Whiteoaks of Jalna: A Novel

XII

Two evenings later Eden Whiteoak was sauntering along lower Fifth Avenue, one hand thrust in a pocket of a rather shabby tweed jacket, the other carrying a light stick. The change in him since he had disappeared from Jalna was remarkable. He had become thin almost to emaciation. His movements were still graceful, but the bright vigor of his carriage was gone. He seemed to progress only by an effort of the will, either because of bodily weakness or because of extreme despondency. If he had removed his hat, one would have seen that his hair, which had Iain like a shining metal casque upon his head, was now rough and unkempt. Above the hollows in his cheeks two feverish spots burned where had been only a fresh glow. The beauty of his large blue eyes seemed accentuated. They still retained their peculiar unseeing expression, which sometimes disturbed one in company with him, and his lips still curved in thenodd half-smile.

He was feeling himself near the end of his tether, and he was filled with a cynical dislike toward the moving mass of people who shared the pavement with him. This dislike, through some whim or perhaps some old resentment, was directed chiefly toward those of the opposite sex. And his aversion was at the moment centred upon their legs, which, like the sleek antennæ of insects, moved mechanically past him. It seemed to him that if ever he should look back upon this night of humid, unseasonable heat, he would recall it as being borne along its course by innumerable silk-clad legs.

Four girls approached abreast, wearing French heels and flesh-colored stockings, their eight legs flashing in quick rhythm. ’Beasts,’ he thought. ‘Beasts. Why cumber ye the earth? Why, in God’s name? I wish I could help you off it. Four. Why should there be four of you, all alike?’ He glanced up at their faces — heavy-eyed, smooth-cheeked, crimson-mouthed faces. He scowled at them. Beasts. A little later he singled out one walking with a thin, undersized youth. Her skirt was very short. Her calves large, caught inward abruptly at knee and ankle. Her feet ridiculously short. Oh, the grotesque shape of her! Why should she exist? Why, oh, why? How could the spotted-faced youth endure her?

There was no air. The air seemed to have been sucked out of the street, leaving it a vacuum through which a dreamlike procession marched, a procession so dreamlike that it required no air. The faces, the legs, passed in a blur before Eden’s eyes, until at last the form of an old woman .stood out clearly. She was in rusty black, wearing an old-fashioned bonnet, the strings of which were tied in a greasy bow beneath her withered, jutting chin. Her slate-colored eyes, which had once been as blue as Eden’s, were fixed in the unseeing stare of one who had looked too long on life and could bear to look no more. Her sunken upper lip gnawed always the pendulous lower one. The turned-out toes of her large shoes could barely be seen beneath the heavy width of her draggled skirt. Instantly she appeared as something precious to Eden. Here was a woman who had meaning. One could understand why she existed, not cumbering the earth, gracing it — beautiful. Ah, the gracious, exquisite reality of her waddling legless form! There she was — a woman. He was jostled, almost pushed from the curb as he stared. He drew a bank note, his last, from his pocket, and hurried after her. He pressed it into her hand. The hand, a claw, closed over it. She shambled on without a glance at him.

He entered the little garden in Madison Square, sat down on one of the benches, and lighted a cigarette. A feeling of extreme lassitude crept over him, from the legs upward, at last reaching his head and making him drowsy. The figures passing through the park became shadowy. He saw as in a dream the twilight arch of the sky, the far-off hazy moon, the rows of lights, like strings of bright beads in the surrounding buildings.

He was weary with a deep sickness of dejection. He remembered his young strength, his gifts — and they had come to this! And he was twenty-five! He remembered Jalna, his brothers, Alayne. He had harmed them all in one way or another, he supposed. But he did not think of them clearly. Himself only he saw with great clarity. His own white face, like the face of a drowning man, risen for a moment on the crest of a wave.

What was there for him to do? He could not now earn his living. He could not go home. He had parted from the woman with whom he had been living, because he could no longer contribute to their joint expenses. She would have been glad to pay all —but he had hardly come to that! How they had quarreled, and she had rained tears whom he had thought too hard ever to shed one! How he had grown to hate her heavy arms! To be free of them — that was the one bright spot.

The smell of damp earth rose from the roots of the new grass about him. The sound of traffic was lulled to a deep hum. He felt isolated, as though he were on an island in the midst of a lonely sea. He was alone. Utterly alone. A wave of loneliness swept over him, so engulfing that beside it the homesickness of Finch was little more than a ripple. He sank back on the bench, his chin sunk on his chest.

Two people had come and seated themselves beside him. They were talking steadily, but in low tones — a mellow old voice and a boyish one. He scarcely heard them. A fit of coughing came upon him, and he clung to the back of the bench for support. When it was past he took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. The elder of the two men leaned forward and looked toward him with compassion, Eden, embarrassed, took out a cigarette, struck a match. His face was illuminated.

‘My God!’ cried Ernest, springing up. ‘Eden, is it you?’

Eden looked up at him, too astounded for speech.

‘Speak, Eden! Tell me what is the matter.’

‘Everything, I guess.’

‘But that cough! It’s simply terrible. How long have you had it?’

‘Several months. Don’t bother. It will be all right when the warm weather comes.’

‘But the weather is hot now!’

‘It’s unseasonable. Probably be cold again to-morrow. . . . Please don’t trouble about me. Tell me why you are here. Is that young Finch?’

Finch got to his feet, trembling. He was bewildered, frightened by this sudden meeting with Eden. He remembered his last encounter with him. That summer night when he had discovered Eden and Pheasant in the birch wood together. His mind fastened on an incident strikingly similar in both meetings, and yet how dissimilar! On each occasion Eden had, at a moment of climax, struck a match, illuminated a face. But in the first instance it had been the white, terrified face of Finch; now it was his own, hollow-cheeked, feverish. Then he had exclaimed bitterly, ‘What a worm you are, brother Finch!’ Now’ he said in alow tone of reckless self-possession, ‘Hullo, Finch! You here, too? God, what a meeting!’

‘Hullo!’ returned Finch, but he could not hold out his hand. His heart sank when he looked at Eden. He had helped to bring him to this.

‘Eden, Eden!’ cried their micle. ‘I am distressed to find you looking so ill. I could not have believed —’

‘Oh, I’m not in such bad shape as I look.’ He stared at these newly arrived members of his family in satiric mirth. ‘Lord, what a quaint pair you are! When did you come here, and why?’

Ernest and Finch glanced at each other uncomfortably.

‘I — he —’ mumbled the boy.

‘He — I —' stammered Ernest.

Eden broke into laughter. ‘I see it all! You ran away, Finch, and Uncle Ernest came to fetch you. Or was it the other way about? Never mind, it’s enough that you’re here! I wouldn’t have believed you’d have the guts.’

‘You must come back to my hotel,’ said Ernest.

‘ I wish I could invite you to my lodgings, but they’re too tough for you, by a long shot.’

Ernest was greatly upset. He turned to Finch. ‘Get a taxi. Eden is n’t fit to walk.’

On the way to the hotel, Eden asked, ‘Have you seen Alayne?’

‘Yes, I’ve had dinner with her — and luncheon. M-yes. She’s looking lovely, Eden.’

‘She would! Some women thrive on marital troubles. They find them more stimulating than babies.’

In the hotel bedroom Ernest said, ‘What you need is a good hot toddy, but how am I to get you one?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Eden. ‘I could n’t possibly take anything.’ He drank a glass of water and fidgeted about the room, talking in a way that seemed to Ernest rather strange and wild. Finch sat by the window smoking, and took no part in the conversation. Eden did not speak to him.

After a time Eden announced his intention of going, but just as he took up his hat he was attacked by another fit of coughing. His last strength seemed to go into this. After it was over, he flung himself on the bed and shivered from head to foot. He was plainly so ill that Ernest was distraught. He sent Finch running downstairs to inquire about a doctor. The next morning he sent a telegram to Kenny which read: —

HAVE FOUND EDEN VERY ILL PLEASE COME AT ONCE CANNOT COPE WITH THIS

E. WHITEOAK

XIII

On the morning that followed, another member of the Whiteoak family might have been seen ascending in the hotel lift, attended by a porter carrying a rather shabby suitcase. When they alighted, he limped vigorously after the man and knocked with impatience on the designated door. It was opened by Finch.

When the porter had been tipped and the door closed behind him, Renny swept his eyes over the boy and gave a grunt, half of satisfaction at beholding him, half of derision.

Finch, red in the face, drew a step nearer. The elder took him by the arm, then kissed him. Finch seemed to him little more grown up than Wakefield. Joy and pure love surged through Finch. Animal joy and love that made him want to leap on Renny and caress him roughly like a joyous dog. He stood still, grinning sheepishly.

‘Where’s Eden?’ demanded Renny,

‘In there.’ He nodded toward the next room. ‘Uncle Ernest’s with him.'

Ernest himself then entered. He looked white and drawn.

‘Heavens above!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m thankful you’ve come,’ and he gripped Renny’s hand.

‘This is a pretty mess,’ said Renny. ‘Have you a doctor? How ill is he? What’s the matter with him?’

‘It is indeed,’ returned Ernest. ‘I don’t know when I ’ve been so upset. I called a doctor as soon as he was taken badly. I think he’s a good one.’ He braced himself and looked Renny in the eyes. ‘Renny, it’s the boy’s lungs. They’re in a bad way. He’s in great danger, the doctor says.’

Renny’s brow contracted. He set the point of his stick in the centre of the geometrical pattern of the rug and stared at it. He said in a low voice, ‘His mother died of consumption.’

‘Yes. But none of the children have shown any tendency that way. I suppose he’s been exposing himself.’

Renny began to limp nervously up and down the room. Ernest asked, solicitously, ‘How is your knee? It is a shame to have brought you here, when you’re not fit, but I — you understand —’

‘It’s nothing. I wish I had our own doctor to see him. This man may be an alarmist.’

’I don’t know. I hope so. He says that he must have the very best care.’

‘We must take him home. . . . What does Alayne think of this?’

‘She’s terribly upset, naturally. She’s shocked. There’s no hatred in her toward Eden. She thinks that he simply can’t help being what he is. Unfaithful. I agree, too. What do you think?’

‘I think he’s a damned nuisance. All these brothers of mine are.’ He turned his incisive gaze suddenly on Finch. ’I hope you’re going to behave yourself, now,’ he said.

Finch pulled at his underlip.

Ernest put in, ‘It’s God’s mercy that the boy ran away. We should never have heard of Eden till too late.’

Both men stared at Finch. He writhed inwardly, not knowing whether he was being commended or jeered at.

Ernest continued, ‘Alayne had got him quite a decent position in a publishing house, as costing clerk. I saw this Mr. Cory and got him to let him off at once. I had to have his help with Eden, I could n’t be alone here, not knowing what might happen. I little thought, when I left home, the time I’d have.’

‘Well, it’s a good thing lie’s been of some use,’ replied Benny. ‘Now, you’d better take me in to Eden.’

Eden was propped up in bed, not seeming so ill as Benny had expected until he had taken the hot dry hand and felt the thinness of it, noticed the sharp outline of the limbs under the coverings.

Renny seated himself on the side of the bed and surveyed his brother. ‘You’ve got yourself into a pretty state, have n’t you?’

Eden had been told that Benny was coming, but it seemed too unreal to see his family thus gathering about him. It frightened him. Was he so dreadfully ill? He withdrew his hand quickly from Benny’s and raised himself in the bed. He said, excitedly, ‘I don’t like this at all! What in hell’s the matter? Does that doctor say I’m going to die?’

‘I haven’t been told anything of the sort,’ returned Benny, with composure. ‘Uncle Ernest wired me that he had come across you, and that you were on the rocks. Well, you are, aren’t you? What are you getting up in the air about?’

Sweat stood on Eden’s forehead. ‘He wired you! Show me the telegram!’

‘I can’t. It’s at home. For heaven’s sake, keep your hair on! You don’t fee! like dying, I suppose.’ He grinned as he asked the question, but he was filled by a great anxiety. All that was sturdy in him rushed out toward Eden to protect him.

‘Tell me what he said! Had he seen the doctor yet?’ He dropped back on the pillow. ‘Never mind. You would n’t tell me the truth.’

‘I’m going to take you home.’

Eden’s agitation had subsided. Now he stared at his brother hungrily. ‘God, it looks good to see you sitting there! But I wish you’d take a chair! You make the bed sag. You ’re no featherweight, Benny. . . . Look at my arm.’ He thrust it out from the sleeve, thin, dead-white, blueveined. Benny scowled at it.

He got up, dragged a chair to one side of the bed, and reseated himself.

‘I can’t think how you got yourself into such a state. You don’t look as though you’d had enough to eat. Why haven’t you sent to me for money?’

‘Should you have sent it?’

‘You know I should.’

‘And now you want to take me home?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Good old patriarch! The two lost lambs. Young Finch and I. . . . But what about Piers? He’d not stand for that. God, I should like to see his face if it were suggested! ’

‘I did see it. I told him I might fetch you if you were fit to travel.’

Eden laughed, suddenly and maliciously. ‘Poor Piers! What did he say? That he’d poison all his pigs and then take a dose himself?’

‘No,’ Renny returned, sternly. ‘He remarked that you were a waster and always would be. He said that if you were coining home to — to —’

‘To die. . . . Go on.’

‘That he’d take Pheasant away till it was over.’

Again Eden was moved to mirth, but this time there was a hysterical note in it.

‘It’s a good thing you’re amused,’ Renny observed calmly. ‘I should say that the joke is on you.’ He thought, ‘I wish I knew what is in the bottom of his mind. I wish I knew what he’s been up to the past year.’

But Eden’s laughter brought on a fit of coughing. Renny watched him, his hard, thin frame tense with misery. ‘Can I do anything?’ he entreated.

Eden raised his head, which he had buried in the pillow. His hair was plastered in damp locks on his forehead, his face flushed crimson.

‘Look here, Renny.’

‘Yes.’

‘My mother died of lung trouble, did n’t she?’

‘The doctor called it that, but I think she simply pined away after Wake’s birth. Father’s death was hard on her.’

‘That’s the way I’ll go!’

‘If you are determined to look on the black side of this trouble, you’ll die and no mistake,’ declared Renny, emphatically. ‘Buck up! Be a man! I’m going to take you home. You ’ll get good care — the best care — ’

‘Who will take care of me?’

‘A nurse, I suppose.’

‘Like hell she will! I tell you, I hate women! I won’t have a nurse about me. I loathe them — starchy, flat-footed, hardeyed —I’ll not go home if you make me have a nurse! I’ll die first!’

Ernest, his face puckered by anxiety, came into the sick room. Finch, drawn by morbid curiosity, slunk after him.

Ernest said, reproachfully, ‘This will never do. The doctor says he must be kept quiet. I don’t think you realize how ill he is, Renny.’ He poured something into a glass and brought it to Eden.

Renny regarded the proceeding with intense irritation and concern. He remarked, ‘I realize that he’s making this affair as difficult as possible.’

Ernest, looking down his nose, smoothed Eden’s pillow.

‘Perhaps you expect Uncle Ernie to nurse you,’ observed Renny, sarcastically,

Finch guffawed.

Renny wheeled on him. ‘What—’ he began. ‘What—’

‘Let the lad be,’ said Ernest. ‘Finch, my boy, fill the hot-water bottle and fetch it.’

Eden did not want the hot-water bottle, but he pretended that he did, since the need of it made him appear rather more ill-used. Finch, with Renny’s eye on him, slunk out with the bottle.

‘I’ll die before I’ll have a nurse,’ Eden persisted, in a weak voice, after a silence broken only by the running of a tap.

The hot-water bottle was put in with him. Ernest patted his back, and said, ‘If it were not for Meggie’s baby, she would be the very one! She would be perfect. She is almost perfect in every way.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Renny. ‘She is.’

‘Could n’t she get someone to look after the kid?’ asked Eden.

‘She has a sort of companion, but she’d never trust it to her entirely. She’s a perfect mother.’ said Ernest, After a little he continued, hesitatingly, ‘Do you know, I have an idea. It may not be feasible, but,’ — he looked from one to the other, — ‘but the whole affair is so unusual . . .’

‘What is your idea?’ asked Renny.

‘Oh, I’m afraid it would be impossible. We’d better not discuss it. We bad better think of someone possible. Eden, if the thought of a trained nurse is so intolerable to you, how would it do if we engaged some elderly woman who has had experience —’

‘I saw one on the street!’ interrupted Eden. ‘Wonderful old body! Tatters, and a face like one of the Fates.’

Renny asked of Ernest, ‘Do you think he’s a little light in his head?’

‘Not at all,’ said Ernest. ‘You don’t understand him, that is all. . . . Now the person I have in mind is Mrs. Patch. She is reliable. She has had experience in nursing — ’

Finch, unable to stop himself, interjected, ‘She ought to do. She’s buried three of her own with T. B.’

‘Finch,’ said his uncle, sternly, ‘that remark was in very bad taste. I’m surprised at you!’

‘Don’t mind me,’ said Eden, faintly smiling. ‘Only please tell me about this idea of yours. Whom had you in mind?’

Ernest answered, looking, not at him, but at Lenny, ‘I was wondering whether Alayne might be persuaded to nurse him.’

This sudden mention of her name seemed to conjure Alayne’s bodily presence before the occupants of the room. A subtle embarrassment dimmed their vision of each other. Ernest, after uttering the words, was moved to wish that he could recall them. They had seemed to him to besmirch her present aloofness, to drag her again into the shame and darkness of her last days at Jalna. He looked rather pathetically into the faces of his nephews, seeing each in his relation to those days.

Renny, experiencing a feeling of shock by the proposal, stared at Eden, lying on the bed, disheveled, ill, beautiful. He saw him as again the possessor of Alayne. He felt in himself the pain for something he could never possess. No, she must not do such a thing. It would be cruel to ask her, and yet—if she could bring herself to do it — he thought of her as standing reluctant in the room, midway between himself and Eden. . . .

‘She’s not quite a saint,’ he said.

Finch, crouching in a big chair, twisted his fingers together. Figures in a dream, that was what they were — gesticulating, hiding their troubled eyes, disappearing, reappearing, beckoning one who had eluded them to return, seeking to draw her again into the circle. Again, in spite of himself, he spoke. ‘Do women,’ be asked, ‘ever take a man back after a thing like that?’

His brothers regarded him in silence, too astounded to speak. It was Ernest’s mellow voice that answered.

‘Many a woman has taken a man back after such an escapade. ... I was only suggesting that if Alayne could be persuaded to return to Jalna with us — to help look after Eden — how splendid it would be. ... I was thinking of her hands. They’re so cool, so capable.’

‘You must think she’s without character,’ said Renny.

‘Not at all! I think she has great strength of character, or I should not suggest such a thing. . . . She’s sick and tired of her life as it is. If she should return to Jalna she might never leave it again. Mamma is really too much for Augusta.’

Renny turned to Eden. ‘What do you think? Should you like Alayne to nurse you ? ’

Eden rolled over, hiding his face in the pillow.

Finch exclaimed, ‘He doesn’t want her! He does n’t want her!’ He could not bear the idea of Alayne’s being drawn again into Jalna, as into a whirlpool in which she would be sucked under.

‘Let him be,’ said his uncle. ‘Let him have time to think.’

The three sat with their eyes on the hunched-up figure on the bed. In and out, through the mazes of their thoughts, the shape of Alayne moved, in a kind of mystic dance. The roar of traffic from below rose as a wall around them.

At last Eden rolled over and faced them. ‘I give you my word,’ he said, ‘that unless Alayne comes to help me get well I shall die.’ His eyes were challenging, his mouth feverish.

Finch kept saying over and over again to himself, ‘It’s a shame — a shame to ask her.’

‘You are the one to ask her,’ said Ernest to Renny. ‘You must go to see her at once.’

‘I think you are the one to ask her. You’ve been talking to her.’

‘No — no. It must be you, Renny.’

‘I will bring her here, and he shall ask her himself.’

‘I am afraid it will upset him.’

‘I’ll prepare her, but he must do the asking.’

‘Very well,’ said Eden. ‘Bring her here to see me. She can’t refuse that.’

Renny’s feelings, as he stood waiting for Alayne to answer her door, were a strange mixture. He had a disheartened, hangdog feeling at being forced, through his solicitude for Eden, to come on such an errand. Yet stirring all through him was a ruthless exhilaration at the thought of once more becoming a moving force in Alayne’s life, in tearing her from her security and exposing her to the tyranny of passions and desires which she had thought to set aside.

As she stood before him, bis thought was that she was in no way striking, as he had pictured her in his fancy. She was less tall, her hair was a paler gold, her eyes more gray than blue, her lips closed in a colder line. Yet his reaction to this meeting was greater than he had expected. He felt a magnetic fervor coursing in his blood as his hand held hers. He wondered if this was palpable to her. If it was, he marveled at her self-control.

Alayne’s sensations were the very reverse of his. Standing before her in the flesh, his characteristics were even more intense than in her memory. He was taller, more incisive, his eyes more burning, his nose larger, more arrogantly curved at the nostrils. Inversely, his effect on her was less profound than she had feared. She was like a swimmer who, dreading the force of current, finds himself unexpectedly able to breast it. She felt that since she had last seen him she had gained in self-confidence and maturity.

With the conflict of these undiscovered emotions surging between them, they entered the living room.

He said, ‘One after another we are appearing. Only wait and you shall have Gran at your door with Boney on her shoulder.’

She gave a little laugh, and then said, gravely, ‘But it is too bad it is trouble that brings you.’

He looked at her shrewdly. ‘You knowhow serious Eden’s condition is?’

‘I have talked about it with your uncle.’ Her face w-as quite calm.

He said, his eyes devouring her, ‘God, it seems strange to see you!’

‘And you!’

‘Has the time seemed long or short to you ? ’

‘Very long.’

‘Short to me. Gone like the wind.’

‘Ah, well, you have your horses, your dogs, your family. I am rather a lonely person.’

‘But you’re busy.’ He glanced at the books on the writing table.

She gave a little shrug, and then said, ‘I am afraid I think too much and take too little exercise.’

‘You should have more exercise. I do my best thinking on horseback. Do you remember our rides together? You thought I was a stern riding master, did n’t you?’

‘Our rides together,’ she murmured, and in a flash saw herself and Kenny galloping along the lake shore, heard the mad thud of hoofs, the strain of leather, saw again the shining, flying manes. Her breath came quickly, as though she had indeed been riding. ‘How is Letty?’ she asked. Letty was the mare she had ridden.

‘Beautiful as ever. Ready — waiting for you to ride her again.’

‘I am afraid I shall never do that,’ she said, in a lowvoice.

‘Are n’t you ever coming to visit us?’

‘Renny,’ she said with sudden passion, ‘we said good-bye on that last night. You should not have come here to see me.’

‘Have I disturbed you?’ he asked. ‘You look cool enough in all conscience.’

‘That is what I wish to be. I — I want to forget the past.’

He spoke soothingly, as to a nervous horse. ‘Of course. Of course. That’s right, too. I should never have come if I w-ere n’t so worried about Eden.’

She opened her eyes wide. ‘I cannot do anything for Eden,’ she said, abruptly.

‘Not come to see him?’

‘Go to see Eden! I could not possibly. Why should I?’

‘When you have seen him you won’t ask that question. He’s a sick man. I don’t believe he’ll get over this. His mother went in consumption, you know.’

Consumption! They would still call it that at Jalna. What a terrible word!

‘I am the last person Eden would want to see.’

‘You’re mistaken. He’s terribly keen to see you.’

‘But why?’

‘There’s no accounting for the desires of anyone as ill as Eden. Possibly he has something to say to you that he thinks is important.’

‘That is what has brought you here?’

‘Yes.’

A flash of bitter disappointment pierced her. He had not sought her out because he must set eyes on her, but for Eden’s sake. She said, ‘I cannot see him.’

‘Oh, but I think you will. You could n’t refuse.’

He sat doggedly smoking, endeavoring to override her opposition, she felt, by his taciturn tyranny.

She murmured, ‘It will be a difficult scene for me.’

He replied, ‘There will not necessarily be a scene. Why should women always expect scenes?’

‘Perhaps I learned to expect them in your family,’ she retorted.

He showed his teeth in the Court, grin, which, subsiding, left his face again dogged.

‘You will come, Alayne,’ he said. ‘You can scarcely refuse to see him for five minutes.’

‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I believe I guess what he wants. He is frightened about himself and he wants me to look after him — nurse him back to health!’

‘That may be,’ Renny replied, imperturbably. ‘At all events he absolutely refuses to have a trained nurse. I don’t know how Aunt Augusta and Mrs. Wragge will make out with him. Uncle Ernest suggested old Mrs. Patch, and Finch said at once that she ought to know something of nursing consumption, as she had buried three of her own with it!’

He looked shrewdly into her eyes to read the effect of his words there, and saw dismay, even horror.

‘Mrs. Wragge — Mrs. Patch,’ she repeated. ‘They would be the end of him!’ Another thought struck her. ‘He should not be in the house with the boys — Wakefield, Finch. It would be dangerous.’

‘I had thought of that,’ said Renny, ‘and I have an idea. You remember Fiddler’s Hut?’

Was she likely to forget it? ‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Very well. Early this spring I had it cleaned up, painted, made quite decent for a Scotch couple who were to work for Piers. Something went wrong. They did not turn up. Now, I’m wondering whether it might not be made quite a decent place for Eden. Yon have a great deal of influence over him still. You might persuade him to have a trained nurse. God, if you only knew how troubled I am about him!’

Suddenly he seemed, not domineering, but naive to her: pathetic iu his confidence in her. She did not look into his eyes, which for her were dark and dangerous, but at the troubled pucker on his forehead, above which the rust-colored hair grew in a point.

She pictured the mismanagement of a sick room at Jalna. She thought of Fiddler’s Hut, embowered in trees and rank growths. And Eden terribly ill. All her New England love of order, of seemliness, cried out against the disorder, the muddle-headedness of the Whiteoaks. She was trembling with agitation, even while she heard herself agreeing in a level voice to accompany him to the hotel.

In less than an hour she found herself, with a sense of unreality, by Eden’s bed, pale, with set lips.

He lay, his fair hair wildly tossed, his white throat and breast uncovered. She thought of dying poets, of Keats, of Shelley sinking in the waves. Young as they had been, both older than he. And his poetry was beautiful, too. She still loved his poetry. She knew it by heart. What might he not write if he could only be made well again! Was it her duty to Art? To the love she still felt for his poetry, his beauty? Ah, he had been her lover once, lying with that same head on her breast! Dear heaven, how sweet their love had been, and — how fleeting!

Eden caught her hand and field it. He said, huskily, ‘I knew you’d come! You could n’t refuse me that — now. Alayne, don’t leave me. Stay with me — save me! You’ve no idea how I need you. I refused to have a nurse because I knew it was only you who could help me. It’s your strength — your support ... I can’t get well without it.’

He broke into a passion of tears, and, with his eyes still wet, fell into a paroxysm of coughing.

She looked down on him, her face contorted like a child’s in the effort to keep from crying. She heard herself promise in a broken voice to accompany him back to Jalna.

XIV

Eden had borne the journey well. Renny had taken a compartment for his comfort, and had shared it with him so as to be on hand to wait on him. Ernest, Finch, and Alayne had berths at the other end of the car. The four — for Eden had not been visible to the other occupants of the car — were the subjects of much conjecture. The men — tall, thin, absorbed in themselves and their female companion — made their numerous passages from end to end of the car in complete obliviousness of the other travelers. Thus the Whiteoaks revealed their power of carrying their own atmosphere with them. With calculated reserve they raised a wall about themselves, excluding the rest of the world. In the smoking compartment not one of them exchanged more than a glance, which itself lacked any appearance of friendliness, with any other passenger.

They were met on their arrival by two motor cars. One was of English make, a very old car but still good, owned by Maurice Vaughan, Renuy’s brother-in-law, and driven by him. Eden was installed in it, and with him went Ernest and Renny. Watching their departure, Alayne wondered why Renny had not chosen to ride with her. She was relieved that the propinquity of a long drive had not to be endured, but she felt a quick disappointment, even resentment, that he had shunned her. His mixture of coldness and fire, of calculation and restrained impulse, had always disturbed her. To be near him was to experience alternate moods of exhilaration and depression. She was glad that she was not to be in the house with him. Fiddler’s Hut was near enough.

As she settled herself in the familiar shabby car of the Whiteoaks beside Finch, beheld the remembered form of Wright, the stableman, driving, she wondered what had been the force which had impelled her to this strange return. Had it indeed been the shadow of her dead love for Eden — springing desire to cherish his life for the sake of his poetry? Or was it that, knowing Renny willed it so, she had no self-denying power to resist? Or was it simply and terribly that the old house — Jalua itself — had caught her in the coil of its spell, had stretched forth its arm to draw her back into its bosom?

Finch and she said little. An understanding that made words no obligation had been born between them. He too had his moving thoughts. He was passing through the town where his school was. What a great city it had seemed to him until he had seen New York! Now it looked as though it had had a blow on the head that had flattened it. Its streets looked incredibly narrow. The crowd, which had seemed to him once to surge, now merely loitered. They had different faces, too — less set, more good-humored. And how jolly the policemen looked in their helmets!

They came to the low white cottages of Evandale, the blacksmith’s, Mrs. Brawn’s tiny shop, the English church on its high, wooded knoll, the vine-covered rectory. The wind blew, high and fresh, scattering the last of the orchard blossoms. They entered the driveway of Jalna just as the occupants of the other car were alighting. Renny had Eden by the arm.

They were crowded together in the porch. The lawn seemed less spacious than Alayne had remembered it. The great evergreen trees, with their heavy, draped boughs, seemed to have drawn nearer, to be whispering together in groups, observing the return.

Rags flung wide the front door, disclosing, as in a tableau, the grandmother, supported by Nicholas and Augusta. Her face was set in a grin of joyous anticipation. She wore her purple velvet tea gown, and her largest cap, with the purple ribbons. Her shapely old hand, resting on the ebony stick, bore many rich-tinted rings. Behind her, down the hall, the sunlight, coming through the stained-glass window, cast strangely shaped bright-colored patches. Still grasping her stick, she took a step forward and extended her arms.

The arrival had been well timed for her. After a sound night’s sleep, she had just arisen refreshed, her initial vitality not yet lowered by the agitations of the day.

‘Ha!’she exclaimed. ‘Ha! Children. All my children. . . . Kiss me quick!’

They pressed about her, almost hiding her — Ernest, Renny, Finch, Eden. Loud smacks were exchanged.

Her mind had never grasped the fact that Eden and Alayne were estranged, separated. She saw them now only as an inseparable pair who had disappeared for a long time and were now returned miraculously to her.

‘Ha!’ she ejaculated. ‘And so you’re here! At last, eh? My young couple. Bonny as ever. Lord, what a time I’ve had getting ready for you! What a to-do! Eh, Augusta? A to-do, eh? Alayne, my dear, you remember my daughter, Lady Bunkley? She’s failing. I notice it. This climate don’t agree with her. It takes an old war horse like me to stand it. I ’ve lived through India and I’ve lived through Canada. Roasting and freezing — all one to me.’

Augusta looked down her nose. She was greatly chagrined by the old lady’s remarks. She said, ‘It is no great wonder if I am unwell. It has been a trying time.’ She directed her offended gaze toward Iicnny.

He did not see it. His eyes were fixed on his grandmother. He was absorbing her aspect, delighting in her. Some perversity of his nature had impelled him to write to her, asking her to oversee the furnishing of the Hut for Eden and Alayne—she was the one above all who would see to it that the Hut was made comfortable. This he wrote, knowing that she was capable only of making things difficult for his aunt. His feeling toward Augusta was not altogether dutiful, though on occasion he would be demonstratively affectionate. Augusta too often interfered with the boys. She too often sounded the note of England’s superiority, of the crudity of the Colonies. He admired her, but he resented her. He admired his grandmother and resented not her most flagrant absurdities. Now her air of hilarity, of the exaltation of a superior being, moved him to tenderness toward her. He forgot for the moment his anxiety over Eden. He forgot his smouldering passion for Alayne. He was satisfied to see her sitting at his grandmother’s right hand, for a while, at least, a member of his tribe. He felt the tug of those unseen cords between himself and every being in the room.

Eden’s exhaustion after the journey was, for the moment, forgotten in the excitement of the home-coming. He felt the cynical bliss of the prodigal. He was at his own hearth again, he was loved, but he knew he was unchanged. He smiled mockingly at Alayne across the. purple velvet expanse of Grandmother’s lap, across the glitter of her rings. He felt an exquisite relief in the knowledge that Alayne would be with him at Jalna. to care for him as she had done once before when he was ill. He could not have borne anyone else about him. If he were to die, it would not be quite so horrible with her beside him. . . . But he could not help that mocking smile.

‘I am trapped,’ Alayne thought. ‘Why am I here? What does it all mean? Is there some plan, some reason in it all? Or are we just mad puppets set jigging by the sinister hand of a magician? Is the hand this old woman’s? Not hard to think of her as Fate. . . . Is Eden going to die? And if he does — what? Why am I here? If I can nurse him back to health, can I ever care for him again? Ah, no, no — I could not! What are Renny’s thoughts? Why was I such a fool as to think that his presence no longer swept over me like a wave of the sea? Oh, why did I come?’ Her brow contracted in pain. Old Airs. Whiteoak’s rings were hurting her hand.

‘Are you glad to be home again, child?’

‘Y-yes. Oh, yes.’

‘And where have you been all this time?’

‘In New York.’

‘It’s a poor place, from what I hear. Did you weary of it? Had Eden a good position ? ’

All the eyes in the room were on her. She hedged. ‘I went away once for a change. To visit cousins in Milwaukee.’

The strong rust-colored eyebrows shot upward. ‘Milwaukee! China, eh? That’s a long way.’

Nicholas came to the rescue. ‘Milwaukee’s not in China, Mamma. It’s somewhere in the States.’

‘Nonsense! It’s in China. Walkeewalkee — talkee-talkee! Don’t you think I know pigeon English? ’ She grinned triumphantly, squeezing Alayne’s hand.

‘Walkee-walkce — talkee-talkee!’ chanted Wakefield.

Nicholas put out a long arm and drew Wake to his side. ‘Listen,’ he said, with a finger up; ‘an improving conversation.’

Grandmother said, with her dark bright eyes on the two beside her, ‘What’s the matter? Why have n’t you got a child?’

‘This is too much,’ said Augusta.

Her mother retorted, ‘It’s not enough. Pheasant’s had one. Meggie’s had one. May manage another. ... I don’t like this business of not having children. My mother had eleven. I should have done as well. I started off smartly. But, look you, when we came here the doctor was so hard to get at, Philip was afraid for me. Ah, there was a man, my Philip! The hack on him! You don’t see such straight backs nowadays. No children. . . . H’m. In my day, a wife would give her husband a round dozen. Hey, Renny?’

‘Yes, old dear. Great days, those!’

Eden withdrew his hand from his grandmother’s. There was a look of exhaustion on his face. He got to his feet; his lips were parted, his forehead drawm in a frown. ‘Awfully tired,’ he muttered. ‘I think I’ll lie down for a bit.’

‘Poor lad,’ said the old lady. ‘ Put him on the sofa in the library.’

Eden walked slowly from the room. Ernest followed him, solicitous, a little important. He covered him with a rug on the sofa.

Grandmother’s eyes followed the pair with satisfaction. She then turned to Alayne. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll soon have him well again. Then let’s hope you’ll —’

‘Mamma,’ interrupted Nicholas, ‘tell Alayne about the Hut. What a tune you’ve had, and all that.’

This was enough to distract her attention from the necessity of multiplying. She now bent her faculties to a description of the downy nest she had prepared.

Nicholas said in an undertone to Renny, ‘It was appalling. The Hut could not possibly have held the furniture she insisted on sending to it. There was only one thing to do, and that was to carry the things out at one door and bring them back through another. Augusta, poor old girl, was at her wit’s end.’

The master of Jalna showed his teeth in appreciation. Then, his face clouding, he asked, ‘What do you think of Eden? Pretty sick boy, eh?’

‘How bad is he? I could n’t gather much from your letter.’

‘I don’t quite know. I must have Dr. Drummond see him. The New York doctor says his condition is serious. Not hopeless.’

‘American doctors!’ observed Nicholas with a shrug. ‘Fresh air. Milk. We’ll soon fill him out. . . . Gad, what a trump that girl is! Gone off in looks, though.’

‘Nonsense,’ denied Ernest, who had come up from behind. ‘She’s lovelier than ever.’

Renny offered no opinion. His eyes were on her face. He read there spiritual acceptance of her changed condition. A trump? No. A proud spirit subdued by passion. He sat down on the ottoman that had been occupied by Eden.

‘I want to tell you,’ he said, ‘how happy it makes me to have you here.’

Old Mrs. Whiteoak had fallen into a doze. Fate seemed to be napping. Alayne and Renny might have been the only two in the room, each so felt the isolating power of the other’s propinquity.

‘I had to come. He wanted me — needed me so terribly.’

‘Of course. He needs you. . . . And when — he gets better?’

‘Then I shall go back.’

But the words sounded unreal to her. Though she had left her possessions hi the apartment, had made preparations for only a summer’s stay, the words sounded unreal. The apartment with its artistic rugs, its pretty lamps, its bits of brass and copper, seemed of less importance than the ebony stick of this sleeping old woman. Rosamund Trent seemed of no importance. This room spoke to her. Its cumbersome furniture had a message for her. Its thick walls, enclosing that subjugating atmosphere, had a significance which no other walls could have. The room might be only a trap, and she — a rabbit, perhaps — a limp, vulnerable rabbit — caught!

His tone, when he spoke again, was almost crisp. ‘Well, you’ve come, and that’s the great thing. I can’t tell you what a load it takes off my mind. I believe it will mean recovery for Eden.’

She must work, she must strain for Eden’s recovery. And that was right. One must obey the laws of one’s order. But what a fantastic interlude in her life this summer was to be!

Augusta had gone out. Now she reappeared in the doorway and motioned them to come. They rose and went to her.

‘He has fallen asleep,’ said Augusta. ‘Done up, poor boy. And you must be so tired, too, my dear. Should n’t you like to come up to my room and tidy yourself before dinner?’

Alayne thanked her. She would be glad to change her dress and wash.

‘Then,’ continued Augusta, ‘I shall take you to the cottage — I think we had better drop that horrid name of Fiddler’s Hut, now that you are going to live there — and show you our preparations. I suppose I should say my mother’s preparations.’ And she directed a reproachful look at Renny.

He returned her look truculently. ‘I like the old name,’ he said. ‘I don’t see any sense in changing it.’

‘I shall certainly never call it that again.’

‘Call it what you please! It’s Fiddler’s Hut.’ He gave an angry gesture.

‘Why one should cling to low names!’

‘You’ll be sneering at Jalna next!’

Alayne thought, ‘Have I ever been away? Here they are, wrangling in exactly the same fashion. I don’t see how I am to bear it. What has come over me now I am in this house? A mere movement of his arm disturbs me! In New York it was possible — here, I cannot! I cannot! Thank God, I shall be under another roof!’

A red patch of light, projected through the colored glass of the window, rested on Renny’s head. His hair seemed to be on fire. He said, contemptuously, ‘The cottage, eh? Better call it Rose Cottage, then, or Honeysuckle Cottage. Make it sweet while you’re about it!’ It was a passion with him that nothing about the place should be changed.

The front door was thrown open, and Wakefield ran in. With him came a rush of spring wind and three dogs. The two spaniels began to bark and jump about their master. The old sheep dog sniffed Alayne and wagged the clump of fur that was his tail. He remembered her.

Wakefield held out a small bunch of windflowers. ‘I’ve brought these for you,’ he said. ‘You’re to keep them in your room.’

Alayne clasped him to her. How adorable his little body felt! So light, so fragile, and yet how full of life! ‘Thank you! Thank you!’ she breathed, and he laughed as he felt the warmth of her mouth against his ear. He wrapped himself about her.

‘Child,’ admonished his aunt, ‘don’t be so rough with Alayne! She is coming to my room now. She is tired. You’re dragging her down.’

Renny removed the little limpet, and Lady Buckley took Alayne by the arm.

XV

That same afternoon Renny and Wakefield descended the slope that led from the lawn into the ravine, crossed the bridge over the stream, and reascended the opposite slope, along the winding diversities of the continued path which led them, at last, to an open oak wood, the property of Maurice Vaughan. The house itself stood in a hollow, and so thick was the foliage of the surrounding trees, following a month of rains, that only the smoke from one of its chimneys, rising in a delicate blue cloud, was visible to them, though they could hear the sound of a woman’s voice singing inside.

No one in the dim parlor. The sitting room, the dining room, empty. Still, the sweet, full woman’s voice flooded the house. They went up the stairs. Wakefield ran along the hallway, knocked on a door, and, almost immediately, opened it.

The room discovered was splashed with sunshine coming through the swaying branches of trees. It was bright with highly glazed, gayly colored chintz. A vase holding daffodils stood on the centre table. On the table also was a silver tray bearing a teapot, a plate of scones, and a small piece of honey in the comb. Meg was enjoying one of her little lunches.

‘Ha!’ said Renny. ‘Nibbling as usuat, eh?’ He bent and kissed her.

‘I had no appetite for dinner,’ she said, ‘so I began to feel a little fault, and had this brought to me. I don’t really want it. You may finish it, Wake, darling.

‘To think,’ she exclaimed, ‘that you have been in New York since I saw you last! ’ She regarded Renny as if she expected to find something exotic in him. “ What you must have seen! But before any of that, tell me about Eden. This is a great shock. Is he very ill? If he is in danger, I don’t know how to bear it. Poor lamb. And he was always so well. Everything started with that wretched marriage of his. The day he first brought that girl to Jalna, I saw trouble ahead.’ She screwed up her courage. ‘Renny, is Eden going to —’ She glanced at the child. He must not hear anything terrible.

‘Well, he has a spot on one lung. He’s very thin. . . . I think he is n’t quite so ill as that doctor made out. But he’ll need a lot of nursing.’ He thought, ‘What will she say when I tell her that Alayne is here?’ He continued, ‘Everything depends on fresh air and good nursing.’

Meg exclaimed, ‘I should be the one to nurse him! But there’s Baby. I can’t expose her.’

He reckoned with her indolence. ‘What about this “mother’s help,” — whatever you call her, could n’t she look after the youngster?’

Meg moved on her chair to confront him. Her voice was reproachful. ‘ Trust my baby to Minny Ware! She’s a featherbrain. One never knows what she will do next! Sometimes I wish I had never seen her. You know, it’s going to be terribly trying for me having Pheasant here. Nothing but my love for Piers would induce me. She made up to Minny Ware at once. Already they are talking together in corners.’

A heavy step was heard in the hall. A knuckle touched the panel of the door.

Meg’s smooth brow showed a pucker, but she murmured, ‘Come in.’

The tap came again. ‘He did n’t hear you,’ said Renny. ‘Hello, Maurice!’

The door opened and Vaughan appeared. His graying hair was rumpled, his Norfolk jacket hung unevenly from his broad shoulders.

‘Been having a nap?’ asked Renny.

Maurice nodded, grinning apologetically. ‘Anything private under discussion? I only came for my pipe. Left it somewhere about.’ He thought, ‘Why does Meggie look at me that way? A damned funny look.’

‘I was just about to ask whether Miss Ware ever stops singing,’ said Renny. ‘A joyous sort of being to have about. I wish we could borrow her for Jalna.’ He thought, ‘Marriage is the devil. She’s got old Maurice just where she wants him.’

Meg thought, ‘Why is it that 1 can never have my own brother to myself? Is there no such thing as privacy when one is married?’

Vaughan had found his pipe and tobacco pouch. He filled the pipe deftly, considering that his right hand had been crippled in the War.

Meg’s full blue eyes were fixed on the crippled hand, and the leather bandage worn about the wrist. It was the sight of that which had melted her heart toward him. Yet now its movement had the power to irritate her. It was abnormal, even sinister, rather than pathetic. She said, reproachfully, ‘Renny says that he does not think Eden is very seriously ill. You had me so terribly frightened.’ She turned to her brother. ‘ Maurice said Eden looked half-dead.’

‘He did look pretty seedy after the journey,’ agreed Renny. ‘But he had a sleep and something to eat, and he’s more like himself now. We’ve got him moved into Fiddler’s Hut.’ In a moment more he must tell her that Alayne had returned.

She asked eagerly, ‘How did you get him there? Could he walk so far over rough ground?’

‘Wright and I took him. Half carried him. . . . They’ve rigged it up very comfortably. You’d be surprised. Gran had a glorious time ordering everyone about, and Aunt Augusta has the hump.’ No, he could not tell her yet. . . .

Another knock sounded on the door — a quick tattoo, signaling a delicate urgency.

‘It’s Baby,’ said the singer’s voice. ‘ She’s been crying for you.’

Wakefield flung wide the door. A blonde young woman stood there, holding in her arms a plump infant.

Meg’s face was smoothed into an expression of maternal adoration. Her lips parted in a smile of ineffable sweetness. She held out her arms, her breast becoming a harbor, and received the child. She pressed a long kiss oil its flower-petal cheek.

At forty-two she had been made a mother by Vaughan, and he had realized his dream of becoming the father of her child. But their inner selves had not been welded together by the birth. She who had never yearned toward motherhood now became extravagantly maternal, putting him outside the pale of that tender intimacy. Sometimes he found himself with the bewildered feeling of a dog whose own door is closed against it. He loved this child as he had never loved Pheasant, who had been so lonely, so eager for love. Meg had named it Patience. ‘But why?’ he had exclaimed, not liking the name at all. ‘Patience is my favorite virtue,’she had replied, ‘and we can call her Patty for short.’

Meg turned smiling to Minny Ware. ‘Don’t go,’she said, graciously. ‘Sit down, please. I may want you to take Baby.'

Minny Ware had had no intention of going. The infant had not so longed for the society of its mother as she had longed for the society of men. It was ill going for her when there was a man about and she not bathed in his presence. At this moment of her life it was her hot ambition to capture the master of Jalna. But he had a wary eye on her. She almost feared that he scented her desire.

She sat with crossed knees, watching the family group about the baby. A bright blue smock, very open at the throat, showed her rather thick milk-white neck and full chest. The smock was short, and beneath it were discovered excessively pink knickers, and stockings such as only a London girl would have the courage to wear.

She had, as a matter of fact, been born, not in London, but in a remote part of England, where her father had been rector of a scattered parish. She had rarely known what it was to have two coins to rub together. When her father had died, two years after the close of the War, she and another girl had gone up to London, keen after adventure, strong and fresh as a wind from their native moor. For several years they had earned a precarious living there. They managed to preserve their virtue, and even kept their wild-rose complexions. But life was hard, and after a while they thought of London only as a place from which they longed to escape. Mercifully, the friend had a small legacy left to her, and they decided to go to Canada. A short course was taken at an agricultural college. Armed with this experience, they set out to run a poultry farm in Southern Ontario. But they had not sufficient capital to support them while they became accustomed to conditions so different. The seasons were unfavorable; the young chicks died hi large numbers from a contagious disease; the turkey poults were even more disappointing, for they succumbed to blackhead. At the end of two seasons the girls were stranded, with just enough left to pay their debts. They did this, for they wTere inherently honest, and turned their thoughts again cityward.

One night Minny read an advertisement for a ‘mother’s help’ and companion — a Mrs. Vaughan the advertiser. The place was in the country, the child an infant. She longed for the country, and she ‘loved babies.’ She applied for the position by letter in excellent old-country handwriting. She explained that she was the daughter of a clergyman, and had come to Canada to raise poultry. Having failed in that, she felt that nothing would be so congenial to her as a position in charge of a young child. She did not mention her experience as waitress. The fact that she had failed in an undertaking commended her to Maurice. He had always a fellow feeling for failures. Meg liked the idea of her being the daughter of a parson. Minny Ware had now been with them for five months.

As soon as there was an opportunity, the girl said in a low tone to Renny, ‘New York must be great fun.'

‘I suppose it is,’he returned. ‘I wasn’t there for fun. I dare say you would like it. Do you want to go there?’

‘Who doesn’t? But do you think they would let me across the line?’

‘Not with that London accent, I’m afraid.’

She gave a rich, effortless laugh, which, having passed her lips, left her face round and solemn, like a child’s. She said, ‘You must teach me how to speak, so they will take me in.’

‘Are you so restless, then?’ His eyes swept over her, resting on the freckles that accentuated the whiteness of her rather thick nose. ‘You have looks that are unusual. You’ve got a voice. What are you going to do with them?’

‘Exploit them in the States. There’s nothing to keep me here.’ Her eyes, of an indeterminate color, narrow above high cheek bones, looked provocatively into his.

The frustrated torrent of his passion for Alayne turned, for a moment, toward this girl. As he realized this, he felt an intense, inexplicable irritation. He looked beyond Minny Ware to his sister.

‘Alayne,’he said, ‘has come back to look after Eden.’ Let Meggie fly into a rage, if she would, before an outsider.

‘Alayne come back!’ She repeated the words, softly, curling her lip a little.

‘Eden begged her to come.’

‘She has not much pride, has she?’

‘She’s full of pride. She’s too proud to care what you or anyone else thinks.’

‘Even you?’ Her lip curled again.

Minny Ware looked eagerly from one face to another. Could she make herself a place here?

Renny did not answer, but his eyes warned Meg to be careful.

She sat, winking very fast, as though to keep back tears or temper, her full cheek rested against her closed hand. She was, in truth, blinking before a new idea. If Alayne and Eden were reconciled, so much the better. Let Alayne provide for the poor darling. There was no use in Alayne’s pretending she was poor. Americans always had plenty of money. Eden might be delicate for a long time. And if Alayne fancied that he was not going to recover — that she could capture Renny through Eden’s death

— she would find how mistaken she was!

In any case Renny must be protected from Alayne. There was only one way by which he could be protected. A wife. And here, at hand, was Minny Ware. Meg’s perceptions, slow but penetrating, left no doubt in her mind that Alayne loved Renny

— and that Renny was intensely aware of Alayne. Very different this controlled awareness from the calculated passion and abrupt endings of his affairs with other women, which Meg had sensed rather than observed — affairs which her stolid pride had made her overlook.

She absorbed the picture of Renny and Minny Ware side by side. Should she, she asked herself, be willing to see them so attached for the rest of their days? Iler heart’s answer was in the affirmative. Though she was ready to find fault with Minny, — for being careless, for making up too readily to Pheasant, — it was certain that Minny was the one woman she would be willing to accept as a sister. She knew already what it was to hate two women married to her brothers. From the first, Minny’s lavish light-hearted ness, her physical exuberance, her good temper under correction, her willingness to be at another’s beck and call, had caused Meg to look on her with favor, even approaching affection.

To understand Meg Vaughan, it must be remembered that she had led a life of extraordinary isolation. She had been educated by governesses. She had made no friends. Her brothers, her elderly uncles,’her grandmother, had sufficiently filled her life. During the long years of her estrangement from Maurice, she had acquired a taste for solitude. Those long hours in her chamber— what did she do with them? Brush her long hair that showed a feather of gray above the forehead? Eat comforting little lunches? Dream, with her head supported on her short plump forearm? In winter weeks would pass in which she would not set foot out of doors, except to go to church.

Now here she was, with a husband and a baby, and a companion whom she desired to marry to her favorite brother. She was as comfortable as a plump rabbit in its burrow. She longed to secure Renny in a peace as nearly approaching hers as was possible to his turbulent nature. One’s mate must not matter too much, if one was a Whiteoak. Maurice did not; Minny would not. One’s children mattered terribly. Her breast rose in a heavy sweet breath when she thought of Baby.

Meg did not know what it was to be socially ambitious. How could she, since they were the most important people thereabout? She did not take into account rich manufacturers or merchants who had built imposing residences only a few miles away on the lake shore. She had not changed the position of a piece of furniture since she had come to Vaughanlands.

During the rest of Renny’s stay she was sweetly, solidly acquiescent toward him. He left thinking how perfect she was.

When the two women were alone, Minny Ware exclaimed, ’Let me brew a fresh pot of tea. They spoiled your little lunch.’

‘Do,’ said Meggie. ‘We’ll have it together,’

They looked into each other’s eyes and smiled. Then Minny’s eyes filled with tears. She snatched up the infant and kissed it extravagantly.

(To be continued)