at this hour, in this temperature.

"Well," he asked, looking restively about, "what is it you want to show me?"

"This." She indicated an embroidered mauve bedspread she had been making and had that afternoon laid in its graceful simplicity on the bed.

He frowned, looking at it. "It looks like a stage bed. The whole room has a stagey effect to me. It's unreal. It's not comfortable. There's nothing inviting about it. Of course, I know it's in frightfully good taste and all that, but–" he gave the grin that was so like his grandmother's–"it's lucky I usually come in here in the dark or I might get depressed!"

Her eyes met his with a commanding look, saying–"Go no farther," but her lower lip quivered, saying–"Go as far as you like."

He sat down on the side of the bed and drew her on to his knee. He hid his face against her neck. She would have relaxed in his arms, but she remembered the new embroidered bedspread and sprang up. She took him by the lapels of his coat and gave him a little tug.

"You must not sit there!" she exclaimed. "You are crushing it dreadfully."

He got to his feet and looked on ruefully while she stroked the heavy silk. He always admired the grace of her wrists when she performed any quick and capable act with her hands. She had good hands on the rein too. That was one of the things that had attracted him to her.

She straightened herself and looked at him with a half-tender, half-reproving wrinkling of the nose. "Darling, I'm sorry! But I really can't let you sit there.... And, don't you think you had better change your things? You smell ... quite, quite a little of the stable."

He gave a noisy sniff at himself. "Do I? But I always do. It's a part of me. Do you mind so much?"

"This time there's a smell of disinfectant mixed with it."

"I scrubbed my hands in the office."

"Oh, my dear! Why will you do that? Icy water and a coarse towel! No wonder your hands look scraped!" She took one in hers and examined it. "And such shapely hands, too!"

"Well," he spoke with resignation, "if I must, I must! Come along with me while I do it."

As they went toward his room she remembered their first day at home after the return from their honeymoon. They had gone over the house, linked together, seeing it in the new light of their union. Each room they had entered had thrust forward its crowd of old memories to greet them. "Here we are!" memories had cried in the drawing-room; and there was Grandmother at her game of backgammon, her purple velvet tea-gown rich in the firelight, her rings flashing on her strong old hands. There were family gatherings, family bickerings, and last, Grandmother, nobly extended in her coffin, with Uncle Ernest weeping at her feet. "Here we are!" memories had cried in the sitting-room; and there was Eden, pale and subdued, lying on the sofa, as he had looked when they had brought him home ill from New York. And again, there was the scene of the reading of the will, one not to be dwelt on. She had not been present at that scene, but she had heard about it and she knew it would be long before the room would surrender the memory of it. Memories had shouted–"Here we are"–in the dining-room. Never, never could she change the dining-room. She felt as impotent before it, its massive furniture, its heavy curtains, its family portraits, as a querulous mouse might feel nibbling at the base of a colossal cheese. There, was and always would be, the stronghold of the Whiteoak tradition. There, was and always would be, the shade of old Adeline vexed by any delay of the dinner, most forward of all in the sending back of her plate for renewals of food, her fiery brown eyes under their rust-red brows gleaming with satisfaction. There, were the unconquerable memories of heavy meals, eaten with all the more gusto because of dissension. And in old Adeline's bedroom across the hall, where her parrot Boney still perched on the head-board of her painted bed, feeding on his memories of her, Renny had said, hesitatingly–"I have sometimes thought I should like to sleep here. She left me the bed in her will, you know. God, what extraordinary dreams one might have!"

Upstairs, from every bedroom, memories had crowded out to them. They had begun their new life hampered by far too many memories. They had passed the room that had been hers and Eden's, with averted eyes, and had gone with relief to the open door of Renny's room. Looking about she had wondered how she would ever make herself at home in it, what could be done to ameliorate the uncompromising masculinity of it. Luckily it was large and airy. Two new walnut beds with straight lines there must be to take the place of the ugly light oak bed that sagged in the middle from his weight. Those hideous curtains that must surely have been his sister's choice, and that he usually kept tied in knots that they might not obscure the air and light, must give place to soft-toned casement-cloth, of mauve perhaps–no, not of mauve. Mauve would fade from the very atmosphere there before the sun had touched it. Mulberry would be better, or green.... And the wallpaper.... And the pictures on the wallpaper....

He had broken in on her thoughts by saying in a somewhat constrained voice:

"I wonder if you would mind very much taking Meggie's room for yourself. It's next door, and it would leave me free to look after Wake. He has always slept with me, you know."

She had been startled, even angered by the request. Yet withal a subtle sense of relief had entered into her feelings after the first moment. The idea of a retreat of her own, a harbour for her tastes and her reserves, had not been unpleasant. But to give up the shelter, the provocation of his presence ... even more, to think that he was suggesting, almost laconically suggesting, the giving up of her presence in his room. After what they had been to each other for three months! After all he had confessed to her of his fevered longings for her when she had been in that house as Eden's wife! Had his longings developed into no desire for sweet companionship?

"Well?" he had asked, with a sidelong look at her.

Something stubborn in her made her say:

"I think Wakefield would be much better sleeping alone. You must often disturb him coming in late. And your habit of smoking while you undress."

"I don't disturb him nearly as often as he disturbs me."

"All children–especially delicate ones–are better sleeping alone."

"Not Wake. Not with his nerves and heart!"

"It's quite all right, Renny, but–why do you only tell me now?" She had felt both irritation and mortification, unhappy feelings that he always had had, and always would have, the power to rouse in her, by a tone in his voice, by his silence.

"I didn't want to." He had spoken like a wayward child, and yet with a taciturnity that put him out of her reach.

That was all over now, but the recollection of it often returned to her, for it had seemed to show her quite definitely that her coming could change nothing of Jalna, that Renny had taken possession of her life, but that she could never do more than enter into his as a fresh stream into the salt sea.

Now, as they went together to his room, they passed Wakefield, still leaning against the banister in an attitude of dejection. He kept his eyes averted from them, and Renny did not glance at him. Alayne was conscious of the child's jealousy of her and she suspected that Renny also was conscious of it. She had a feeling that Wakefield grudged her the freedom of Renny's room, that he would have liked to give her such a forbidding look as she had given him, even reduce her to the condition of lolling disconsolately against the banister.

She closed the door with decision. Renny sat down and began to unlace his boots, the metal tips of the laces making small hurried sounds and, at last, the heavy soles two distinct thuds on the floor. She liked to watch him doing things, however commonplace. He was a delight to her and she wanted him all for her own, in tenderness, and in completeness. She said:

"Why can't we see more of each other, alone? I was for two hours this afternoon in the drawing-room! I hoped you would come."

Eagerly he began to explain, but she stopped him. "Oh, I know about the colt. It was beautiful having it come along so well. But there were others there. Surely you didn't have to stay with her all the time."

He looked about, with a troubled expression, for his shoes, as though, once in them, he would be impervious to her onslaught. She continued, love and peevishness making her voice tremble:

"You may not believe it, but I'm lonely sometimes. When I think of our honeymoon in England–travelling about–the voyage home–it all seems so lovely! And now you're so absorbed by things!" She sat down on the side of the bed with a disconsolate look. "And it isn't as though you were like many American husbands, absorbed by big enterprises that demand concentration––"

She was stopped by the outraged expression of his face. Egotism, hurt pride flamed there. She had thought his lean face could be no more red, but it was more red. And, deep in his eyes, was a look of sorrow.

"But–but–" he expostulated, "can't you understand?"

"No, I can't," she answered relentlessly. "Why, I really believe that if I were going to have a baby you wouldn't make a bit more fuss!"

"You're jealous!" he exclaimed. "Jealous of a mare! I never heard of such a thing."

Her womanhood was submerged by a desire to be petted. She said, with the whining intonation of a five-year-old–"I don't care. It's perfectly true! If I were having a baby this minute you couldn't do anything more for me than you did for her!"

"Yes, I could! I'd take to the woods, blizzard and all, and never come out again until it was all over!"

He came to her and sat down beside her on the bed.

"Do you know," he said, drawing her against him, "that for a sensible woman, an intellectual, almost high-brow woman, you can be sillier than any woman I've ever known."

She knew that what he said was true. She knew that he was both surprised and amused by her silliness, but she had worked herself up into this state and she did not care. She pressed closer to him pushing her shoulder under his arm. The room was grey and cold. He disengaged one hand and extracted a cigarette from his case. He lighted it, throwing the match on the floor. The smoke curled about their heads, fragrant in their nostrils. They held each other close, rocking together gently in the twilight. He said:

"Isn't it nice that there's one floor we can throw matches on, and one bedspread we can rumple?"

Downstairs in the drawing-room Pheasant waited for Piers to bring young Maurice to her. It was time the child was put to bed, but she was in no hurry to leave the pleasant warmth of the fire. She sat very upright on a beaded ottoman before it, thinking of Alayne and Renny. Were they happy? Was their marriage going to be a success? Speculation on the relations between men and women was the frequent subject of her thoughts. She had known too much of the suspense, the cruelty of these relations in her short life. There had been no mother to throw a protective shadow between her and her father. The two had been alone together–he unhappy, thwarted, his affection for her, when it was not negligible, half a sneer. Hers, for him, half-deprecating, half-defiant. He had let her run wild ... and she had run wild–straight into her marriage with Piers. They too had had their own troubles. And when she had time to spare from their affairs, she had watched the complications hinging on the diverse personalities about her. She felt herself old in the wisdom of life. She felt maternal towards Alayne, who was ten years her senior, even though Alayne had been married and divorced, and was married again. And to Whiteoaks each time! Ah, there lay the trouble! The Whiteoaks! Alayne never would–never could understand them. She was an alien, not so much in country as in soul. Pheasant had been brought up next door to the family at Jalna. She had been familiar with Renny since she could toddle. She wondered sagaciously if she might not come to the point one day of giving some good advice to Alayne. She laid her knitting in her lap, and her eyes became large as she pictured herself giving it. But still she could not imagine what the advice would be.

Piers and Mooey were descending the stairs, not with a rush as Renny had done, but slowly and carefully, to suit the legs of the little boy. All the way down Mooey was talking, reiterating the fact that he was not afraid, that he was not going to fall.

"Don't keep repeating that," Pheasant heard Piers say. "It's babyish."

"I'm not a baby," said Mooey stoutly; and after a moment of deep thought, he added–"Oh, hell, I'm not f'ightened!"

"What's that I hear my baby saying?" said Pheasant.

"He has nothing," said Piers, in the doorway, "between babbling like a babe in arms and cursing like a trooper."

"Oh, he hears too much, the poor darling!" and Pheasant held out her arms to him.

He flew into them, burying his face in her lap. The firelight brought out a ruddy tinge in his brown hair.

"Look!" exclaimed Pheasant, touching it. "I believe he's going to have a tinge of the Court red in his hair."

"I hope not. One of them in the family is quite enough. What's that you're knitting?"

"A new jersey for baby. See, doesn't the colour become him?" She held it under his bright face.

"Where are the others?" asked Piers, sitting down, facing her across the fire.

"Renny and Alayne went upstairs. Wake went tagging after them. Really, Piers, I think she gets awfully fed up sometimes–never having him to herself."

"Does she? What does she want him to herself for?"

"Well, after all, they're practically newly married. And days go by when she scarcely sees him alone unless she tramps through the snow to the stable and corners him there. And she told me herself that when she does he's quite likely to ignore her and to stand gazing at some old horse as though he'd never seen it before. For my part, I have great sympathy with her."

Piers listened to all this with a broadening grin. He threw himself back in his chair, thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and said:

"Now what do you suppose the latest is? A birthday party for young Finch! With the family, ancients and babes, dancing around a birthday cake, with a cheque for a hundred thousand tucked away in the middle of it!"