Читать книгу Finch's Fortune - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 6

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THE BIRTHDAY

It came on the first day of March. He had narrowly escaped being born on the twenty-ninth of February, which, in addition to having been born with a caul, would have singled him out with a directness almost ominous. As it was, he was quite satisfied to have first seen the light with the arrival of Spring; and, on this particular birthday, the Season did not, as was its wont, appear crouching under the cloak of Winter. On the contrary, it was a day of remarkable mildness for the time of year. Rain had fallen steadily all the preceding day and night, and by the time the sun had emerged from the rain-clouds there were already patches of bare ground on the lawn. By noon that part of it which was not in shadow lay revealed to the warmth of the sun. Last year's grass had retained something of its colour, and even seemed to have grown, as the hair of a dead person is said to flourish morbidly for long after burial.

The withered forms of last year's asters and calendula lay sodden on the soaking soil of the flower border; under the hedge last year's leaves lay in a discoloured ridge. Yet all was enlivened by a boundless hope. The abnormally large drops of rain and melted snow that were strung on every twig and blade and ledge were glancing with radiant brightness. The sky was swept clean of all that came between its sun and the earth. No return of cold and snow could efface the promise of this day.

The door into the hall stood wide open letting in the sun. It was on such a day as this that old Adeline would take her first walk of the year. Wrapped in innumerable cloaks, scarves, and petticoats, so that she looked a very battleship of a woman, she would come into view, supported by her sons, and present herself foursquare to the reviving world. "I'm out again!" she would exclaim. "Ha! I like the smell of the fresh air!"

Finch thought a good deal about her to-day, recalling their strange delayed intimacy that had drawn them so mysteriously together, wondering if it were possible to him to live in a way that would have won her approbation. Still, she had known him for what he was, had loved him, had accepted him as one of "the whelps" her son Philip had got by his second wife.

He stood in the porch sunning himself, and watched Rags furbishing up the hall. How shabby both hall and servant looked in the noonday brightness! The slender walnut banister and carved newel-post were elegant enough, but the wallpaper along the stairway showed dingy where small hands had been pressed against it. Certainly it had never been repapered in his time. The carpet on the stairs was threadbare. The Turkish rug on the floor had lost all its fringe. The fringe had reappeared miraculously on the cuff of Rags's coat. This cuff was being violently agitated as he polished the mirror in the hat-rack above which the carved head of a fox sneered down at him.

"Well," he said, seeing Finch, "many happy returns of the d'y to you, sir!"

"Thanks, Rags."

"We couldn't 'ave a finer d'y for the occasion, not if it 'ad been hordered! It's a fine thing to be twenty-one, sir, and to 'ave all the money in the family." He looked over his shoulder at Finch with an air of innocent envy.

Finch felt like taking the fellow by the scruff of his grizzled neck and shaking him. He said–"You don't know what you're talking about, Rags."

The little Cockney proceeded imperturbably:

"It's a 'appy d'y for us all, I'm sure, sir. Mrs. Wragge was saying to me just a bit ago that she'd prayed for a fine d'y. I don't go in for prayer much myself, but, as the saying is, strawrs tell which way the wind blows. Not that she is much like a strawr, sir. More like a strawrstack, I'd say. I 'ardly dare to go into the kitchen this morning, she and Bessie are that worked up with excitement. And the thought of those caterers coming out from town with all their paraffinaliar!" He came to the door and shook out his cloth. He then produced a small, foreign-looking leather pocket-book from somewhere about his clothes. He proffered this to Finch with a bow.

"Will you accept this from me, Mr. Finch, as a little offering? I brought it 'ome with me from the War. It belonged to a German officer. And I've always thought that if the d'y come when I 'ad a pot of money, I'd use it myself. But the d'y 'asn't come, and it looks as though it never would come–not in this country, and at this job–so, if you'll accept it, I'll give it to you with my best wishes, and may it always be full!"

Finch took it, embarrassed. It was a handsome pocket-book, and there was something touching in Rags's expression as he offered it; but Finch always had the uncomfortable feeling that Rags was laughing in his sleeve at him.

"Thanks, very much," he mumbled. "It's an awfully good one." He opened it, looked in it, shut it, Rags regarding him with an expression of mingled sadness and pride. He gave his duster another shake and re-entered the hall.

Mooey was descending the stairs on his little seat, a step at a time. Finch watched him, feeling suddenly very happy. Everyone was amazingly nice to him. Renny had given him a wrist-watch. Piers and Pheasant, gold cuff-links. Uncle Nicholas a paper weight, and Uncle Ernest a water-colour from the wall of his own room. Alayne had given him a crocodile-skin travelling-bag, and Wakefield a large clothes brush which, he explained, would "come in handy to whack his kids with when he had any." Meggie's present was yet to arrive.

"Bump!" sang out Mooey. "I'm toming! Bump! Bump! Bump! I'm not f'ightened!"

Finch went to the foot of the stairs and snatched him up. He put him on his shoulder, and, out of the shadows of the past came a picture of himself, caught up thus by Renny. A queer thing life.... One tall strong body, one little weak body after another.... Some day Mooey would stand at the foot of the stairs and shoulder some tiny boy just as to-day he was doing.... And Mooey would be twenty-one, and whose would be the tiny boy? Some little Whiteoak, out of a Whiteoak body....

Mooey clasped Finch's head, and pressed his round flower-like face to Finch's thin one. "I want to go out on the nish geen gash," he said.

"The grass may be green, but it's not nice. It's nasty and soggy."

"I I–like nawsty soggy fings."

"Very well, I'll carry you out and stand you on your head on it." He ran out the door and down the steps.

"There's a nish soggy spot," said Mooey, pointing out a puddle.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," cried Finch. "I'll take you to the stables to see Uncle Renny." He had got an idea. He would find Renny and approach the subject of quitting the University this very hour. Renny was always more or less absent-minded and good-humoured when he was among his horses. The presence of Mooey would be a help too, for Renny had a way of staring at him speculatively and only half-listening to what was being said.

They found the master of Jalna in the paddock, mounted on a bright bay mare which he was training as a high-jumper. Two grooms stood by a hurdle, the top bar of which they raised and lowered in accordance with the shouted directions of the rider.

Finch, carrying Mooey wrapped in a man's jersey, stood by the enclosure unnoticed save by a casual glance. The mounting strength of the sun was poured down on this sheltered spot, giving the impression of a day in late April rather than one in early March. The intrinsic quality of all on which the sun rays fell was made evident in smell or colour. The earth, newly thawed, trampled by the feet of horses and men, gave forth a pungent and profoundly vital odour. There had been pressed and soaked and baked and frozen into it–ever since Captain Philip Whiteoak, almost eighty years before, had chosen this particular place for this purpose–rotted straw and manure, and the impalpable essence absorbed by the earth from the sanguine activities of men and beasts. Every hair in the young mare's mane and tail seemed charged with energy. Her hide glistened as though varnished, her eyes flashed back the light. Renny's strong-muscled, mud-spattered legs, his weather-beaten, sweating face, his bare head against which the hair was plastered, the red healthy faces of Wright and Dawlish, their capable hands that took up and replaced the fallen bar, the skin of their hands dry from the grooming of horses and stained with harness oil, all these were discovered in the spring sunlight.

Between the two men, the mare, and her rider there existed a sympathy not needing the expression of words. When she felt panic and sheered off from the jump or valiantly essayed it and failed, a like shadow seemed to fall across all four. She blew out her breath in what seemed a great sigh. The grooms dubiously replaced the bar; and Renny, wheeling her about, drew his brows together in a rueful frown. But, when she swung clear of the hurdle, and hung like a bird for a space against the sky, before she alighted triumphant and cantered down the course, a brightness of aspect descended as the sun's rays on men and mare. A group of cows that had collected as spectators by the fence of an adjoining enclosure looked on the scene with complete lack of sympathy. At the critical moment one might stop chewing the cud, as though the better to concentrate on what was going on, but, be the leap never so birdlike or the failure never so forlorn, the cud-chewing was resumed with an aloof serenity.

Finch thought–"She has done well; I believe it's a good time to speak."

Renny had dismounted and given the bridle to Wright and was strolling toward him, scrubbing the palms of his hands with a crumpled handkerchief.

"Wasn't she splendid?" asked Finch, scrutinising his elder's face. "I think she's going to be a wonderful jumper."

"I hope so. She's a sweet thing. I intend to ride her in New York this fall, if possible." He turned to Mooey. "Hello, what's the matter with your nose?" He gave the small feature a decisive wipe with the handkerchief.

"I suppose," said Finch, "he should have something on his head."

Mooey, his nose quite pink, observed:

"I'm going to jump a nish 'orsey and not be f'ightened neider."

"He talks too much about not being frightened," said Renny. "It sounds as though he were trying to reassure himself. I hope he's not going to be a duffer at riding, like you."

"I hope not," returned Finch dolefully. It took so little to cast him down.

There was silence for a moment while Renny struck at the flakes of mud on his legs with his riding-crop, then Finch set the little boy on his feet, and, turning to his brother, broke out with the energy of despair.

"Look here, Renny, it's impossible for me to go back to 'Varsity! I simply can't do it!"

Renny continued to strike at his leg with his riding-crop, but he did not speak. His face hardened.

Finch continued–"You can't know how it is with me. You're always doing the most congenial work. 'Varsity isn't congenial to me. It isn't anything to me but a grind and a flatness and an unreality. I don't see any sense in sticking it out."

The fiery brown eyes, before which he quailed, were raised to his. "What the hell is congenial to you? I wish you'd tell me. I thought music was, and I've let you take lessons and spend hours practising when you ought to have been studying. Then, when you play at a recital, you play your worst, and you tell me that audiences aren't congenial––"

"I didn't!" cried Finch. "I didn't say that! I said that I was afraid of audiences––"

"Afraid! By God–afraid–that's the trouble! You're always afraid! No wonder the kid there whines about not being frightened! You've put it in his head!"

Finch had turned white. He had begun to shake.

"Renny! Look here! Listen! I–I–you don't understand––"

"Of course I don't! Nobody understands. You're not like anyone else, are you? You're a student, and you can't study! You're an actor, and you can't act! You're a pianist, and you can't play! You're twenty-one, and you act like a girl in her teens!"

Finch flung out his hand. The sun touched the face of the wrist-watch Renny had given him that morning. He cursed himself for a fool. Why, oh why, had he chosen this day of all days for his declaration! He dropped his arm. He was cut to the heart.

Renny went on–"I suppose you think that because you're of age to-day and are coming into some money––"

"No! No, I don't! I only thought I'd like to tell you–at least, ought to tell you––"

"Why didn't you tell me long ago? Why did you let me go on planning for your education––"

In spite of the unhappy turmoil of his emotions, Finch could not help wondering what effort of the brain Renny had spent on him beyond the tardy digging up of his tuition fees, and the determination that he should not evade one lecture or examination.

He got out, hoarsely––"You shall have it all back!"

"Not a cent! I won't have a cent of it back!"

"But why? There's no reason why you shouldn't!" cried Finch distractedly.

"There's every reason. I won't take a cent of it."

"But why?"

"Because if I took it back I should not have reared you and educated you, as it was my duty to do."

"But there's no reason in that! I know how hard it is for you to get money. All along I've said to myself–'I'll make it up to Renny!' The thought of that bucked me up to tell you this to-day. Renny, you must take it back!"

"Not a penny. Well, I can't force you to go on, but I can feel that I've done my best, and, if you're a mess, it's not my fault!" He had worked himself into a temper. He showed his teeth, Finch thought, as though he would like to bite him. Things were blurred before Finch's eyes. The sunlit scene before him began to revolve. He put his hands on the palings and held himself together with an effort.

Mooey looked from one uncle to the other, his lip quivering. "I'm not f'ightened!" he said.

Renny made as if to strike him with his riding-crop. "Say that again and I'll thrash you!" Nothing on earth would have induced him to touch Mooey with the riding-crop, but he felt and looked as though he could. Mooey raised his voice in a howl of anguish.

At this moment Piers drove up to them in the car. He had been to the village and had brought the post. He got out with the letters in his hand. His son moved toward him screaming, in a kind of dance.

Renny said–"That's a nice young milksop you've got! He's frightened of his own shadow! He takes after his Uncle Finch!"

Piers's fatherliness was roused. He picked up his child and comforted him. "What's it all about? What's he been doing? It seems to me that you look fierce enough to frighten anyone."

"Oh, it's nothing," said Renny. "Only Finch has just been telling me that he's not going to 'Varsity any more. It's uncongenial to him."

Piers's prominent blue eyes took in the situation. He did not speak for a moment while he turned the matter over in his mind. Then he said in his deep voice:

"Well, it's no surprise to me. I always knew he didn't like college. I didn't like it myself. I don't see any sense in his taking a course in Arts–going in for a profession–unless he wants. If I were in his place I'd do just as he is doing."

Without another word Renny turned and strode toward the stable. Piers looked after the tall retreating figure with composure. "You've got his back up," he said. "He'll not get over this to-day."

"I don't know what I'm to do," said Finch bitterly. "I couldn't go on with it. And I thought I could make it up to him ... but he won't let me. He simply got in a rage...."

"Gran will never be dead while he lives! You may have her gold, but he has her temper."

Finch broke out–"I wish he had them both." His jaw shook so that he had to clench his teeth to control it.

"Keep your shirt on," said Piers soothingly. "You won't be twenty-one for long. My advice is to make the most of it. Go away for a while and he'll forgive you and want you back." He looked over the letters. "Here is one for you from England. A birthday greeting from Aunt Augusta, I guess."

Finch took the letter and glanced at the spidery handwriting. He turned, with an ache in his throat, in the direction of the house. "Thanks," he muttered; and added–"And thanks for standing up for me."

"That was nothing. I don't usually see eye to eye with you, but I do in this. You'd be a fool to waste your time in doing what you hate when you have all the world before you.... Do you like the cuff-links?" Piers was one of those who find it difficult to express thanks for a gift themselves, but who take a sincere pleasure in the reiterated thanks of others.

Finch brightened. "Oh, yes. I like them awfully."

"They're quite good ones, you know."

"I can see that. But you and Pheasant shouldn't have done it. It was too much."

"Well, I've never given you a present before ... and, if you like them...."

"I like them tremendously."

"We went into town together to pick them out. The day the car broke down and she got that chill."

Finch's gratitude deepened. "I remember. It was too bad her getting a chill on my account."

"She didn't mind.... There goes the stable clock. I'll be late for lunch. I don't suppose it will amount to much to-day, with the dinner coming on.... I'll take the kid with me."

On the way to the house Finch opened his Aunt's letter. He had a deep affection for her. She had shown him many kindnesses on her visits to Jalna, had worried considerably over his thinness, and tried unsuccessfully to fatten him. It was like her to have remembered his birthday, and to have posted her letter in time to reach him on the very day. He read, his lips twisting into a wry smile at the last paragraph:

"Lyming Hall,

Nymet Crews, Devon,

18th February.

"My dear Nephew,

"When you receive this letter you will, I trust, be well and happy, and at the proud moment of attaining your majority. You are arriving at manhood surrounded by the most auspicious circumstances. I only wish I might be with you to give you my good wishes in person. But I very much doubt whether I shall ever visit Canada again. The mere undertaking of the journey at my age is terrific. The sea voyage with its attendant nausea, the exhausting journey by rail in the discomfort and heat of your trains, and, added to this, the sad knowledge that my dear mother no longer awaits with extended arms for my coming. Neither do my brothers invariably show me that consideration which they should. Particularly I mention Nicholas. Mentioning him, of course, in the strictest confidence.

"I should like very much to have you visit me this summer during your holidays. Even a short stay in England at this period of your life would help to broaden you.

"I wish I could offer you lively society, as I might have done once; but those days are past. They are gone like the days when my parents entertained so lavishly at Jalna.

"But I can offer you young company in the shape of Sarah Court your cousin once removed. She and the aunt (by marriage) with whom she lives are coming from Ireland to spend part of the summer with me. Mrs. Court's husband was the brother of Sarah's father. They were the sons of Thomas Court, my mother's youngest brother. Mrs. Court is an Englishwoman, though still living in Ireland, and you would never think that Sarah herself was Irish. She is twenty-five, a quite superior girl intellectually, musical like yourself. I have always esteemed the aunt, though she is a very peculiar woman and places too much importance (in my opinion) on her high blood pressure. I am sure you and Sarah would get on together.

"If you would like to visit me, I shall write to Renny and tell him that it is my desire to have you. It was such a delight to me that he and Alayne were married from my house and spent their honeymoon nearby. Give my fondest love to my other dear nephews and nieces, my brothers (I so often long to see them), and my baby grand-nephew.

"I hope you will be very happy, my dear Finch, and I think you may rest assured that not one of us harbours any feeling of malevolence towards you in the matter of your inheritance.

"Your affectionate Aunt,

"Augusta Buckley.

"P.S.–Quite recently I had a letter from Eden. He approached me for money. He did not mention that woman.–A. B."

Finch carried the letter to Alayne where she was arranging carnations on the birthday-table.

"Look, Finch," she cried, "aren't they beauties? They arrived perfectly fresh. I arranged them at first with tulle banked about them, but it didn't suit the room at all. You can't do what you like with this room; it's got too much character."

Finch sniffed the carnations and eyed the expanse of damask and silver with some concern. He had never been the object of an occasion before, and the pleasure it gave him was overweighed by apprehension, even though the guests were only relations and the nearest neighbours. He said nervously:

"You don't suppose they'll drink my health, do you? Want me to make a speech or anything? I'd be in a blue funk if I thought that was hanging over me."

"Of course they'll drink your health. All you've got to do is to get up and make a little bow and say a few words of thanks."

Finch groaned.

"Don't be silly! How can you possibly be afraid of saying a few words at your own table when you played so splendidly before a hall full of people?"

"If you think you cheer me by bringing up that recital, you're mistaken. I hate the thought of it!"

"I don't! I look back on it with pride." But she dared not look at him for fear her eyes should betray her knowledge that he had not played his best.

He drew a long sigh. "Well, the table's awfully pretty. Where are we going to have lunch?"

"In the sitting-room. It's ready now."

"I've just had a letter from Aunt Augusta. Have you time to read it now?"

"Yes, I'd love to." She sat down on the arm of a chair near a window, in an attitude that suggested both repose and capability of purpose. Finch's eyes rested on the gold of her hair, the blue of her dress. Seeing her so he felt, as he often felt about her, that she never had and never could become one of them, even to the fitting of her person into the surrounding objects of the house. She looked as though she had just walked in from a different world, bringing with her an atmosphere of clarity and questioning, and would walk out again, her clarity perhaps disturbed, but her questioning unanswered. Yet she was easily agitated. Sometimes he felt a wildness of spirit in her, as though she would by her will force her way into the fibre of their life, take possession as she was possessed.

She looked up and found his eyes on her and smiled.

"What a characteristic letter!" she exclaimed. "I think her underlining is delicious. And her adjectives.... Oh, my dear, what could be more perfect than malevolence?" She turned the page and read the postscript, but she made no comment on it, except by a scornful movement of the lips.

"What do you think," asked Finch, "of my going over to visit Aunt Augusta? I'd like to go. I've just told Renny that I can't go back to 'Varsity."

"How did he take it?" She was not surprised because they had talked of that together. But she could not speak of Renny without all her being quivering into oversensitiveness.

"Just what you'd expect. We had a row."

"Oh, I'm sorry! What a shame–on your birthday!"

"Well–now he knows. One unexpected thing happened. Piers took my side."

She wondered why Piers had taken his side. She suspected him of being shrewd, and she could never be unconscious of his dislike for her, though it was concealed behind an air of heartiness. He had welcomed her even less as mistress of Jalna than he had welcomed her when she had first come there as Eden's wife. He would have liked Pheasant to be the only woman in the house, his wife, a young girl and docile, though she had been wanton once.

Alayne said–"You must go to England. You must!" She took him by the lapels of his coat and gave him a quick kiss. It was the first time she had ever kissed him. She realised his spiritual hunger, and the kiss was a gesture, not only of comfort, but of urge to the fulfilment of that hunger.

He felt a high excitement. His eyes shone. "How beautiful you are to me," he said, taking her hands in his.

"Do you know," she said teasingly, "I believe Aunt Augusta has it in her mind to make a match between you and this Sarah Court."

"Nonsense! She looks on me as a boy."

"Yes, but boys grow into husbands. Especially in a house with an attractive cousin."

"I don't like the sound of her."

"She's musical."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"Well, don't think I should want you to marry. You ought not to marry till you are fully matured. Not for years and years."

The luncheon bell sounded, and almost at once they heard voices in the sitting-room. They found the others there, standing about eating roast-beef sandwiches and drinking tea. Wakefield, excited by the novelty, darted here and there, half a buttered scone in each hand. Not since his grandmother's funeral had there been such excitement in the house. Not since then had there been a meal that was not a meal, and the opening of the doors to invited guests. And all about Finch! Wakefield, for the first time in his life, regarded him with respect. He found a chair and, hooking his arms beneath its arms, dragged it towards him.

"Here!" he cried exuberantly. "Here's a chair! Sit down and rest yourself."

There was an outburst of laughter at Finch's expense. He pushed child and chair aside, and went, with a sheepish frown, to the table where the viands were spread. He picked up a sandwich, and, before he remembered to offer the plate to Alayne, had taken a large bite from it. He attempted to get tea for her, and slopped it into the saucer. He was in despair with himself.

Renny was in despair with him too. He stood watching his fumbling movements with brooding disapproval. What the devil was the matter with the fellow? He was always wrought up over something. And this latest! This wanting to throw up his studies the very moment of coming into his money! It was the spinelessness of him, that was what was so exasperating. If only he were wild, reckless–but this shrinking from things! Were these half-brothers whom he had reared to be one disappointment after another? All but Piers! He'd no fault to find with Piers. But Eden.... Never able to earn his own living, and yet somehow able to keep that girl, Minny.... He hadn't married her though, which he ought to have done.... Now Finch was coming on.... And little Wake, who was like his own child, what would he make of him? He looked gloomily at the undersized boy, with his sensitive dark face, his long-lashed, brilliant eyes, too big for the face ... he'd been caught lying, he'd been caught stealing ... well, life was a queer, mournful thing, and this was a queer, mournful occasion, though the others might stand about grinning with their sandwiches like a lot of school-children at a feed.

Nicholas thought, with an inward chuckle–"Renny might have put a better face on it, seeing that Ernest and I have achieved a festive air. After all, the party was his idea."

Finch could not get enough to eat. As usual, when he was mentally disturbed, he found the cavity within more difficult to fill, especially with a scrappy meal like this. No number of buns spread with damson jam would do it. He was the last in the room. He had hoped that Renny would linger, giving him a chance to propitiate him; but, after bolting two sandwiches and a cup of tea that might well have seared insides of less tough fibre, he had stalked out.

It seemed that the afternoon would never pass. Finch hung about the house watching the preparations, playing snatches at the piano, teasing Pheasant, and, when possible, having moments of serious conversation with Alayne on that subject of never failing interest–himself.

He and Wakefield went to the kitchen in the basement and surveyed the fowls all trussed up for roasting, and the wine-glasses all polished up for filling, and the moulds of jelly, and the buckets filled with chopped ice into which were thrust the containers holding the Neapolitan ice sent out from Town. They had never seen Mrs. Wragge's face so purple, or Wragge's so pallid, or Bessie's arms, as she scrubbed the celery, so mottled. All were atwitter with excitement. They looked at Finch with wonder in their eyes, to think that he had attained this pinnacle.

Long before it was time to dress for dinner he was in his attic room. The night had turned cold. He got into his dressing-gown, a gaily coloured one that had once been Eden's, his bedroom slippers that had once been Renny's, took his bath-towel, one of a pair given him by Meggie at Christmas, and descended to the bathroom. There was a chill there too, but he had told Rags to fill the tin tub with very hot water, and it was hot enough in all conscience. Hot enough to boil him. When he ran upstairs again he was pink from heat and in a state of high excitement.

Already he had laid his evening clothes on the bed. They had only been worn twice before, once at a dance at the Leighs' and once at the recital. The jacket became him well, he thought, surveying himself in the small glass. Alayne had given him a white carnation to wear. He brushed his moist hair, giving special attention to the lock that had a habit of dangling on his forehead. He polished his nails and wished that his fingers were not so stained by cigarettes. A shiver ran over him which he did not know whether to attribute to excitement or the change from the hot bath to the cold room. God! How well the new cuff-links and the new wrist-watch looked! He glanced at the face of the watch.... It was an hour and a half before dinner-time!

What to do! He could not go downstairs at this hour, looking like a fool, with a carnation in his button-hole. Yet he should die of cold if he spent the intervening time up here. He cursed himself for his stupid haste.

Still, if he chose to go down and sit for an hour and a half in the drawing-room, whose business was it but his own? He supposed he could do as he liked on his own birthday.... He was half-way down the attic stairs when he heard Piers ascending the lower stairs, whistling. They would meet in the passage, or Piers, glancing up, would see him on the stairway. One look at him in those clothes, at that hour, would be enough to make Piers humorous at his expense for the evening. He could hear him greet an early arrival with–"Too bad you couldn't have got here earlier. Young Finch has been waiting, all dressed up, for an hour and a half to welcome you!" No, he must never risk that! Not risk being seen by any of the family.

He turned back and re-entered his room. He looked at his watch. Five minutes had passed. Somehow or other he must put in the next hour and a quarter in that cavern of coldness. He looked longingly at the bed. If only he might lie down and cover himself with the quilt and keep warm! But his suit would be ruined by wrinkles in no time. The next best thing was to wrap the quilt about him and find something to read. He folded it carefully about his shoulders, keeping one hand curved above the carnation to protect it. He felt utterly miserable.... What hell coming of age was!

From his shelf of books he took a volume of Wordsworth's poems. It was handsomely bound, the only prize he had ever got at school. The support he craved, the something of pride in achievement, might be in that book, he thought. Something to fortify him in this hour. He sat down, opened it and read: "Presented to Finch Whiteoak for the excellence of his memorising of Holy Scripture." And the date, nine years before. He had been a small boy then, at a small school. Nine years ago.... He was getting on!

He thought of the numerous prizes each of the others had won at school, for they had each had a subject or two in which they excelled. As for prizes for athletics.... They had been put to it to find places for all the silver cups and urns.... Well, at any rate, he had got one, that was better than nothing. He read stolidly for what seemed a long time, dividing his attention between his new cuff-links and watch, and the poetry for which he did not much care. But the rhythm of it eased him somehow, the quilt comforted. It was no easy matter to keep it around him, protecting the carnation with one hand and holding up the book of poems with the other. He did wish he had a cigarette; yet he was afraid of disarranging himself to get it, lest in the rearranging the carnation might be injured. It might be better to take the carnation off for the time, but there was the danger in pinning it on again.

He heard Wakefield running below and gave a piercing whistle to attract him. He came flying up the stairs. Finch concealed the poems under the quilt.

"Hello," said Wakefield, "what are you wrapped up in a quilt for?"

"Been having a bath and got chilled. Look in that top drawer and hand me the package of cigarettes, like a good kid."

"I say," exclaimed Wake, as he handed him the cigarettes, "how funny you look! You're wrapped in a quilt, and yet I can see your pumps and pants underneath!"

Finch scowled at him in what he hoped was a terrifying way, but he dared advance no more than his fingers from the quilt toward the cigarettes because of his cuffs. Yet Wake held them just out of reach.

"Give them here!" snarled Finch out of the side of his mouth like a stage villain.

"I am giving them," Wake's tone was meek, but his eyes were on a narrow aperture in the quilt and he brought the cigarettes no nearer. "Here they are. Why don't you take them?"

"How the hell can I take them when you hold them away off there?"

"It's not away off. It's just a little bit of a way. What's the matter with you? Do you feel sick? Because, if you do, perhaps you'd better not smoke."

Exasperated beyond endurance, Finch shot forth his hand from the quilt and snatched the packet of cigarettes, instantly drawing the quilt once more tightly about him. "Now," he said, "clear out of here and no more of your cheek!"

Wakefield seemed to drift out of the room and down the stairs, so pensive was his mien. Finch felt hot all over. He let the quilt slide from his shoulders and put a cigarette between his lips. He reached for a match, but, just as he struck it, he heard Wakefield and Piers talking in the passage below. He held his breath and heard soft steps ascending the stairs. Like an arrow from the bow he leaped to the door. Just as Piers reached the landing he threw himself against it. He shot the bolt. Smothered laughter came from outside.

"Look here, Finch," came Piers's voice, "can you let me have a cigarette?"

"No," growled Finch, "haven't got any up here."

"The kid says you have."

"He's a little liar."

"Well, look here, I'd like to speak to you a minute."

"Sorry. I can't just now. I'm busy."

"Is anything wrong? The kid says you didn't seem very well when he was up before."

"Let me alone!" roared Finch, and he showed, furthermore, that the example he had had before him in the matter of swearing had not been entirely lost.

When they had gone he looked down at the carnation. He had flattened it against the door.... He looked at his wrist-watch.... The fracas had done one thing for him, at any rate. It had made time fly.

The Vaughans were the first to arrive: Meggie, a little plumper, a little more exuberantly the wife and mother; Maurice, a trifle greyer, his masculinity a trifle more muffled. She clasped Finch to her. Oh, the lovely depth of that bosom! He was never taken to it, but he wished he might burrow into its tender depths and remain for ever enfolded there. She gave him three kisses on the mouth, and put a packet into his hand. "With our love and many, many good wishes." Wake crowded up beside him to see. It was a white evening scarf of heavy silk. "Oh, thanks," Finch murmured; and Maurice shook him by the hand.

Maurice had been warned on the way by his wife not to make any reference to Finch's inheritance, but he could not resist saying:

"Well, enjoy it while you're young!" And his glance did not indicate the scarf.

Meg caressed Wakefield, remarked his delicate looks, and went up to Alayne's room to lay off her things. The men stood about with the conciliatory air worn by them in the presence of female antagonisms. They knew that Meggie and Alayne disliked one another, that there was no love lost between Meggie and Pheasant. They would be glad when other guests arrived.

They soon arrived in a stream. The Fennels: the rector, thick-set, beaming, his hair and beard tidier than was usual even on Sundays; George, resembling him; Mrs. Fennell, long-backed, hatchet-faced, with eyes always searching for a vacant seat into which she might drop; Tom resembling her. Next, the two Miss Laceys, whose late father had been a retired Admiral, and the elder of whom had been after Nicholas forty-seven years ago. After these Miss Pink, the organist, prematurely aged by being rushed, year in and year out, through the hymns and psalms by the combined impetuosity of the Whiteoaks at a speed which she thought little short of blasphemous. She was in a flurry at exposing her shoulders in a seldom worn evening gown, and had veiled them by a scarf, though they were, in truth, the best part of her. These were the old, old friends and neighbours.

Considerably later, and from Town, came the Leighs. They were mere acquaintances to the rest of the family, but Finch thought of Arthur Leigh as his best friend. Mother and daughter in their sheathlike gowns of delicate green had the appearance of sisters. He could scarcely wait to have Arthur alone that he might tell him of his contemplated trip, with all the more eagerness because Arthur himself had spoken of spending that summer in England.

The party was now complete except for two people. These were neighbours, living in a small, rather isolated house, but comparative strangers. About a year and a half before, Antoine Lebraux had brought his wife and daughter from Quebec and acquired this place with the object of going into the breeding of silver foxes. He had been in the Civil Service, and, his health having broken down, he was advised to turn to an outdoor life. His wife, who had relations in Upper Canada, wished to be near them, and, within fifty miles of a brother, she had discovered this small and neglected property for sale. Lebraux, with the enthusiasm of his race, had thrown himself heart and soul into the new life. Reliable parent foxes had been bought, and he had read every book obtainable on the subject of their breeding and care.

Renny had met and liked him. He had ridden over frequently to see how the foxes were progressing. The first litters were admirable. The change of climate had done Lebraux good, and his malady had shown signs of improvement. But good luck did not follow in good luck's train. His most valuable vixen had somehow dug her way out and was never seen again. The later litters were weakly, a vixen died, then, when fresh stock had been bought in the hope of raising the stamina, thieves had broken in and stolen the best of them. The bodies of the foxes had been found less than a mile away, stripped of their pelts. All this told on the health of Lebraux. He had become so irritable that Renny's heart had gone out to his wife and daughter. When Lebraux had at last been confined to the house he had begged Renny to come to him as often as possible. He could forget his sense of disappointment, of failure, of impending disaster in Renny's presence. "I like you!" he had often exclaimed. "I like you to be near me. You and I have an appreciation of the fine and sensitive things of life." Renny had never been told this before, and it pleased him. And so they had talked of horses and foxes and women.

Lebraux had taken to drinking brandy. He had had uncontrollable outbreaks of despair, during which he would threaten to do away with himself. Only the presence of Renny would calm him. Often Mrs. Lebraux had sent her young daughter all the way to Jalna with a note for Renny, begging him to go to her help. When, in January, Lebraux had died, Renny had spent half his time in the house. Her brother had kept out of the way as much as possible, for he shirked the responsibility that he felt was moving towards him.

It had been Renny's idea to invite the mother and daughter, an idea that had not met with much favour from the rest of the family. Mrs. Lebraux had called on Alayne soon after her marriage. The call had been returned, and there had been an end to intimacy. Alayne had felt pity and, at the same time, had been repelled by the family. The uncles had agreed with her that they were strange people. "Not at all the sort of people who used to settle here." Meggie had not called. Piers was contemptuous of Lebraux, his failures and, what Piers considered, his spinelessness. He made fun of Mrs. Lebraux's thick yellow hair, that was turning dark in streaks, her round, light-lashed eyes, and red hands. But Renny had his way. The poor woman had never been anywhere since her husband's death, and the little girl would keep Wake in countenance.

If Mrs. Leigh and Ada had looked like sisters as they entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Lebraux and little Pauline seemed of no relation to each other. She had a blonde, hardy, wholesome look, was the daughter of a Newfoundlander who had made a good deal of money in the fisheries, and somehow lost it, and she resembled him. Pauline was like Lebraux, a thin, dark child of fifteen, in white, with the promise of some beauty. Her parents had met on the great toboggan slide by the Chateau Frontenac, and had precipitately slid into matrimony.

It was an odd, mixed party, Alayne thought, as they filed in to dinner, but it was the first time she had entertained since her marriage, and she was rather wrought up over it, fearful lest all should not go well. But she need not have had any apprehension on that score. Where there were Whiteoaks gathered there was no danger of dullness. The family was all talking at once, as a garden of hardy flowers might burst into vigorous bloom at the first encouragement of the sun. A festive occasion, the prospect of a good dinner with plenty to drink with it, was sun enough for them. Ernest took in Mrs. Leigh; Nicholas, his old flame, Miss Lacey; Vaughan, Mrs. Fennel; Finch, Ada Leigh; Renny, Mrs. Lebraux, with the others distributing as congenially as possible down to the two youngest, who came last, smiling gravely at each other, she half a head taller than he.

Whatever Mrs. Wragge's faults might be, it would never be said of her that she was not a good cook. Fowls, under her hand, shed their earthly plumage and turned into glistening forms of celestial sweetness. Her vegetables were drained at the critical moment, the pastry was light. Only her pudding was heavy, and there was no pudding to-night. Wakefield could scarcely credit his own senses when he saw all the best china and silver on the table at once. Things that usually lived in cabinets, behind glass, were now on the table looking as though they were used every day. Several wine-glasses were clustered at each place, even his own and Pauline's.

"Have you ever been to anything like this before?" he asked her, trying to feel not too important.

"No; isn't it lovely?" She smiled, and he thought how prettily her lip curled from her little white teeth. He noticed her long white hands, then stared at her mother across the table.

"You don't look a bit like your mother," he remarked, settling his chin above his Eton collar.

"No, I look like my daddy." She stopped eating, and withdrew into herself, a look of sad remoteness shadowing her small face.

"My father," he observed, looking hard at her, "died before I was born."

She was startled into regarding him with an almost fearful interest. "Did he really? I didn't know they could. I always thought you had to have both father and mother when you were born."

"I didn't. My father was dead and my mother died when I was born."

She breathed–"How awful for you!"

He agreed.

"Yes," he said. "I'm what is called a posthumous child. I think it has preyed on my mind. I think it is what has made me so delicate. I'm not able to go to school, you know. I go to Mr. Fennel for lessons, but I haven't been for weeks because of the weather."

"I wish I could go to him, too. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

He looked dubious.

"Yes ... but you're a Catholic, aren't you?"

She nodded. "But mother isn't. I don't believe she'd mind. Do you think he'd have me?"

"Well, he might. If you'd promise not to try to convert me or anything. He'd not like to risk that."

"Oh, I'd promise!"

Around the table conversation flowed easily. Alayne perhaps was less at ease than the others. She was so anxious that things should go well, especially because of the Leighs. Rags was a constant irritation to her. His shabby trigness, his air of anxiety over the two hired maids, his bending over Renny to whisper to him with an expression of portentous significance. And why did Renny grin up at him in that way? She did wish that Renny wouldn't talk to Rags at meal-time. Rags seemed always to be hovering behind his chair like an evil genius, and Renny never looked more like his grandmother than when he was grinning up at Rags. What was he saying to that Mrs. Lebraux? She strained her ears to catch the words.

He was saying–"Well, I'll be very grateful if you will let me have the use of your stable. I could keep two horses there. We're terribly short of room, as it is."

Mr. Fennel, on the other side of Mrs. Lebraux, joined in. "I am glad to hear that you are staying on in your house, Mrs. Lebraux. I do hope you are comfortable."

She turned her round pale-lashed eyes on him. "Comfortable! No, I'm not very comfortable. But I'm getting along somehow––"

Then Ernest's musical voice came to Alayne. He was saying to Mrs. Leigh:

"Yes, I'm doing a work on Shakespeare. I've been working on it for many years now. One can't hurry with that sort of thing. But I do feel that the result will be ..."

Nicholas was booming to his old flame, Miss Lacey:

"He's never talked since she died. Isn't it extraordinary? There he sits on his perch, in her room, just brooding."

Then came Meg's voice, as she claimed Mr. Fennel's attention. "You'd never believe the things she does and says. Sometimes she quite frightens me. Only this morning, she said–'Mummy, I want to see God!'"

Pheasant and Arthur Leigh were laughing together. She was saying–"But, truly, I know a man who saw a two-headed foal ..."

Finch's head was inclined toward Ada Leigh. Alayne caught just a snatch: "Oh, I dare say I'll travel round a bit. You can't stick in one place forever."

How the Whiteoaks loved to talk, she thought. From all about her their voices came, and yet their plates were the first to be swept clean of each course. They seldom asked a question. They took their world as they found it, without curiosity. Only Piers and Miss Pink, whom he had taken in, did not trouble to speak, but were devoting themselves to the business of eating and drinking. She lived alone, and her great economy was food. Now she had allowed her gauze scarf to slide from her shoulders, for even it had seemed to impede her progress toward repletion. Piers was drinking a good deal. His lips were taking on that sweet, mysterious curve they had when he was becoming oblivious of his surroundings, and only wished to be left alone that he might give his full attention to the pleasant phenomenon that was taking place inside him.

There was champagne. Nicholas had seen to that. Rags could not have been more solemn about the drawing of the corks if he had bought and paid for it out of his own savings. Something intangible but vital drew them all nearer each other. The fingers of their spirits touched.

Mr. Fennel rose, glass in hand, to propose Finch's health. Finch saw it coming, and drooped still closer to Ada Leigh for support. His hour had struck. He was twenty-one and Mr. Fennel was going to propose his health.

The confusion of voices sank into a gentle sigh. All eyes, made brighter or dreamier by wine, were turned on the Rector. All eyes, with the exception of Piers's, which were looking into a tranced and pleasing space. Mr. Fennel said:

"What I am about to do is very agreeable to me. That is to propose the health of a member of this household who to-day has reached the estate of manhood. It is not easy for me to believe this, because it seems only a few years ago since I held him in my arms at the font and baptized him in the church his grandfather had built. His grandfather had built the church in what was at that time a sparsely settled community. He established there the religion of his fathers. And his descendants have never failed in their support of that church. At Jalna he established a family which preserves to-day the traditions of a fine old English family, as few families do in these times of standardisation and irreverence for tradition.... The memory of his devoted wife–whose presence I seem to feel among us to-night–will long remain fresh in the minds of all who knew her. Her faults–for none of us are perfect–were far outshone by her virtues.... This member of her family who has just attained the age of twenty-one–an age that seems quite unbelievably fresh and glowing to me–has been the companion of my sons all his life. With them he has run in and out of the Rectory a thousand times on the mysterious quests of boyhood. In their room they have held with him innumerable conferences on the mysterious business of youth. He has enlivened many an evening for us with his music. We have known him in many moods, but none of us have ever known him to do a cruel or shabby thing. I wish him well from the bottom of my heart. I know you will all join me in this. I give you the toast–Finch Whiteoak!"

Mr. Fennel sat down with the unruffled air of a man who had just as lief make a speech as not.

Finch crouched between Ada Leigh and his sister-in-law Alayne with the air of a man to whom the making of a speech would be a task of appalling torture. The heads of those about him swam toward him goggle-eyed like goldfish in a round glass bowl. There was clapping of hands, glasses clinked. The glass of the bowl shivered into splinters, and Finch was left gasping, looking piteously like a stranded goldfish himself, trying to rise to his feet.

Ada Leigh smiled soft encouragement. She said–"It will be all right ... just anything that comes into your head ... now!" She touched his arm with an impelling gesture.

Renny's voice came down the table, metallic and commanding. "Up you get, Finch!" and others added jovially–"Speech, speech!"

But it was Alayne who got him to his feet. Her father and her grandfathers had been New England professors, monitors of the young. Out of the background of their authority, her blue grey eyes looked dominantly into his, saying–"Rise and give tongue!" Her fingers clutched his under the tablecloth so tightly that it hurt. He twisted his own about them as he spoke.

How different this was from doing a part in a play! Then, in velvet cloak or in vagabond tatters, he could abandon himself to the portrayal of another's moods. But now he was simply his naked self, and a dozen words were harder to get out than a torrent of talk on the stage. He heard his voice with a curious kind of croak in it.

"It's frightfully good of you–all. I never had such nice things said about me before ... in all my life ... and I don't quite know what to do about it. Mr. Fennel and Mrs. Fennel couldn't possibly have been kinder to me if I'd been their own son ... and, of course, everyone present ... has been the same ..."

"Hear, hear," said Piers, without moving his lips.

"I can't tell you how much I am enjoying ... this occasion," he continued, looking the picture of despair. "If I should live to be as old as my grandmother––"

"You'll never do it," interrupted Piers, without any appearance of having spoken.

Renny threw Piers a fiery look down the table.

"I'd never forget this dinner ... and ... I do most heartily–" here his voice broke–"thank you. I hope no one here will ever be sorry that ... sorry that ..." Good Lord, what was he about to say? Sorry that what? Oh, yes, sorry that Gran had left him her money–but he couldn't say that–it would be horrible–but what could he say?–"Hope no one here will ever live to be sorry–" he stammered, and sought the ruddy sunrise of Piers's face for inspiration–"be sorry––"

"That we let you live till you were twenty-one," supplied Piers without seeming to utter a word.

There was a burst of hilarious applause. The hero of the occasion sat down.

He took a gulp of champagne.

"You did splendidly," whispered Ada Leigh, and Alayne squeezed his fingers before she uncurled hers from them. He was flushed, and happily conscious that he might have done worse. He had been delighted at the burst of applause and laughter, though he could not quite recall what he had said that was so witty.

After the speeches voices rose to a babble. The faces about the table were changed to a noticeable degree. Those which were ordinarily vivacious became dreamy, those which were usually somewhat stolid were transfigured into liveliness. The two maids stood together motionless now, like black-and-white drawings of maids, unbelievably trig. Rags drifted ceaselessly around the table refilling glasses, the creator, it seemed, of this animation, these changes of expression, this babble. Ernest had got to the point of telling Mrs. Leigh of his life in old London, the times he and Nicholas had had. Nicholas had reached the point of intimating to Miss Lacey, by look rather than by word, that he wished he and she might have been joined together in wedlock, rather than he and that other from whom he was divorced. Renny and Mrs. Lebraux were engaged in a low, earnest conversation which excluded the existence of all others. Piers had picked up Miss Pink's gauze scarf from the floor where it had fallen and laid it about his own shoulders. He, only, did not talk, but his lips were curved in that same enigmatic, Mona Lisa smile.

The rugs had been taken up in the drawing-room and hall and the floor waxed, but it was late before anyone suggested that they dance. It was George Fennel who sat down at the piano, very square, very upright, his hands drawing insidious sweetness from the keys. The latest dances from the world of jazz were tossed by George as invitation to this mixed company, some of whom still danced in the style of forty years ago. And how gallantly they responded to the invitation! They thought it "queer stuff–very modern, you know–and not at all easy to keep step with." But somehow they contrived to do it, the couples moving in small circles, conversing lightly and gaily all the while. Nicholas and Ernest with the two Miss Laceys, with whom they had danced the quadrille, the polka, and the schottische on this very floor when they were young men and girls. Mr. Fennel had Pheasant tightly clasped to him, his beard, now and again, tickling her bare shoulder. Like a captive bird she cast wistful glances at her mate, wishing she might fly down the room with him, in long graceful strides, their bodies as one. And there he was dancing with Miss Pink, who was quite old enough to be his mother!

The younger men had no flowers of speech to offer to their partners. Up and down the drawing-room, in and out of the hall, they moved, their faces as void of expression as a clean slate, their very souls set in the mould of jazz.

Miss Pink had been afraid she could not do it. But when once Piers had got hold of her she found that she could, and not only that, but she wished she might go on doing it for ever. As for Piers, he scarcely knew whom he was dancing with–old or young, skilful or amateurish, it did not signify. She had been at hand when his forceful body had responded to the inexorable call of the dance.

Alayne was dancing with graceful Arthur Leigh. Wakefield had almost more than he could cope with in Meggie's solid frame. Meg had an eye on Maurice and Mrs. Leigh, who seemed to her to be dancing altogether too well.

Finch had been going to ask Ada Leigh to dance, but had turned away as he saw Tom Fennel loping towards her. He must not be selfish at his own party. With whom would he dance then? He looked rather vaguely about the room. There was Mrs. Fennel in a comfortable chair near the fire, with a dish of crystallised fruit beside her. And, in the farthest corner, on the settee, was Mrs. Lebraux in her black dress, with Renny keeping her company, his back half-turned to the dancers. And staring into the cabinet of curios from India was the Lebraux child, her skirt too short, her legs too long, and the back of her head looking as though it needed combing. Her hair stuck out in thick black tufts, giving her an odd, elfin look. He went to her and said:

"Would you like to dance, Pauline?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder and shook her head.

"Can you dance?" He felt a stirring of curiosity about her.

Her gaze had returned to the cabinet again, but she answered in a low voice:

"Yes. But I don't think I should. Mother isn't."

"I see. But you're such a kid I don't think she'd mind. Shall I ask her?"

She turned and looked at him searchingly, as though wondering whether or no she should like to dance with him. Then she went sedately to her mother and bent over her.

She came back smiling and put her hand into Finch's.

"It's all right. Both Mother and Mr. Whiteoak say to dance." Her face lit up and she moved her shoulders as though eager to begin.

She was so thin that she felt nothing more than a wand in Finch's arms, yet there was a wild strength in her movements. He thought she was like a little breeze-blown boat tugging at its anchor. The music was swift, even feverish, for this second dance, but not swift enough for her. He bent to look into her face. He had scarcely seen her, yet he had the impression of beauty. He saw the thick hair above the low forehead, with its pencilled brows, the eyelids that had a foreign look, the half-closed eyes, of which he could not make out the colour, the childish nose, the wide, rather thin-lipped mouth with its upward curve at the corners, the little white chin, the long, graceful neck. He could not tell where the beauty was, but he was satisfied that it was there or would be there.

"Who taught you to dance?" he asked.

"Oh, I had lessons in Quebec. Daddy and I used to dance a lot together. I can dance alone too. Solo dances, you know."

"How splendid! I wish you'd dance one to-night."

"Oh, no, I couldn't!"

"Not to please me? It's my birthday, you know."

"I couldn't possibly!" There was a note of hurt in her voice.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But perhaps some other time you will. You're going to stay on here, aren't you?"

"Yes–if we can make it pay."

"The fox-farming, you mean?"

"Yes. And we may go into poultry, too."

"Aren't you afraid the foxes will eat the poultry?"

"That shows how much you know about it! They're kept absolutely separate."

"It will mean a lot of work."

"We don't mind that, if only we can make it pay." Her slender body seemed to tighten with resolve. She swayed and dipped and turned like a bird, he thought. And she had a hard time before her, he was afraid. He would like to help them if he only knew how to go about it. This having of so much money opened up new channels to one, gave one a troubling sense of responsibility toward one's fellows.

"Mother and I do all the housework," she was saying–"dish-washing, sweeping, and everything. She does outdoor work too. She's awfully strong."

"Do you really?" He was astonished, for he had never seen his sister do anything but take care of herself; and Alayne and Pheasant were very much the same, except that Pheasant looked after Mooey, and that none too well, he thought.

He saw Ada Leigh watching them, and he wondered what she thought of the child. When, at last, they danced together, and he had reproached her, as he had a feeling she wanted him to do, for having eluded him, he asked her.

"I could not help being amused by the pair of you," she answered; "you looked so odd together."

"Did we?" He was a little nettled. "Well, I suppose I look odd at any time."

She gave him one of her challenging looks. "Not at all! You don't look odd dancing with me, I'm very sure. But that girl is almost ridiculous, with her hair and her terrifically long, thin legs. And that sort of do-or-die look."

"Well, she may look queer dancing, but it's like heaven to dance with her!"

"I'm so glad, because one gets so little of heaven here on earth, doesn't one?"

Finch observed solemnly–"I'm afraid she's going to be one of those women that other women don't like."

"Oh I don't think you need worry about that."

"I'm not worrying. Why should I worry about it?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. But you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"All I feel is a great pity for her and her mother. They've had a hard time, and, I'm afraid, they'll have a harder."

"What a strange-looking woman Mrs. Lebraux is!"

"Yes, rather. Piers calls her 'Dirty-locks––' Lord, I shouldn't have told you that! But her hair is rather queer, and he has a brutal way of putting things. I notice that women don't like her either."

"I do," said Ada. "I love her."

"For heaven's sake! Why?"

"Because she lets you alone and devotes herself to your brother."

"But she's years and years older than I am."

"How clever of you to have found that out! I should have expected you to insist that she was younger, you're so chivalrous."

"And you're so detestable!"

They stopped dancing. They were in the dark end of the hall, alone. They clung to each other a moment, motionless. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her again and again on the mouth. She lay there acquiescent, the perfume of her going through all his nerves as the champagne had. She was like champagne, cool, softly stinging, potent to the senses.

They began to dance again as smoothly as though they had never lost a beat, when Renny, with the Little Lebraux, glided into the hall. It seemed to Finch that Renny cast a sharp look at Ada, as though he suspected her of something, and he had a curious feeling that Ada had rather have been kissed by Renny than by him, even though she had been more than acquiescent, had kissed him back. Pauline's lips were parted in a joyful smile, showing her very white teeth; she clutched Renny's sleeve in one thin white hand. Her expression was that of a young creature that has been unhappy far too long, and snatches at some sudden pleasure with almost fierce desire.

She and her mother left early. Then the Leighs, with a long motor ride before them. Somehow or other the Fennels packed the Miss Lacey's and Miss Pink into their car. The Vaughans were the last to go.

"And I really don't care very much about trusting myself to him in a car, the way he is," Meg said.

Renny looked his brother-in-law over.

"He'll be all right after a breath of fresh air," he assured her. "I'll open the windows on him."

Maurice watched this move for his revivification with interest. As soon as the window was opened he started the car, and it sped across the lawn, scraping the end of an ice-covered garden seat, and on three wheels gained the drive.

Nicholas was declaiming in the drawing-room.

"I might never have had gout in my life, I was so free from it to-night. As lively as a three-year-old."

"And I," said Ernest, "never thought of my dinner again. And I ate everything!"

"It's remarkable what exhilaration does."

"If only there is no evil reaction!"

"Mrs. Leigh," declared Nicholas, "is the prettiest woman of her age I have seen in years."

"But that daughter of hers!" cried Pheasant. "I can't stand her. She takes care to let you know that her gown comes from Paris."

"Yes," agreed Alayne; "and she referred to London as 'my London!'"

"Such swank!"

"Still," protested Ernest, balancing himself on the balls of his feet, "they are a charming family, the Leighs. And really intellectual."

"I don't agree," said Alayne. "To me, they seem very superficial."

"To me, too!" cried Pheasant.

Finch interrupted, hurt for his friend's sake. "Not Arthur. Arthur's absolutely sound."

"I'd like to give him a sound hiding," observed Renny, lighting his pipe, "and knock some of the effeminacy out of him."

"Listen to the he-man!" exclaimed Pheasant.

Renny took her by the nape and rumpled her hair into a brown crest.

"Mrs. Leigh," said Ernest, "was greatly interested in my annotation of Shakespeare."

His two nieces by marriage looked at him pityingly.

The two young women went, as with one impulse, to the mirror above the mantel that had reflected so many of the scenes at Jalna, and examined themselves in the glass. The five men regarded their backs and the reflection of their faces with incurious interest. They were interested, as always, in this manifestation of sex, but they knew them too well to feel the sting of curiosity.

Alayne said, turning round to them:

"It was rather a nuisance Mrs. Lebraux not dancing. It kept one of the best dancers always at her side entertaining her."

Neither Nicholas nor Ernest had sat by Mrs. Lebraux, consequently they felt a little irritated by this remark. Ernest said:

"I talked to her for a moment, but she scarcely took the trouble to answer. I can't say I admire her."

"I shouldn't have minded sitting by her for a bit," said Nicholas, "but she seemed not to lack attention." He looked at Renny.

Renny looked back. "Someone had to be decent to the poor woman. The girls were awfully cool to her."

"I scarcely know her," said Alayne.

"That is no reason why you should be cool to her," returned Renny.

"She's one of those women," asserted Pheasant, sagaciously–"who don't care a bit about other women. She's simply mad about men!"

"How unjust you are," said Renny. "She's been in great trouble. She only liked to talk to me because she is used to me–I've been a friend of Lebraux."

Piers said–"I shouldn't mind the looks of her so much, if only she'd darken her eyelashes and touch her hair up so it would be all one colour."

Renny turned on him angrily. "She'd never do anything to her hair. She's not that sort. She never thinks of her personal appearance."

His wife and his sister-in-law looked at him scornfully.

"Well, she spent about ten minutes on her face in the dressing-room!" cried Pheasant.

"Dear me," said Ernest, "what was she doing to it?"

"Wiping her tears away," suggested Piers.

"Tears!" scoffed Pheasant. "Mrs. Patch, who helped nurse Mr. Lebraux, told Mrs. Wragge that they quarrelled half the time and the other half they didn't speak."

"You've little to do," said Renny, "to be gossiping with the servants about Mrs. Lebraux."

"I wasn't gossiping. She just told me. And besides, you often repeat things that Rags told you."

The master of Jalna gripped his pipe and drew back his lips from his teeth. He could think of nothing to say, so he glared at her.

"She looks healthy," said Nicholas.

"Such crude health lacks charm for me," said Ernest.

"Renny only danced once this evening," observed Pheasant, "and that was with her child."

"I had hoped," said Alayne slowly, "that no one had noticed that."

"Heigho!" said Piers, in an endeavour to imitate his grandmother. "I want something more to eat. I want it right away."

His Uncle Ernest looked at him reprovingly. "Is it possible, Piers, that you are mimicking my mother?"

"Oh, no," answered Piers, innocently. "Not consciously, at any rate. But I was thinking, just a moment ago, how much she would have enjoyed to-night, and I suppose the thought of her stayed in my head."

Ernest smiled at him. No one could help it, with his face so pink and that enigmatic smile on his lips. He led the way to the dining-room and got a decanter of whiskey and a siphon of soda water from the sideboard. He sat down by the table, which had been cleared and reduced to its normal size. Nicholas, Ernest, and Finch followed him. Pheasant stood a moment in the doorway before going to bed. She said:

"I do think it was rather a shame, Piers, the way you whirled poor little Miss Pink around. She looked positively dazed."

"You're just jealous of her," said Piers.

She ran over to him and bent her head to his ear.

"Don't be silly, darling! And please, please, don't drink much more! It's bad enough for me to see my father going home in the state he did without seeing my husband come to bed in another...."

"Another what?" he mumbled against her cheek.

"Another state. Of intoxication, of course."

"All right, little 'un. Run along now."

Renny had discovered Wakefield sound asleep on the settee in the drawing-room and had carried him up to bed.

Alayne had followed, angry with herself for being irritated by the sight of the child's legs dangling, his arm tightly around Renny's neck.

She went straight to her own room. She felt definitely unhappy, tired in spirit yet restless in body. She fidgeted about the room, exposing, with a touch of self-pity, her bare arms and shoulders to its chill air. How often during the day she had looked forward to dancing with Renny that evening! And he had danced only once, and then with a child. Then, when the guests were gone, he had taken on that protective tone about Mrs. Lebraux. Just because she had chosen to lean on him! And there was Wakefield to be carried to bed, who should have been sent there hours ago.... She heard Mooey whining in the next room as Pheasant took him up.... She heard Wakefield's voice raised complainingly in Renny's room.... Children were too much in evidence in this household....

She was getting cold, yet she could not go to bed. She thought she would go to Pheasant's room and talk to her for a little.... Really, Mrs. Lebraux was a strange-looking woman ... something animal about her ... lucky for the child that she had taken after the father.... She went into the passage, but, instead of going to Pheasant's door, she went to Renny's. She laid her two hands against the panels, and stood motionless there.

Very soon Renny came out, drawing the support of the door from her. But she still retained her posture, and stood before him, hands raised as though in wonder. His brows flew up.

"Well–you here, Alayne!"

He took her hands and drew them together at the back of his neck, looking with solicitude down into her face.

"Tired, old girl?"

She nodded her head several times, frowning and pushing out her lips. Never during her married life with Eden had she shown him this mood of childish petulance. In truth, she had not in all her life shown it to anyone but Renny: had not known it was in her to frown and pout, and be at once both angry and clinging, and, if she could have seen the expression of her own face at this moment, she would have felt mortified, angry with herself.

He kissed her. "Were you long at the door? Why didn't you come in?"

"Not very long.... I didn't want to. What was the good?"

"What do you want?"

"You."

"Well, you've got me, haven't you?"

"You're going downstairs to the others."

"Not if you don't want me to."

"Yes, do go, please! I don't want you to stay with me." She tried to push him from her.

"Yes, you do!" He tightened his arms about her.

"Well, I don't see why I should. I'm not at all necessary to you."

"What rot you talk!"

"How am I necessary, then?"

"You know without my telling you."

"You will make me hate you!"

"Why should women always think of only one thing!"

"I suppose they know the truth."

"My dear child, you make me tired!"

"I know I do." Her voice broke.

He picked her up, as he had picked up Wakefield, and carried her into her room. It was lit only by moonlight. The new mauve silk bedspread caught and held the light like a dreaming pool in a wood. The moon was sinking.

Its last rays were shining into the dining-room too. Its light was enough for the business they had in hand there. Nicholas, unmindful of gout, had given himself up to it. Ernest unmindful of indigestion, had given himself up to it. Piers, forgetful of wifely admonition, had given himself up to it. Finch, mindful of his new estate, entered heart and soul into it. The decanter and the siphon, with amber and cold white lights in their respective parts, moved slowly around the table. The moonlight blotted age out of two faces and stamped age into two, so that the quartette appeared to be all of one age, and that was ageless.

Finch said: "I wish one of you would tell me what it was I said that was so funny. They were making such a row when I sat down that it knocked it clean out of my head."

"I can't remember," answered Nicholas, "but I know it was damned witty. In fact, I've never heard a better after-dinner speech."

"Nor I," agreed Ernest. "Just the right amount of sentiment mixed with real wit. It's a special talent in itself, this after-dinner speaking."

"I thought the Rector spoke very well," said Finch judicially.

"Yes, he spoke very well. But you were better. I only wish I could remember just what it was you said at the last."

"Something about the joy of living," suggested Piers.

"Well, that's not very new," said Finch, rather disappointed.

"Seems to be new to you!"

"Life," said Nicholas, "is experience."

"I don't agree," said Ernest. "I think life is work."

Finch said gravely–"I suppose you have all heard of my decision"–he rolled the words "my decision" on his tongue–"my decision not to go on with my University course."

"It would have been better," said Ernest, "if you had made up your mind to go to England and take a university course there."

"No, no," interrupted his brother, "the boy's quite right. He knows what he's fitted for. And I say that he is a musical genius." His eyes, glittering strangely in the moonlight, were fixed on Finch.

"I'm so glad you think so, Uncle Nick! And you thought my speech was all right, didn't you?"

"Absolutely. From the moment you rose to your feet, you were, as the Italians say, pere bene."

"Meaning," said Piers, "full of beans."

"Exactly."

Finch half filled his glass with Black and White and aimed a squirt of soda at it. "I think, just among ourselves, that I may say that my aim is to live an unselfish life."

"You couldn't have a better," commended Ernest. "From my own experience I know that bringing happiness to others brings happiness to oneself."

"What form," asked Nicholas, "is your unselfishness going to take?"

"I should suggest," said Piers, "making a pool of it."

Finch turned toward him somewhat truculently. "What do you mean?–a pool of it?"

Piers pondered a moment, and then said: "Your unselfishness, of course. Sunshine idea. A brighter Jalna."

"Don't be silly," said Finch. "I'm in dead earnest. I want to do something for each one of you, and that's a fact."

"Say it in writing," put in Piers.

"My word is as good as––"

"Of course it is," said Nicholas. "We all know it is."

Finch proceeded–"I'm very glad that Renny hasn't joined us, because he never seems to see eye to eye with me in anything."

"Where is he?" asked Ernest. "I hadn't missed him before. Indeed I quite thought he was here." He peered about the room.

"Been sent to bed," said Piers; "he was a naughty boy, poor fellow!"

Finch said–"Uncle Nick and Uncle Ernie, if I were to invite you to come on a trip with me to England at my expense, would you accept?"

"Delighted to accept," answered Nicholas instantly.

Ernest reached across the table and took Finch's hand and shook it. "Dear boy–dear boy–" was all he could say.

"Me, too!" said Piers. "What are you going to do for me?"

"What should you choose?"

"Give me time. Let me sleep on it."

"It's settled then, is it? You two are coming with me to visit Aunt Augusta?"

Ernest squeezed the hand he held, the hour, his condition, the invitation, filling him with an almost overwhelming emotion. Nicholas accepted airily, as though he were bestowing a favour.

"I will take you to some of my old haunts in London," he promised, straightening his shoulders and drawing his chin against his collar.

Both uncles then began to talk about the years they had spent in England, repeating, at first, incidents that the nephews had heard before, but, as the night drew on, and as the decanter emptied, drawing from remote places in their memories events unrecalled in years, like forgotten birds' nests dragged forth from an old belfry, or rusty anchors drawn up from the deep.

Some of these memories were disgraceful, and, in the telling of them, the two elders became more and more youthful, breaking into sudden uncontrolled laughter, their speech falling into the catch-words of their day. The young men, on the contrary, grew graver and more judicial with each glass, looking as though they did not quite approve of the levity of the others, Finch even going to the length once of giving some sound advice. In order that he might hurt no one's feelings he addressed the advice to the siphon in a kind of chant, and when no one gave any heed to him he shed a few unnoticed tears.

But, when the moment came when sing they must, he was ready. Ernest, who loved very old songs, ballads, madrigals, and the like, began "Sumer is acumen in," in his still excellent voice. A tenor, a lusty barytone, and a bass joined in with:

Loudly sing, cuckoo!

Grows the seed, and blows the mead,

And grows the wood anew,

Sing cuckoo!

The ewe is bleating for her lamb;

Lows for her calf the cow.

The bleating and the lowing, so loud and mellow, brought a fifth member of the family on the scene. This was Renny, clad in dressing-gown and slippers. He stared at the revellers with ironical amusement.

"Well," he said, "you're a lovely looking lot!"

The moon was gone, and the dawn creeping in showed them wan and dishevelled in their evening clothes.

"You'll wake the women and the kids," he said. "They've been asleep for hours. Don't you think you've had enough?"

"I've made serious decision," said Finch.

"What?"

"To go to bed."