Whiteoaks of Jalna: A Novel

XXI

As Finch walked swiftly along the country road that led to the lake, the feel of the thick fine dust through the thin soles of his canvas shoes gave him an aching sense of pleasure. The balls of his stockingless feet, his toes, seemed to have acquired a new sensitiveness that morning. They pressed the earth hungrily as though to imprint on it a palpable and lasting caress.

His eyes, dark-ringed after a sleepless night, moved constantly, as though to drink in all possible beauty from the dewdrenched burnished land. He loved it so, and he was going to leave it. So often had he traversed this road, afoot and on his bicycle, and now this was to be the last time!

He could endure his life no longer. He had thought it all out through the long night, reviewed its nineteen years of blundering, cowardice, and terrors, and he had reached the certainty that he could endure it no longer.

If he had had one friend — one person who could have understood, and pitied his forlornness!

There was Alayne, but she was inaccessible because of the presence of Eden. And, even if he could have gone to tier and poured out his miserable heart, it would not have sufficed, for there was the family, a solid hostile wall, impervious to his tears as to his batterings. It was not to be borne! In that wall of his own flesh and blood there was no relenting crevice through which he might creep and timidly touch hands again with those he loved. . . . He had wronged them, and there was only one way to make it right.

The old uncles, wondering all these years about their mother’s money — and it had come to him! . . . And Renny! But he could not think of Renny, and that look of shame for him on Renny’s face!

All night it had been necessary to compel his mind from the remembrance of that look. There had been moments when he had felt that he must run down the attic stairs, throw himself on his knees at Renny s bedside, and beg his brother to forgive him, to comfort him, as he had after childish nightmares. Renny, whom he had wronged most of all!

Well, now he was going to do what lay in his power to set things right. They would have to take the money now and divide it among them!

This morning it required no effort to keep his mind clear. It was as clear as crystal, exquisitely empty, as though washed clean by a hurricane. It was like an empty crystal bowl held up by the hands of his soul to receive the wine of duty. From every side that wine ran into it, from the pine-sweet darkness of the ravine, from the reddening fields, along the slanting rays from the sun through which God spoke to him.

He passed the crossroad. Here once they would have buried him, when his drenched body had been taken from the lake, with a stake driven through his heart. A warning to those who contemplated suicide. He did not think he would have minded that. He would have been no lonelier buried at the crossroad than in the churchyard with his kin around him. What he was about to do seemed so natural that he felt as though all his acts for years had been leading up to this. To obliterate himself — to dash from his lips the hitter cup of living. He had brought with him into the world not much hut the power of loving beauty. He would take out with him all that he could absorb of beauty, and perhaps God would leave that with him, while he slept, as compensation for the pain.

Oh, the caressing softness of the dust! For this last little way he would have nothing between his soles and it. He cast off his shoes and ran barefoot. He threw back his head, drinking in the cleanness of the breeze from the lake. Now he ran over dry, coarse grass, now over shingle that cut his feet, now over fine sand, hard as a marble floor.

The sun was hanging, a great lantern, just above the horizon. A red pathway crossed the lake from it to his very feet. The morning was as pure, as crystalline, as though it were the first morning that had broken over the earth. As he ran splashing into the water, fiery drops were flung up all about him. Translucent ripples disturbed the glassy surface of the lake. He ran out, his bare head empty and untroubled. He was not afraid. He sank into the water and swam outward on his side, following the red pathway. He would swim till he was tired, and then . . . He embraced the gently heaving water. He flung his arm again and again across the early morning ruddiness. He closed his eyes and saw bright panels set in amethyst walls against the lids. . . . There was no thought in him; he was empty as a crystal bowl moving through the water; feeling neither pride nor shame, exquisitely unconcerned; fragile, yet capable of receiving and holding fast the beauty that was flowing with him. . . . He heard music. . . .

Slowly he relaxed, and surrendered himself. . . .

The music became by degrees blurred, resolving itself into an overpowering humming, as though the arch of the sky were the dome of a vast beehive. His ears ached with the burden of it. He longed, with a sad longing, to be free of the fantastic, terrible droning, to hear the music, pure and clear once more. . . .

It is no longer morning, red sunrise, but night, black night, and all the stars are bees, filling the universe with their humming. They swarm in the cold black heavens, hungry for honey, ceaselessly humming. . . .

He must conceal the fact that he is a flower, full to the brim, overflowing with honey, for, if they discover this, they will swarm down upon him and suck the sweet essence out of hint, leaving him empty, bruised and forlorn. . . . He shudders and draws his petals close about him to conceal the treasure. He is rocked on his stem, and is terrified that he will be broken from it and fall into the abyss below. . . . His petals are now white, now red, changing their color constantly, veined with violet and gold, drawing and withdrawing above the honey that is the centre of him. . . .

He is convulsed with agony, for the bees have found him out. Their humming is becoming deafening, their wings clash like armor; they fly down, carrying lances to pierce him. . . . There is one golden bee that has seized him. They struggle. He curls up his petals desperately. He tries to scream, but knows that flowers have no voice. The abyss yawns below.

The great golden bee clutches him and will not be thrown off. Another comes to its aid. They are dragging him away now, helpless, fainting. No use to struggle. His petals, red and white, are falling into the abyss. He is torn to pieces.

Eden’s face was close to his. Eden’s face, white and dripping, with a wet lock plastered over the forehead. Someone else was there too, someone who had been doing strange things to him, knocking him about. He felt weak and sick, but he managed to gasp out, ’All right . . . all right . . . pretty well, thanks.’

He did n’t know why he said that, unless they had been asking him how he felt, and he knew he must conceal the terrible truth. He had completely forgotten what the truth was, but he was poignantly conscious of its terror.

Eden was saying, in a staccato way, as though his teeth were rattling, ‘ God, what a mercy that you were here! I should never have saved him alone!’

It was Minny Ware’s rich voice that answered.

’I’m afraid you’d both, have been drowned.’

‘And this first-aid business — you’re simply wonderful! I’ve never felt such a duffer in my life!’

‘You were splendid the way you plunged in! He’ll be all right now, I think. It’s you I feel worried about. You’ve been so ill. I must get help at once!’

Eden’s hand was on Finch’s heart. ‘ It’s beating more regularly. You’re better, old chap? You know who I am?’

‘Yes, Eden.’

He lay stretched on the sand now under Eden’s coat, his face, of a deathly pallor, half-hidden in the crook of his arm, Eden crouched beside him, gripping between shaking jaws a pipe that had long been out. He patted Finch’s shoulder. ‘Someone will be here, old chap! Do you feel sick?’

An inarticulate sound came from the prostrate figure. Eden patted him again. ‘You’ll soon be all right. Those feelings come to us, but they pass.’

‘Ugh!’ Finch shuddered from head to foot.

Disgusted at being brought back, poor young devil, thought Eden. Preferred oblivion out there to that tidy little fortune of Gran’s. Ah, he’d been having a rough time of it — no doubt about that! But he’d get over it — live to play the fool with the money. . . . Money. What must it be like to have money! Why the hell did n’t Renny come? If only Gran had left the money to him, Eden! He’d have snapped his fingers in the family’s face. There the boy went — shuddering again! Poor little devil!

The Whiteoak car! Rattling down the stony road as though it would fly to pieces. Bang! Some rut that! Rattle, jiggle, bump. Ungodly racket, but how the old car could go! There was Renny at the wheel, his face set, too weather-bitten to show pallor even though he’d had a fright. Serve him right! Serve them all right if the kid had been drowned. Eden guessed at the scene which had brought about this reckless act.

‘Hullo!’ he shouted. ‘Here we are!’

The car bumped on to the beach, stopped with a jerk, and the master of Jalna leaped out.

He came with a long, crunching stride. ‘What’s this?’ he asked sharply.

Eden got to his feet. ‘ This boy’s been trying to do away with himself.’

‘Do away with himself! Minny Ware told me that he’d got cramps swimming!’

‘She was trying to spare your feelings! I’m not.’ Eden’s face was set also. His characteristic half-smile was frozen into a queer grin. ‘He hasn’t been able to tell anything, but I’ll venture to say he was hounded into it!’

Renny bent over Finch. He looked into his eyes, felt his heart. ‘I must get him into bed. I’ve brought brandy with me.’ He held the cup from a flask to Finch’s mouth, and, when the boy had gulped the brandy gaspingly, Renny refilled the cup and handed it to Eden. ‘This has been enough to kill you,’ he said grimly, ‘after all you’ve been through! ’

Eden shrugged, then looked steadily into Renny‘s eyes. ‘I have an idea,’ he said, ‘that I’ve done the best thing in saving this youngster that I’ve done in all my life.’

‘Minny Ware told me that you’d never have got him if it had n’t been for her.’

Damn Renny! How he took the wind out of one’s sails!

‘She was there,’ Eden admitted, ‘and I guess she never did a better thing! He must have had a hell of a time to make him do this!’

‘Time to talk of that later.’ Renny picked up the boy, too light for his length, and carried him to the car. He supported him against his shoulder while Eden drove to the Vaughans’. Meg met them on the steps. The old people at Jalna must not get a fright. Meg’s full, soft lips were ineffably tender, and behind her stood Minny Ware. Maurice helped to carry Finch up the stairs.

He was rolled in blankets before a fire, drowsy, perspiring, sensing already the sweet, sticky smell of petunias that came in on the hot sunshine through the open window. But he had something to say to Renny, who stood drawing down his shirt sleeves. He had been rubbing Finch with alcohol.

‘Renny,’ he said hesitatingly, ‘you won’t tell them what I did . . . you won’t let the others know?'

‘All right,’returned Renny, looking down on him with brusque compassion. His mind flew back to other times when Finch had entreated, in the very same tone, ‘You won’t tell them that you licked me, will you, Renny? You won’t let the others know?’ And he had answered then as now, ‘All right, I won’t.’

Meg came in with a step which she tried to make noiseless, but she was getting heavy, and the things on the bedside table jiggled. She bent over the sausagelike form on the bed and stroked the damp hair.

‘Comfv, now?’

‘ Uh-huh.’

She asked Renny, ‘How is he, really?’

‘Half-lit and as hot as blazes.’

‘Poor fellow!’ She sat down on the side of the bed and tried to see his face. ‘ Finch, dear, how could you do such a dreadful thing? Frightening me almost to death! As though I minded vour having the money! What upset me was Gran’s giving her ruby ring, that I always understood I was to get, to Pheasant. You must understand that. Do you?’

He pushed his head against her palm as a dog urgent for caresses. He felt broken. He tried to drag his mind from the well of muddle-headedness, exhaustion, and submission into which it had sunk, and reply to her, but he could not. He could only feel for her fingers with his hot lips and kiss them.

‘ He feels so hot! ’

‘ That’s the way he ought to feel. Come along and let him sleep.’

Meg led Renny into the sitting room, bright with glazed chintz. Eden was seated by a tray on which were a dish of poached eggs on toast, a pot of tea, and a jar of quince jelly. The shadow was lifted from Meg’s face. The agitation caused by Finch was eased. He was safe in bed, and here was a delicious breakfast tray.

She exclaimed, ‘This is Minny’s doing! She has had breakfast brought up for the three of us. She knew we must be faint for food. What a girl! . . . How lovely to be breakfasting together!’

‘I thought you liked eating alone,’ observed Renny. ‘Have another egg, Eden?’

Eden shook his head. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘what the upshot of this is going to be!

Brother Finch and the money. I wish the old lady might have left me a thousand.’

Meg said, spreading quince jelly on toast, ‘Finch has been getting out of control for a long time. I’ve seen it, though I have n’t said anything.’

‘I commend your reticence,’ said Renny, looking down his nose.

Meg looked pensive. ‘Finch is really a nice boy — underneath. He’s ever so generous. Don’t you think he might do something for Eden?’

‘He doesn’t come into the money until he’s of age. Almost two years. By that time Eden will probably be famous.’

‘Oh — his poems! But they pay so badly for them, don’t they? Can’t Alayne do something for you, Eden?’

‘Good God,’ exclaimed Renny, irritably, ‘she’s done almost enough for him, I think! Giving up her work and coming here to nurse him!’

‘But why not? He’s her husband. I think she’d a perfect right to nurse him.’

‘And yet,’ retorted Renny, ‘you were angry with her for coming!’ And he added bitterly, ‘But she could never do anything right in your eyes!’

Eden’s eyes, full of mocking laughter, looked from one face to the other.

‘ Quarrel over me, do! ’ he said. ' It makes me feel so important. And I have n’t felt very important of late. I’m quite well again, I’ve no job, and my wife doesn’t care a damn for me. In fact,’ his eyes narrowed with malice, ‘ it’s my opinion that she only came back to Julna to nurse me so that she could be near Renny!’

Renny sprang up, with lean red face redder with anger. The table was jarred; a miniature squall slopped the tea from the cups.

‘I don’t expect anything better of you, Meggie,’ he said. ‘But I thought that you, Eden, might have a little gratitude — a little decency!’ He strode to the door. ’I must go. If you want me to drive you home, come along.’

This day seemed set apart for one emotion on top of another. He could not endure the indoors. Meg followed him to the porch. Before the bed of purple petunias, whose sweetness had risen to Finch’s window, knelt Minnv Ware, her face close to the flowers, absorbing their perfume drawn out by the sun. She liked the untidy, luxuriant, sticky things. They had n’t troubled themselves about delicacy, precision of form, like some flowers, but had given themselves up to sucking in all the sweetness possible and wastefully exuding it. Though she was conscious of the two in the porch, she made no sign, keeping her head bent over the flowers.

Meg clasped Renny’s arm in both her hands. ‘There’s someone,’ she said, indicating Minny with a glance, ‘who is deeply disappointed for your sake.’

‘I like her nerve! I don’t want her sympathy. . . . Meggie!’ He turned his dark eyes reproachfully on her. ’Why will you try to shove that girl down my throat when you know that I love Alayne — and Alayne only — and always shall ? ’

Meg said, with a melancholy vibration in her voice, ‘No good will come out of this! Why should she have come back? She is full of deceit. It’s just as Eden says — she made his illness an excuse to be near you! I’m glad he’s not grateful to her! I’m not grateful to her. I despise her and hate her.’

His carved profile showed no sign of emotion. He let his arm remain in his sister’s clasp and his eyes rested composedly on the bright head of Minny Ware, but Meg was aware of an inexplicable magnetic current from him which, if she had been more sensitive, she might have interpreted as a volcanic disturbance in the restrained tenacity of his passion.

Eden appeared in the hall, slid past them, and went to where Minny crouched above the purple mass of petunias. She was not aware which of the brothers had approached, and scarcely knew whether to be pleased or disappointed when it was Eden’s voice that said, ’I’m afraid you feel very tired. Heroic exertion, that — saving the lives of two able-bodied men.’

She tilted her head so that he looked down into her eyes, and saw the sunlight on the satin prominence of her cheek bones. She denied heroism emphatically. ‘I only helped you a bit with Finch. He would struggle. But — I am tired — I don’t sleep well — I’m restless.’

He said, ‘If you should be taking another early stroll to-morrow, we might meet again by the lake. We could talk.’

‘I’d like that. . . . Mrs. Vaughan’s a darling, but — I’m getting bored. Oh, I’m a beast! I’m always like that.’

He laughed. ‘So am I. We’ll meet and compare our beastliness. It’s going to be fine to-morrow.’

In the car the brothers rode in silence, broken at last by Eden’s saying rather fretfully, ‘Sorry, old chap.’

The Whiteoak car was an inauspicious place for an apology to a driver whose ears were not only assailed by its rattle, but who was trying to fathom the meaning of a new jerking movement in its anatomy.

‘ What’d you say? ’ he demanded, turning his head with a gesture so like old Adeline’s that Eden’s apology was marred by mirth. He repeated, ‘I say I’m sorry for what I said — about Alayne, and all that.’

Renny had caught nothing but the name of Alayne. He stopped the ear with a jerk and gave Eden a look of mingled encouragement and suspicion.

‘Yes?’

‘If I have to repeat it again,’ said Eden, sulkily, ‘I’ll take it back. I was trying to apologize for what I said about Alayne.’ He continued with a frown, ‘The fact is, I’m absolutely fed up with being grateful. I’ve spent the summer oozing gratitude to Alayne. It’s got on my nerves. I suppose that’s why I said what I did. I’d no right to say it, but — it’s true, and you should n’t mind that. She’d go through hell — and being under the same roof with me is a fair imitation of hell for her — for the sake of setting eyes on your red head once in a while. She can’t help it ... I can’t help it . . . we’re caught in a net. . . . She’s not suited to any Whiteoak that ever lived. But neither of you can ever be happy as things are. I want you to believe I’m sorry — horribly sorry.’

Renny said, ’I hope this affair has n’t given you any cold. If you feel a chill we must have the doctor to you. You must n’t be running risks.’

He started the car and concentrated once more on that dubious, jerky movement in its interior. What could it be? He was afraid the time was at hand when he would have to buy a new car.

Eden slouched in his corner. What a baffling devil! If only one could take him apart as one could the car, and find out what was inside! A queer, fiery, cantankerous interior, he’d be bound!

XXII

Rennv Whiteoak wandered about that afternoon with a grievous sense of being cut off from the activities of the life he loved by the flaring up of a passion he had thought to have under control, the futility of which was so definite that to brood on it was to hunger for painted fruit in a picture. He had thought to keep his desire for Alavne under control as he controlled a vicious horse by a curb bit, and he was humiliated to find that Eden’s reckless words at the breakfast table had broken the bit and set his passion galloping. That, and the sting of Meg’s determination to marry him to Minny Ware, her fond hope of transforming him into a placid husband and father. Now he was conscious of only one thing — that, close at hand, beyond the orchards heavy with fruit and thick autumnal sunshine, was Eden’s wife whom he loved, who, as Eden had said, would live in hell for the sake of sometimes setting eyes on his red head.

Had the summer been hell to her, he wondered. But he was only faintly curious. Her mind was to him, as woman’s mind, a book in a foreign tongue, the pages of which might flutter with subtle charm before him, but which he knew himself to be incapable of reading. Hesitatingly he might recognize a word, a phrase, which resembled the language spoken by himself; indolently he might form its syllables with his lips, trying to become familiar with its tones, but the language must ever remain for him a tenuous whisper between girl and girl.

Eden was well now, but unfit for responsibility. He must be sent to some warm climate for the winter. And Alayne would return to New York. Unless — but what was the alternative? Renny’s mind moved in the old relentless circle. There was no way out. If only she were gone to-day! If only he could force himself to go away until this fever subsided and he could endure her nearness with the same stoicism as before. He made up his mind to go away—to breathe a different air.

He reentered the bridle path, and in a sunny space, where blackberries were large and ripe, he found Minny Ware filling a small basket. He felt a quick annoyance with her for being in his path, and, after a nod, passed on. Then he remembered that he had not thanked her for what she had done that morning. He retraced his steps hastily and came to her side.

‘I want to thank you — I can’t thank you enough for your courage this morning. God knows what might have happened if you had not been on the shore!’

The sound of his own words raised suspicion in his mind. ‘How did you come to be there,’ he asked abruptly, ‘at that hour?’

‘Oh, it was just a coincidence. I like the early morning.’

But he saw warm color creep up her cheeks. Why had she been there? Odd that neither he nor Meg had seen anything strange in the presence of Eden and her on the shore at sunrise.

She knew that he was suspecting her, but she went on picking berries. She selected the largest ones and dropped them almost caressingly into her basket. He noticed that her finger-tips were stained and also her lip, giving her a look of childlike innocence. The trivial act of her laying the plucked berries so gently in the basket, the stain on her fingers and her lip, seemed suddenly of enormous importance to him, as though she were performing some rite. The harassment of his thoughts ceased; his mind became concentrated on the ritualistic act.

She said, dreamily, ‘Do you care for these? Shall I pick you some?’ Her eyes slid toward him speculatively.

‘No,’ he answered, ‘but I’d like to stay and watch you pick them, if you don’t mind.’

‘Why should you want to watch me do such a simple thing?’ Her eyes searched his face. She had a great longing for love.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered, perplexed. And, seeing that she looked rebuffed, he took her hand in his and kissed her bare arm on the white crook of her elbow.

He was not conscious of the approach of a third person, but he felt her arm quiver and he heard the quick intake of her breath. She was startled, but not by the caress. She said, ‘Oh!’ in a defensive tone, and, turning his head, he saw across the bushes the pale, set face of Alayne.

Alayne had come upon what looked to her like a radiant understanding between the two. She saw Minny’s exuberance responding to a calculated caress for which Renny had led her to this secluded spot.

She drew back and stammered something incoherent. Minny, not much put out, regained her composure and smiled, not ill-pleased to be discovered by Alayne in such a situation. Renny retained his grasp on her wrist.

In the silence that followed Minny’s exclamation, a delicate trilling sound became audible, as though some bizarre but diminutive instrument were being played beneath a leaf of bracken. The performer seemed to be so unconscious of the existence of the giant beings towering above him that his very egotism reduced them to something less than his own size: his shrill piping rose higher and higher, triumphant over mere bulk, was taken up by other players just as insistent, just as impressive in their purpose, till the sound of their trilling became universal. The locusts were singing of the death of Summer.

An inertia had crept over the three, who had, without their own volition, become listeners rather than performers in the woodland drama, Minny held a warm, too soft berry in her hand; Renny looked entreatingly yet dreamily at Alayne, who stood, as though she had lost the power of motion, regarding the linked hands of the other two.

The spell was broken by the appearance of a little green snake, who, unlike the orchestra of locusts, was conscious of the intruders from tip to tip, quivering with fear and hatred of them, rearing his head against their presence, determined to separate them into the three lonely wanderers they had been when they entered the wood.

Without speaking, Alayne turned and walked swiftly along the path, a curve of which soon hid her from their sight. Their hands fell apart. Renny stood irresolute for a short space, feeling a kind of anger against both girls, as beings of a different texture from himself who had a secret in common that was in its essence antagonistic to him. Then, without looking at Minny, he crashed through the underbrush and strode after Alayne.

Minny’s eyes, as she resumed her berry picking, had in them more of amusement than chagrin. After all, it was an amusing world. Mrs. Vaughan’s schemes come to nothing. . . . Renny Whiteoak in love with that cold-blooded Mrs. Eden. . . . Eden, himself—a wayward dimple indented her round cheek. She began to sing, softly at first, but gaining in volume, till the locust orchestra was silenced, believing Summer to have returned in all her strength and beauty.

Alayne was conscious that Renny was following her and, dreading a meeting with him, she turned from the path at the first opportunity and took a short cut through the woods toward a gate that opened on to the road. He followed the windings of the bridle path, believing her still to be ahead of him, but when he did not overtake her he suspected that she was willfully eluding him, and retraced his way to the short cut. He overtook her just as she reached the road. She heard the opening of the gate and turned to him. Here in the public road she felt more courageous than in the quiet of the wood, less likely to show the feeling which she fought so desperately to control. He had been the permanent object of her thoughts all the summer, yet this was the first time they had been quite close together. She had desired to return to New York without such a meeting. Now that it had been forced upon her, she felt her strength drained by the effort of resisting her own love for him no less than by the bitterness of having discovered him in the act of kissing Minny Ware.

‘Alayne,’ he said, in a muffled voice, ‘you are trying to avoid me! I don’t think I deserve it. Upon my word I don’t!’

‘I would rather be alone. It’s nothing more than that.’ She began to walk slowly along the road.

‘I know —' he exclaimed. on re angry. But I give you my word —'

She interrupted furiously, ‘Why should you explain things to me? As though it mattered to me! Why did you leave her? Why did you follow me?’ Though her lips questioned him, her eyes looked fixedly ahead.

He walked beside her in the dust of the road. A jolting wagon loaded with turnips overtook and passed them.

He said, ‘You can’t refuse to have this much explained, surely. I had not been two minutes beside Minny when you came up. My kiss on her arm was no more than her eating a blackberry. A few minutes before that I had stopped by the paddock and kissed a two-year-old there. One kiss was as important as the other. To me — to the mare — to Minny!’

He looked down into her pale, firmly modeled face, with its look of courage, of endurance, its what she called ‘Dutch’ look of stability. Yet about her mouth was a touch of fatigue, as though she were played out by the isolation and the ingrown emotions of the last months.

He continued. ‘I wish I could make you believe in my love as I believe in it myself. There’s nothing on earth I could want so much as to have you for my own. Do you believe that?’

She did not answer.

A motor car whizzed by them, raising the dust in a cloud. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us get oft’ this road. It’s so hot and dusty it will give you a headache.’

But she trudged doggedly on.

‘Alayne,’ he persisted, ‘why don’t you say something — if it’s only to say that you don’t believe me — that you Te sick of the sight of me?’

She tried to answer, but her mouth was parched and her lips refused to move. She felt that she must go on forever, walking along this road, with him following her, longing to cry out., yet unable to speak, as in a nightmare. She would go on till she stumbled and fell.

He did not speak again, but walked beside her, trying once rather pathetically to suit his stride to hers. At the foot of the steps that led to the church he stopped.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘To your grandmother’s grave. I have n’t seen it yet. Do I hear Finch playing in the church?’

‘No, no. Finch is in bed. He tried to drown himself this morning.’ Let her have that. Perhaps it would shock her out of this terrible quiet.

‘Yes,’ she said calmly. ‘Eden told me. No wonder!’

‘God, how you hate us!’

‘No — I fear you.’

He said, almost irritably, ‘All this is so unreal! Can’t you, or won’t you. talk about our love? You know it exists. Why blink it? We can’t come together, but surely — just before we part we can speak of it. I am going away to-night. You need n’t be afraid that you ’ll see me again.’

She began to go up the steps toward the churchyard. He caught her dress and held it. ‘No. You shall not go up there! I can’t follow you there.’

She raised her face to his with a sudden piteousness in her eyes. ‘Where shall I go, then?’

‘Back into the woods.’

They turned back, and had to step into the ditch, rank with dusty goldenrod and Michaelmas daisies, out of the way of a truck loaded with calves. She stumbled; he put his hands on her and supported her. She felt that she must fall.

Again they were in the golden-green well of the woods. The red sun was low. Overhead the half-moon drifted, a pale feather, along the sky.

They stood for a moment listening to the beating of their own hearts. Then she raised her heavy eyes to his and whispered, ‘Kiss me —’

He bent. She drew his head down, closed her eyes, and felt for his mouth with her lips.

With their kisses they mingled the endearments pent up so long in their hearts.

‘Alayne, my precious one.’

‘Kenny oh, my darling love.’

He drew away a little and cast an oblique glance at her. ‘Is it true —’

‘Is what true?’

But he could not go on. He could not ask her if what Eden said to him were true — that she would be willing to live in hell for the sake of seeing him now and again — that she had come back to Jalna to be near him, and not for Eden’s sake.

‘Is what true?’ she whispered again.

‘That we must part.’

She broke into restrained but bitter crying,

A great flock of crows passed above the tree tops, calling to each other, crying wildly.

‘They are mocking us!’ she said.

‘No, we don’t exist for them. We only exist for each other. . . . Alayne, I can’t go away to-night as I said.’

‘No, no! We must meet sometimes and talk — while I am still here. Oh, Renny, hold me close — I want to get strength from you.’

‘ And I want to make you as weak as I am,’ he murmured, against her hair. He drew her closer. Some magnetic current from his hands frightened her. He began to kiss her again. What mad thoughts were born of his kisses against her eyes, her throat, her breast!

She disengaged herself and began to return along the bridle path. He followed her, his eyes dark and brilliant, the lines about his mouth patient and stubborn.

It seemed that he could follow her thus across the world, lean, primitive, untiring.

Where their paths separated, they said a muttered good-bye, not looking at each other.

XXIII

Finch did not return home for a week. He remained under Meg’s protective care, feeling the not unpleasant languor that follows the overstrain of hysterical emotion. He spent the first days in bed, listening indolently to the various noises of the house, the cooing of Patience, the singing of Minny Ware, the activities of the old Scotch housekeeper.

Meg’s notion of rehabilitating him in his old niche, or something better, was to feed his body with the best that her kitchen could provide. Her intuition, and some self-reproach, told her that he needed tempting food and plenty of it. He was tempted like an invalid and ate like a field laborer. Renny, coming to visit him and finding him propped up over half a broiled chicken, thought, and declared vehemently at Jalna, that Meggie was perfect. Her remarks about Alayne had faded as breath from a glass. These were women’s ways and beyond his ken. But he could take in the significance of Meggie’s plump white hand stroking Finch’s lank hair, or a crisp section of broiled fowl surrounded by green peas. The family at Jalna were told that Finch had had a ‘nervous breakdown’ (most convenient of illnesses) just as he arrived at the Vaughans’ house, had been taken in, and was being nursed back to health by the blameless Meggie, and that it would be a good thing if they could bring themselves to treat him with indulgence on his return. It was a. relief to all to have him out of the house for that week. The sight of his angular, drooping form and the knowledge that here was the heir to old Adeline’s fortune might have produced other nervous breakdowns. As it was, the talk rolled on and on without even the insignificant let or hindrance of his presence. Augusta was shortly returning to England. Never again would she endure another Canadian winter. She had had the good fortune not to have been born in Canada. She had no intention of dying there of the cold. This she affirmed with the thermometer at eightyfive degrees in the last fever of summer. She urged her brothers to return with her for a visit.

Meg thought that a talk from Mr. Fennel would be good for Finch. She did not tell the rector that the boy had done anything so desperate as attempt to take his own life, but she intimated that he had lost control of himself in a very strange and inexplicable fashion. Mr. Fennel shrewdly guessed that there had been a disturbance at Jalna over the will, and that Finch, made ill by the excitement, was being kept at the Vaughans’ till the smell of the fat died away. He came to see him and talked, not religion or behavior, but about his own young days in Shropshire, and how he had wanted to be a stage comedian, and did Finch so much good by his wit and sagacity that the boy was able to be out of bed that evening, and the next morning steadied himself still more by an hour at the piano.

The next day George Fennel, back from camp, came to see him, and still further forwarded his recovery. George was beaming over his friend’s good fortune, and blithely indifferent to the disappointment of the rest of the clan. He sat, solid, rumpled, sunburned, on the side of the bed, and discussed the endless possibilities of a hundred thousand dollars.

‘Why, look here,’ he said, ‘you can get up a regular orchestra of your own, if you want. We could take it on a tour across the continent. Some sort of striking uniform — blue with lots of gilt. I suppose vonr family would object. My father would, too. He has n’t. much imagination. Hates anything stagy. But it’s the sort of life I’d like.’ His eyes shone. He took from his pocket the usual crumpled cigarette package that invariably contained from one to three enervated cigarettes, and offered Finch one. They puffed together in the sweet renewal of good-fellowship after absence.

‘And look here,’ he went on, ‘you should get yourself a concert grand piano. I’d like to hear you on a concert grand. Playing some of those things from the ChauveSouris. It would make a tremendous difference to you, having a piano like that. You might become famous. . . . Last night I had dinner in town with a Mr. Phillips. He s got absolutely the best radio I’ve ever heard. It’s an expensive one, but he says it. gives perfect satisfaction. We heard wonderful grand-opera music and some fellow on the piano — just the sort of thing you’d like. You really ought to have one of those. It would be good for you, too, because you could hear all the best things and not bother about the jazzy stuff. . . . Good Lord, do you remember the way we used to pound out “My Heart Stood Still”?’

George broke into his peculiar, sputtering laughter, then became serious. ‘Ho you know, Finch, up in the North where I was there was a wonderful bargain in a summer cottage. It. was a log-cabin sort of thing built by some American who finds it too far to come, He’s going to sell it awfully cheap. It would be splendid for you to own such a place to rest in, in the summer, and take your friends to, and recuperate and all that. It’s got an enormous stone fireplace and raftered ceilings, and the deer come almost up to the door. Why, one night, this American said, a porcupine kept him awake gnawing at the foundation.’

‘It would be splendid,’ agreed Finch, his head suddenly very hot with excitement. ‘The trouble is,’ he added, ‘that I don’t get this money till I’m twenty-one.’

’The time will soon pass,’ said George, easily. ‘I dare say these people would hold the cottage for you, I ’ll bet that you could raise money any clay on your prospects. That’s often done.’

Finch lay bewildered, speechless before the vista opening before him.

His meeting with Arthur Leigh was very different and, though less riotously stirring, had an equally healing effect on his bruised spirit. He had a note from Arthur that ran: —

My DEAR OLD FINCH, —
What is this dazzling news I hear of you? I met Joan on the street and she told me something about a huge bequest. I am delighted, and Mother and Ada almost as much so. Please come and spend a week with us (my womenfolk insist that it shall be no less) and we can talk day and night. It will take seven of them for all I want to say to you. To think that I have never seen you since your mysterious disappearance to New York! And in all this time I have never had so much as a line from you! Yours ever,
ARTHUR

Finch’s heart was quick with love for his friend when he had read this note. The plain but heavy note paper, bearing the Leighs’ crest and Arthur’s small black handwriting, symbolized for him the dignity and elegance of Arthur’s life. The fact that, he was a Court and a Whiteoak meant nothing to Finch; this note written by Arthur’s small, exquisite hand was truly impressive. He carried it in his pocket as a kind of charm when he returned to Jalna.

It required great fortitude to return. So tremulous were his nerves when he entered the house, he feared a wry look or word lest it should betray him into an hysterical outburst. The very smell of the house sent a quiver through him. The smell of the thick, heavily-gilded wall paper, the shabby tasseled curtains, the faint Eastern odor that hung near his grandmother’s room, where nonreigned inviolable stillness. Did he imagine it, or was there still the odor of coffin and funeral flowers in the empty drawing-room? He stood in the hall, not knowing where to go, listening to his own heartheats. He felt desolate and afraid in spite of George’s visit, of Arthur’s letter. For the first time he realized his grandmother’s death, and the loss those visits to her room would be to him. He realized with a constriction of the throat how much confidence he had got from those weeks of intimacy with her fierce and extravagant nature.

In the upstairs hall he met Nicholas, the one he dreaded most of all.

‘Home again?’ Nicholas said, in his brusque way. ‘Do run down to the dining room and fetch me my glasses. I’ve left them on the table by the window.’

Finch flew for the glasses. Nicholas took them, with a rumble of thanks, not looking at him, and retired into his room. Finch drew a deep breath of relief. Nicholas had been aloof, but not austere — not terrible as on that last day. His home-coming might not be so harrowing after all.

He did not see Piers until dinner, when the latter came in bare-throated, healthy, bright-eyed, after driving a good bargain for a carload of apples. He grinned at Finch, with derision rather than malice, and, after they were seated at table, said,

' No wonder you took to your bed! I ’d have done the same if I had got it.’

‘For God’s sake,’ returned Finch, in a whisper, ‘shut up!’ But even this meeting was much easier than he had expected. Life was going on at Jalna; the loom was moving slowly, creakingly, but it was moving, and Finch, in his new aspect, was drawn into the changed pattern.

He was undressing that first night when he heard soft steps ascending the stairs. He was startled, for he seldom had a visitor. Wakefield appeared in the doorway.

He advanced with an ingratiating smile. “I simply could n’t sleep, Finch. Kenny’s out for the evening and he did n’t tell me where, so I can’t be sure what time lie’ll come in.’ He added rather patronizingly, ‘I thought you might feel nervous up here all alone after your breakdown. I thought I’d better come and bear you company.’

Finch returned, in the same tone, ‘Well, I’m afraid you will repent you of your folly. I’m a beastly bedfellow, and I’m going to have the light on and read for a bit.’

‘That will just suit me!’ cried Wake gayly, scrambling into the bed and clutching the sheet defensively. ‘I really want to talk with you about your plans, and give you a little advice about looking after all your money.’

‘For goodness’ sake,’ shouted Finch, ‘have a heart! I’m not rich! How much money do you suppose I ’ve got? Ninetyeight cents — that’s what. And I ’m invited to spend a week with Arthur Leigh!’

Wakefield looked pleased. ‘That’s nice, is n’t it? Because when you ’re visiting a rich fellow like that you’ll not need any money. You might just as well leave the ninety-eight cents with me.’

‘If I was some brothers,’ declared Finch, ‘I’d give you a good hiding and send you downstairs. I suppose you’d tell, though.’

Wake shook his head firmly. ‘No, I should n’t, I’d bear the pain with all the fortitude I could muster.’

Finch groaned. ‘Gosh —the language you use! It’s awful to hear a small boy talking like an old gentleman of seventy. That’s what comes of having no other kids to play with.’

Wakefield’s luminous eves darkened; he played his never-failing trump card. ‘No, Finch, I don’t think it’s that. ... I think it’s because I’m pretty sure I’ll never live to be seventy — or p’r’aps even grow up. I want to use all the language I can in the short while I’m here.’

‘Rot!’ But it was too bad to be rough with the poor little fellow. . . . When he got his monev he’d do something nice for Wake!

He got up, undressed, changed bis mind about reading, and was just going to put out the light when Wakefield said, in a cajoling tone, ‘I say, Finch, aren’t you going to do — you know what?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Oh, yes, you do!’ His smile was sly. ‘Shut the door first.’

Finch, about to blow out the candle, growled, ‘ Have n’t an earthly idea what you’re babbling about.’

‘You said — that day — that you — oh, Finch, please do it!’ He made a gesture to express mystery. ‘That lovely thing you said you did — in front of the little goddess.’

‘Oh, that!’ Finch stood motionless above the candle flame, an odd pointed shadow on his forehead, the hollows of his eyes dark. ‘You would n’t like that. It would frighten you.’

‘Frighten me! Never! I shan’t tell a soul of it.’

‘ Swear! ’

“I swear.’

‘If you breathe a word of this I’m done with you forever and ever, remember!’

He went to the cupboard. There was a mysterious rustling, while Wake sat upright on the bed shivering in ecstasy.

Finch brought forth the figure of Kuan Yin and set it on the desk. He took from a drawer a packet of small pyramids of incense, and stood one at her feet. The moon had risen above the tree tops and was sending a shaft of light, clearly defined as the blade of a sword, in at the window. Finch blew out the candle. The various objects in the room were reclaimed by darkness; only the delicate porcelain figure of Kuan Yin held the light like a jewel. He lighted the incense. A blue spiral of smoke arose from it, and spread like a tremulous veil to the verge of the moonshaft. A pungent, exotic scent sought the expectant nostrils of the boys. They became still as the statue herself; their faces, drained of color by the moon, seemed also shaped in porcelain. A sudden gust had arisen; the oaks began to sigh and then to shake. The moon, which had seemed clear of the tree tops, now was caught in their upward straining, her light shattered into bright prisms dissolving, rejoining, dancing across the darkness. The spirits of the boys were not in their bodies, but were liberated by the incense.

Under the guidance of Kuan Yin, patroness of sailors, they floated through the casement into moonlit seas of an unearthly beauty.

XXIV

It was a morning of swinging white clouds against an ardent blue sky. The thick yellow sunshine was flung on the gray walls of the attic room as though with a brush. More gold than gold it seemed; the sky bluer than blue; the grass and trees more green than ever green had been. That querulous artist Summer, who had given them during her season so many blurred and wanly tinted pictures, now seemed intent on splashing her last color on the final canvas with furious brilliance.

‘ What a day,’ cried Wake, ‘for going on a visit! How I wish I were!’ He paused in the scrubbing of his face with a washcloth to look pensive. ‘Do you know, Finch, I’ve never been on a visit in my life. Not one little visit! I wonder if ever I shall!’

‘Of course you will. I’ll take you somewhere — sometime,’ promised Finch.

He was excited about his own visit this morning. He recklessly made up his mind to stay the week with the Leighs, and, before he went down to breakfast, he put the pick of his wardrobe into a suitcase, Renny must be approached for money.

Finch found him on the rustic bridge. At this time of the year the stream was usually little more than a rivulet pushing its way through a rank growth of rushes and water weeds. But this year it had the fullness of spring and, beneath the bridge, had widened into a pool encircled by a thick new growth of watercress. The rippled, sandy bottom reflected swarthy sunlight, Renny was not alone. Perched on the rail beside him was Eden, lazily dropping bits of twig into the pool. They were not talking, but seemed to have finished a conversation which had left each absorbed in contemplation of bis own position. Finch noticed the great improvement in Eden’s appearance. His face and neck had filled out and showed a healthy pinkish-brown. Nevertheless he retained a look of delicacy in contrast to the sharp vigor of Renny. Finch thought, ‘Eden looks indolent and good-humored, and yet I’m glad it’s old Renny I must ask for money and not Eden.’

He approached, feeling self-conscious, and stood beside the elder, from whose clothes came the smell of pipe tobacco. Finch muttered, out of the side of his mouth, ‘I’ve had a letter from Leigh inviting me to stay with him for a week.

I thought I’d go to-dav.’

‘Oh, all right. It will do you good.’

‘I suppose — I think — I’ll need to have some money.’ It was difficult to say the word ‘money.’ It had an ominous sound, since its disposal had lately been the subject of so much wrath.

Renny put his hand in his trousers pocket. His expression was forbidding, but, after he had scrutinized the silver and the one crumpled banknote on his palm, he replaced them and produced from the breast pocket of his coat the worn leather pocketbook upon which the eyes of his family had so often rested in expectancy. He drew from it, with his accustomed air of trying to conceal exactly how much he had, five one-dollar bills, and handed them to Finch. Eden craned his neck to observe the transfer.

‘A couple of years more,’ he said, ‘and your positions will be reversed.’

Finch’s face grew scarlet. Was he never to have any more peace? Was the legacy always to be a subject for sportive comment? He pocketed the money glumly with a muffled ‘Thanks awfully.’

‘In the meantime,’ said Renny, ‘he has a lot of hard work before him and I don’t want him ragged about his money. I’ve told Piers so, too, You’re a poet. You ought to know what it is to be sensitive and melancholy and neurotic, and all that. If he gets too much teasing he may give you another chance to save his life, eh, Finch?’ Reticence was not a characteristic of the Whiteoaks.

Eden laughed, but his face reddened, too. He said, ‘Next time you try it on, brother Finch, choose the stream just here, and I’ll fish you out from the bridge without getting my feet wet.’

Finch grinned sheepishly and was about to turn away when Eden said, ‘Don’t go! Stay and talk to me. Renny is off. Are n’t you, Renny?’

‘I’m late, now,’ said Renny, looking at the battered gun-metal wrist watch that had gone with him through the War. Always hurrying to mysterious appointments concerning horses was Renny, appointments which tended to make thinner rather than thicker the worn leather pocketbook.

Finch and Eden were alone. They stared into the darkly flashing pool in embarrassed silence for a few minutes, then Eden said seriously, * I told Renny the other morning that I believed I had done the best thing in my life when I saved yours. Quite apart from brotherly love, I make a guess that you ’re the flower of the flock. 1 ’m damned if I know why I think so. I suppose it’s intuition—I being a poet, and sensitive, along with those other attributes ascribed to me by Renny. God, is n’t he an amusing fellow ? ’

‘He’s splendid!’ said Finch, hotly. ‘I don’t want to hear anything against him.’

‘You won’t. Not from me. I admire him as much as you do — though in a different way. I admire and envy the side of him that you don’t know at all. . . .’

‘Rennv ’s been awfully good to me about my music.’

‘Certainly. But why? Because he understands your feeling for it? No! Because he looks ou you as a weakling, and is afraid you’d go dotty without it! He has an equal contempt for me as a poet. He only tolerates me because of the blood tie. He’d be loyal to Satan himself if he were his half brother! ’

‘I wish I were like him,’ muttered Finch.

‘No, you don’t! Y"ou can’t make me believe that you would exchange your love of music for love of horses and dogs.’

‘And women,’ added Finch.

‘Ah, we all love women! But you must be like me —love and forget. Uncle Nick was like that as a young man, too. He told me once that he’s forgotten the names of the women he once cared for — excepting, of course, the one he unhappily married.’

Finch said, ‘Eden, do you mind telling me something? Don’t you care for Alayne any longer?’

‘I don’t love her as a woman, if that’s what you mean. Perhaps I should have forgotten her name, too, if we had n’t married.’

‘Strange — when she is so — lovely, and so good.’

‘She loved my poetry first. Then me, as the author of it. And I suspect that I loved her for loving my poetry. It’s all over.’

’But she loves your poetry still, does n’t she?’

’I believe she does. But she loves it as disembodied art. It’s Renny she loves now.’

Finch turned away and crossed to the other side of the bridge. Here the stream lay in shadow. He rested his eyes on the cool shallow of it for a moment of silence, and then asked, ‘Are you writing anything now, Eden?’

’A good many things in the last month.'

‘I should like to see them.'

‘I’ll bring them here some afternoon, and read them to you. I’ll bring the first things I wrote after I came home. I don’t believe they’re of much value, but I’d like you to hear them because the theme of nearly all is the sweetness of life. I’ve never questioned that. No matter how despondent I may have seemed when you found me in New York, I had never once thought of taking my life. Good God, I’d sooner have spent the rest of my days and nights on that park bench where I could look up at the clouds and the stars than to have done away with myself.'

Finch, sprawling against the railing, said, ‘I was watching that frog diving about under that big mound of honeysuckle — thinking what a good time he has.’

‘Yes. Amusing little devil. I wonder how often he’s gone a-wooing this summer/

Finch grinned. It was Eden, he thought, who was amusing. Inquisitive. He could n’t watch even a frog without speculating about its private life.

They watched the frog sit goggle-eyed on the mossy rim of the pool, his fingers spread, his full wet throat pulsing. They watched him galvanize, without apparent reason, into the green arc of a leap. When the surface of the pool had cleared, they saw him sitting under water, his fingers spread on the yellow sand, goggle-eyed, hallucinated as ever.

‘If you don’t mind,’ said Eden slowly, ‘I’m going to tell you something. Something I have not told anyone else.’

Finch was immensely flattered. He turned his long face receptively toward his brother.

‘I have it in my mind to write a narrative poem of the early history of French Canada. There’s tremendous scope in it: Jacques Cartier. The perilous voyages in sailing vessels. The French Governors, and their mistresses. Crafty Intendants. Heroic Jesuits. The first Seigneurs. Voyageurs. The Canadian chansons. Those poor devils of Indians who were captured and taken to France, and put to work in the galleys. Think of the song of homesickness I could put into their mouths! Think of the gently bred French women who came over as nuns! Think of their chant of homesickness for France — and ecstasy of love for Christ! If only I can do it as it. should be done, Finch!’ His face shone. lie made a wide gesture expressing fervor and half-tremulous hope. Finch saw that the cuff of the gray tweed sleeve was frayed, that the wrist, in spite of its roundness, still looked delicate. His heart went out to meet Eden.

It was the first time that he had been treated as an equal by one of his brothers. And now, not only treated as an equal, but made the recipient of confidence! His face reflected the glow from Eden’s, He felt a passionate desire to be his friend.

’It will be splendid,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you can do it. It is awfully good of you to tell me.'

1 Whom else could I tell? You are the only one who can understand.’

‘Alayne could.’

Eden said irritably, ‘I tell you, there’s nothing — less than nothing — between Alayne and me now! When you’re older you’ll find out that there is no one so difficult to confide in as someone you have ceased to love — no matter how much you may have in common. We’re always on our guard now that I am better.'

‘I don’t see how you can live in the Hut together — if things are like that.’

‘We can’t! She’s going back to her work. I’m going away. Drummond says I must be in the open air all winter. That’s the trouble.’ His fair face was shadowed by some disturbing thought. ‘Renny wants to send me to California. But I’ve made up my mind that I shan’t go there. I must go to France. It will not only be a thousand times more congenial to me, but I’ll be able to search out the beginnings of French Canadian history. I want to get at the roots. In fact, I must, or I’ll never do this tiling as I want to do it. I want to spend a year in France, — stay till I’ve finished the poem, — but how am I to do it? Renny can never afford money enough for that.’ The shadow on his face deepened to an expression of melancholy. ‘I’m helpless.

I suppose I’ll have to go just where I’m sent. There is no one to lend me an extra two thousand. I’d need that much.’

‘If only,’ cried Finch, ‘I had my money! I’d help you like a shot..'

Eden gave him a warm look. ‘You would! I believe you. You’re a trump, Finch! I’d take it, too, but — not as a gift. I’d pay it back with interest, once I’d got on my feet. But what’s the use? Your money’s tied up for ages.’

Finch was tremendously stirred. If only he could help Eden! This new Eden who had talked to him about his poetry — while it was still seething in his poet’s mind.

A passionate desire to help his brother surged through all his being. Why, it was only right that he should help Eden, give him all the money he needed! Had n’t he risked his life to save Finch’s? The boy took excited turns on the narrow space of the bridge.

‘If only I could get at it!’

‘I hope,’ said Eden, ‘that you’re not being stirred by any ridiculous sentiment — gratitude. You know how I hate the idea of that.’

’But how can I help it?’

‘Just don’t let yourself. As Gran used to say, “I won’t have it!”’

Finch burst into loud laughter. He was almost beside himself with excitement. He had got an idea. A marvelous, a gorgeous idea! He stopped in front of Eden and grinned hilariously into his face.

‘I have it! I can get the money for you! I’m sure I can.’

Eden was regarding him with his odd, veiled gaze. ‘How could you possibly?’ His tone was weary, but his heart was beating quickly. Was it possible that he was going to be able to save his face? Not going to be forced to suggest ways and means to the youngster?

‘Why, it’s like this,’ jerked out Finch breathlessly. ‘There’s my friend, Arthur Leigh! He’s got any amount of money. He’s of age and he’s in control of a fairsized fortune already. He’d lend it to me. I’d give him my note, — with good interest, you know, — then I’d be able to fix you up with just what you want!’ Finch’s face was scarlet; he had run his hands through his hair, standing it on end; his tie was gone askew; he had never looked wilder, less like a philanthropist.

Eden’s eyes lighted, but he shook his head almost gloomily. ‘It sounds feasible enough, but I can’t do it.’

‘Why?’ Finch was thunderstruck.

‘What would they say — the others? Renny’d never stand for it. He’s putting up the money for California, and he thinks there’s nothing more to be said.’

4 He need never know. No one need know, but ourselves — and Leigh. And I’ll not let Leigh know what T want the money for. Oh, lie’s the most casual fellow you ever saw! He’d never ask a question. Just say, “All right, Finch, here’s your money!” and stuff my note in his pocket. He does n’t know what it is to higgle over money as we do. Eden, you must let me do this! I’ve hated like the devil having this money. It’s hung over me like a curse. If I could do something splendid with it — like helping you — making it possible for you to write your books —it would seem quite different.’ His eyes filled wdth tears.

‘What put the idea of borrowing from Leigh into your head?’

‘It just came. A sort of inspiration, I guess.’ He must not admit that George Fennel had made the suggestion.

‘If I took the money,’ said Eden, frowning, ‘I should insist on paying it back with a higher interest than you would pay your friend.’

‘The hell you would!’ said Finch grandly. ‘You’ll pay the money back just when you can — without any interest. I tell you, I’ve made up my mind to do something for each one of the family out of this money. Then I shan’t feel such a — such a — sort of pariah! It just happens that you’re the first one I’m tackling, and it’s got to be kept an absolute secret.’

Eden’s face broke into a smile that was almost tender. He caught Finch’s hand and squeezed it. ‘My poor wretch,’ he said, ’how quickly you ’re going to be rid of your money!’

To be concluded)