Читать книгу Renny's Daughter - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 17

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There was no greater pleasure than walking, Finch Whiteoak thought. At this moment it was a more profound pleasure than playing the piano. Seated before the instrument, even at his best, there was the mind alert, ready to pounce on the fingers if they faltered, ever so slightly. There was the mind, conscious of his audience, quivering with anger if everything was not right in the concert hall. Even when he played in solitude, there was the mind, exalted, fiery, casting its shadows on the keyboard. But--in walking through these wintry woods--the mind was gone. It was scarcely there to direct the legs. There was the blood coursing hotly through the body, the eyeballs cool and relaxed, the nostrils widening to draw in the icy air. He had tramped for five miles along the country road. Now returning through the woods of Jalna, the pines, the oaks, the slim naked birches, stood waiting for him as friends. Willingly would he spend the rest of his life among them. He had had enough of people. Their inquisitive eyes, their mouths saying the same things over and over.

Scarcely aware of what direction he took he passed the house, turned down into the ravine and up the opposite steep, a little breathless, for here it was heavy going, toward the Fox Farm. In the still of the sunless day, with the sky drooping heavy with more snow, snow that would bring deeper, thicker silence to the wood, the house looked like one in a German fairy tale. The door might have opened and a strange dwarf looked out, or a little old woman with a shawl over her head. Surely the smoke that rose from the chimney was remarkable. It rose slowly, downy and white, and spread itself like a toadstool above the house. This was the first time Finch had been home since the coming of young Bell. It seemed strange to find him here. Yet quite ordinary everyday occurrences often seemed strange to Finch. The power, or weakness, of wonder had been given him at birth. How strange, he was for ever thinking to himself. Some combination of sounds on the piano which he had heard a thousand times would suddenly strike him, as though it were the first, and he would pause, in that delicious wonder. Now this smoke that curled so closely at the chimney's mouth, then spread itself like a greyish-white toadstool, held him. His face wore what Renny called his idiotic expression.

Watching him through the window was Humphrey Bell. He kept himself concealed and watched. He felt a quickening of the pulse at the sight of that long sensitive face which had been imprinted on his memory since their meeting. Often he had wondered if the face were as interesting as he had thought and now he said to himself almost joyfully--it is!

Finch moved slowly toward the door and by the time he had reached it Bell stood there to welcome him. They exchanged greetings and Finch stared about the room with an air of approval.

"So," he said, "you've dug yourself in, and mighty snug you are."

The stove was glowing almost red hot.

Bell said,--"I'm sorry if it's too warm but the truth is I was so long nearly frozen in prison camps that it seems as though I can't be too warm now. Won't you take off your windbreaker?"

Finch took it off and Bell placed two chairs side by side facing the window.

"Do you mind?" he asked shyly. "I always set the chairs this way when your brother comes."

"That is fine," said Finch. "Which brother?"

"Renny. The other one has never been."

"Piers is wrapped up in his work and his family. How do you like Renny?"

"He's just like you said. To see him cantering on horseback--well, it's just poetry."

"And you like living here?"

"You couldn't have done a better thing for me than to send me here. I've dug myself in as completely as a rabbit in his burrow."

The simile was almost too good. Finch chuckled. Then he said,--"The family tell me you have dinner with them occasionally. I'm glad of that."

"They've been mighty kind to me. Not only Colonel Whiteoak--but Mrs. Whiteoak and the two old uncles. I'd rather go there than to any other house I've ever been."

"What about Adeline?"

Finch had seated himself but Bell stood leaning against the window-frame, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the pallid scene outside. "Oh, she," he answered. "She's so serene and untouched by life that I daren't think of her."

"She's really just a big child. She'll be an interesting woman some day."

"She has the most lovely bones," said Bell dreamily. "Her good looks aren't just pretty flesh and fine eyes and chestnut hair."

"She's like my grandmother. I can tell you, Bell, she had an arresting face when she was a hundred. Age could not change her bones. Lord, I remember her old hands and how wrinkled and yet how shapely they were! She wore a lot of rings."

"I wish I'd seen her. I have seen her portrait."

"I only knew her when she was very old." After a moment he added impulsively,--"She left me all her money."

"You were her favourite?"

"Gosh, no. I never quite knew why she did it. I wished she hadn't." He sat, lost in thought for a little, his long grey-blue eyes darkened by some painful memory. Then he asked abruptly,--"What do you do to pass the time?"

"Oh, I write some rather feeble short stories. They must be feeble, I suppose, or they'd get accepted. I don't write the bitter disillusioned stuff that most literary guys who've been to the war can turn out in words of one syllable and no punctuation. I like long words and I like the niceties of punctuation, and I like to embroider and elaborate. Neither can I write about sex. I'm too restrained and vague."

"Give yourself time," said Finch. "You've only been at it six months."

"The thing for me to do," said Bell, "is to stick to carving silly things like those," and his eyes moved from the scene outdoors to the small carvings on the mantelshelf.

"I don't believe you're happy here--in spite of what you said about being as snug as a rabbit in its burrow."

"Oh, yes, I am," Bell protested quickly. "I've never been so almost completely happy." He began to laugh silently, rumpling his silvery tow hair till it made a halo round his head. "But--I have one headache and it's an aggravating one, I can tell you."

"What?"

"Mr. Clapperton."

"Oh, him! You and my Uncle Nicholas should get together."

"We have. Your uncle invariably says Clapperton is a horrid old fellow."

"What has he done to annoy you?"

"Now, listen. He never meets me on the road or in the village but he stops me and begins to pour out his obnoxious advice." Bell spoke in a high afflicted tone. "He says I'm mentally ill. That it's proved by the way I shut myself up alone here. By the way I look and talk. He says that I must see a psychiatrist. He says that fifty per cent of the people one meets are mentally ill. He says that one out of every ten should be in a mental home. By God, I'll be in gaol for doing him an injury, if he doesn't let me alone!"

"Why don't you avoid him?"

"I can't. He smells me out. He's everywhere--with his know-it-all smirk and his cheap philosophizing."

"Have you met his wife and her sister?"

"Once he dragged me almost by force to his house to see his pictures. I suppose no worse collection of pictures exists anywhere. Yet they inspire him to live a finer life, he says. I don't know how the two women endure him. They're quite nice, though a little odd."

Bell really was worked up, but in Finch's presence he calmed himself, brought whisky and sat down facing the window.

It was March and should have been spring but there was no sign of it in these woods. The snow was deeper than it had been all through the winter, the air thicker in portent of more snow. There was a deeper silence. No small animal ventured from its burrow to leave a footprint on the snow. Of the migratory birds crows had thrown their challenge across the sky and one morning a robin had been seen. "The first robin!" Adeline had cried. "Now I must wish on him." And she had, combining superstition and religion, murmured,--"Please, may I go to Ireland, oh God!"

Finch said,--"Young Adeline is dying to go to Ireland."

Bell looked surprised. "I thought she was perfectly happy here. Why should she want to go to Ireland--of all places?"

"She was there once, with her father, and she wants to go again. My nephew Maurice is going this spring. He owns a place there. If she goes someone must go with them from here. Perhaps Renny. Perhaps me."

As he spoke Finch was looking out of the window but he was conscious of a change in Bell. He gave him a sidelong look. The tip of Bell's thumb was caught between his teeth, his eyes were downcast. He asked:

"How long would she be away?"

"Probably a couple of months."

Bell gave a little embarrassed laugh. "Don't think me too inquisitive," he said, "but I can't help asking this. Someone--I think it was Mrs. Clapperton--told me that there is a sort of engagement between Adeline and her cousin. Is she--are they going over there as an engaged couple?"

"I think almost everyone in the family wishes they were but it isn't so. Adeline hasn't shown any preference for Maurice and they're too sensible to press her. Her father wouldn't allow any urging. He's in no hurry to give his daughter to a man who is to live three thousand miles away."

"Whoever marries her," said Bell, "will get a lovely wife."

"He will, and a high-spirited one. He'd need lots of character."

"It would be strange," Bell now turned his inviting blue eyes on Finch, "to live in the house with one woman--one whom you loved desperately--and no one else ... I used to live in the house with five women. Of course, that was very different. If you lived alone with a woman you deeply loved, everything she said or did would be terrifically important. And all the time you'd be watching yourself, in fear you might say or do something that might hurt her. And if by any chance she gave you a hurt you'd have to hide it from her. You've been married. Isn't that so?"

"There are worse things than being hurt," said Finch. "There's suffocation."

"But not if you really loved her!"

"Well ... you never know till you try it."

"I expect he'll marry her all right," said Bell, turning again to the thought of Maurice. "He's got money and good looks, the family behind him. He's got everything."

"Except Adeline's love. He hasn't that--yet."

"This journey together will do the trick. I can just see them in some picturesque old Irish mansion--the sort of place to captivate a girl." Bell forced a smile to his small sensitive mouth, as though the picture were a pleasant one.

Finch began to talk to him of Ireland, of old Dermot Court whose property had been inherited by Maurice. "Speaking of Ireland," he went on, "my wife was an Irishwoman, a forty-second cousin. We separated and we came together again."

"That was good, eh?"

"No. It didn't last."

Walking homeward Finch remembered his wife Sarah. Her dark form glided out of the pale muffled wood and stood on the rustic bridge waiting for him. He saw her sleek black head with its convolutions of plaits, her white hands gripping the snowy hand-rail of the bridge, as though to keep herself from running to meet him. He remembered the feel of those hands on his neck ... and now she was dead, dead as that fallen ash tree, blown down by a gale in its prime ... Of her there was left only the memory of her sensual hold on him--his struggle to escape--but he could never be the same again. She had done something to him ... Yet--had he ever been whole--sound? He doubted it. And here at Jalna was their son. Here was Dennis who was always so glad to have him at home. It touched him to see the little boy's pleasure in his return. But, when it came to being a father, he felt himself to be a failure as compared with Renny--Renny who had been a father to his brothers, to Eden's daughter, and now a better father than himself to Dennis.

What bright elegance was Sarah's! She was as finished as a china ornament. She was as ruthless as a storm. From her far-off grave in California she spoke to him in a moment's communion and he hesitated on the bridge to hear that icy whisper. He looked back at his own deep footprints in the snow, blue caverns sunk in its whiteness. There was an oak tree that had somehow contrived against all the gales to retain two brown leaves. Now, in the still air, one of them detached itself and fluttered slowly downward like a weary bird ... The sound of the dogs' barking came from the direction of the house. They barked angrily from the porch, wanting the door opened. In a moment it opened and the barking ceased. The door closed with a bang.

Finch pictured the warmth and light inside the house. Whiteoaks had lived here for all but a century. Perhaps would live here for a century--two centuries--more. Who knew? He felt the pull of the house--urging him to hasten to it--not to lose any of the cherished hours under its roof, the only roof beneath which he felt sheltered, safe. Sometimes when he was on a tour, was playing the piano in a distant city, he would remember the piano in this house, and his spirit would return to it and his fingers return to that keyboard, and all else would be blotted out and the next day the critics would say he had played his best.

When he stood inside the hall where the bob-tailed sheepdog, the bulldog and the Cairn terrier were humped by the stove pulling at the clots of snow between their toes, he stood warming his hands and listening to the voices of the two old uncles in the library, like the rustling of the two last oak-leaves on the tree in the ravine, he thought. Urgent and steady came the tick of the grandfather clock. Now the sound of the dogs licking their wet paws, and a growl from the little Cairn as the sheepdog lay down too close to him.

Cap in hand he stood in the doorway of the library.

"I'll not come in," he said. "I'm too snowy."

"Thank you, dear boy," said Uncle Ernest. "I am so very susceptible to cold."

"Where have you been?" asked Uncle Nicholas.

"A good walk. Then I dropped in on Humphrey Bell."

"Albino-looking fellow," remarked Nicholas.

"He served in the Air Force. A very nice young man," reproved Ernest.

"Didn't say he wasn't nice." Nicholas spoke testily. "Said he looked like an albino." Nicholas stretched till the chair creaked beneath him. "What a long day! I shall be glad when spring comes. Spring! It's March. Think of the primroses in England. Why, you could hardly put your foot down without treading on 'em. Shall never see them again." He voiced a "Ho-hum," that was something between a yawn and a grunt of resignation, for he was not unhappy.

"Your Uncle Nicholas has days," Ernest remarked, "when he will not listen to the radio. Says it tires him."

His brother's grey moustache bristled. "Didn't say it tired me. Said it made me tired. It makes me tired because there are too many stars. Stars used to be few and far between and they shone brightly. Now there's a regular Milky Way of radio stars. They make me tired. That's what I said. Too much of everything. That's what I say."

They heard Adeline's footsteps flying down the stairs. She brought palpable joy into the room. "What do you suppose?" she cried. "Mother and Daddy have said I may go to Ireland with Maurice! And they'd like you to go with me, Uncle Finch, to look after me. As though I needed looking after! Daddy says the rest will do you so much good. Will you come, please? Because whether I go or not depends a great deal on you."

Renny now followed his daughter into the room and Finch asked of him,--"Why don't you take Adeline over yourself? She'd rather have you than anyone else."

"I know. And I'd like tremendously to go, but for one thing--"

"Now don't say it's the money," cried Adeline. "You know you can afford it, darling."

"For one thing," he persisted, "it's the expense. For another--and I won't say it doesn't count most--it's that I'm afraid to leave home for fear of what Clapperton will do. I've heard that he plans to build a factory of some sort on the Black place."

"He couldn't!" cried Ernest. "My parents would turn over in their graves."

"A lot he'd care. He's a business man. It would be a paying venture. It would be two miles from his own house."

Nicholas said,--"He'll never do it. I'm sure of that. It would depreciate the value of his own property. All this talk is to aggravate us. He knows it will and the horrid old fellow enjoys it."

"I think you're right, Uncle Nick," said Finch.

Adeline caught his arm in her hands and rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. She said,--"It's decided somebody's got to go with Mooey and me. Daddy won't. So you must, Uncle Finch. It'll simply break my heart if I can't go."

"Alayne ought to go," said Finch.

"Of course she should," agreed Renny. "It's years and years since she was over there but she won't go. She's in a rut and won't budge out of it."

Alayne in the doorway overheard this. In her heart she knew that Adeline would prefer the companionship of Renny or of Finch to hers. It was not a happy thought but it was so and she herself was probably to blame, for though she loved Adeline the child was not and never had been congenial to her. And there was her son. Was he congenial to her? He had her father's lofty white forehead and piercing blue eyes but so far he had shown, not her father's intellect or sweet, self-effacing nature, but an erratic mind and a profound egotism. She found herself not near to either of her children.

She said,--"I can't think of anyone who would enjoy the trip more than you, Finch. And I'm sure there is no one Adeline would rather have--with the exception of her father."

"Now then, Finch," said Renny, "it is up to you."

"Dear boy," Ernest stretched out his hand and took one of Finch's in it. "I think you should agree to go. Mooey very kindly invited me to accompany them and I think he intended to pay all expenses but the more I think it over the more certain I become that the effort would be too great for me. I am almost ninety-five. Can you believe that?" He raised his eyes rather pathetically to Finch's face, as though he asked for assurance that this was not so.

"There's a good fellow, Finch," said Nicholas. "There's a good fellow."

It was impossible to resist. Besides he wanted to go. The thought of the sea voyage, the thought of Ireland, elated him. The thought of a journey with Maurice and Adeline elated him. All his journeyings were by plane or train and solitary, with a concert looming at the end. The thought of seeing his brother Wakefield, now acting in a play in London, elated him.

As always when Finch was moved he lost control over his voice. Now it came loudly from his mouth. "I'll go with Adeline. I'd like to go. It's just what I'd like to do".

She threw both arms about him and he felt their strength. "Oh, splendid! Oh, heavenly!" She danced about the room weaving her way in and out among her elders.

"What's splendid? What's heavenly?" asked Dennis from the doorway, his eyes shining beneath his yellow fringe.

"Uncle Finch and I are going to Ireland."

"Can I go too?"

"You're too young."

"People go over when they're babies."

"They go with their mothers."

"I'll go with my father."

"No," said Finch. "You can't come."

"Why?"

"There are dozens of reasons."

"Tell me eleven." He tugged at Finch's sleeve.

Finch wanted to get away from Dennis. He ran up to his room on the top floor two steps at a time. But he heard Dennis pursuing him. He heard him coming step after step without panting. Finch turned and faced him.

"Well?" he asked.

"I want to go to Ireland."

"You're too young. Your turn will come."

"If we all took turns by age my turn would never come till I was old."

"I'll bring you something nice--whatever you want," Finch said comfortingly and had a recollection of Wakefield as a small boy begging to go places.

"M--m," murmured Dennis. He took Finch's hand and stroked it with his cheek. He pushed back Finch's sleeve and stroked the inside of his wrist. He stroked it as Sarah had been wont to do.

"Let me go," he said, breathless. "You must run along, Dennis. There's a good boy."

He got rid of him and shut the door behind him. He spread open and flexed the hand Dennis had caressed.