Whiteoaks of Jalna: A Novel

XXV

‘You are a most amazing person,’ said Ada Leigh.

‘I don’t see why,’ answered Finch. ‘Arthur does n’t think so, do you, Arthur?’

‘I’m not sure that I don’t.’

‘But why?’ Finch, who so hated being under discussion at home, yearned for the analytical interest of the Leighs. ‘I think I’m a chap who will never be noticed.’

‘Don’t deceive yourself,’ said Leigh. ‘People are always going to stare at you.’

‘I know I’m ill-favored, but please don’t rub it in.’

For the first time in his life Finch was feeling conceited. It was delicious.

Ada said, ‘When we heard that your grandmother had left you her money, we said at once, “How natural! He’s bound to have spectacular things happen to him!”’

‘You’re ragging me!’

‘I never could do that. I should be afraid. You’re so sensitive.’

‘It’s a pity my people don’t feel that way about me.’

‘I suppose it came rather as a surprise to them — your getting all the money,’ said Leigh.

’A tremendous surprise.’

‘I hope they took it well.’ Leigh tried to keep curiosity out of his voice. That family! He could imagine their being pretty formidable, especially the peppery fox-faced fellow from whom he had bought a horse he did n’t want.

‘Oh, they were very decent about it!’ How easy to lie — to picture Jalna as running on oiled wheels — in this rose-andivory drawing-room! He expanded more and more in the warmth of their interest. They drew him on to talk of his music, what he had been practising that summer, his experiences in New York, plans for his future. Arthur’s interest in Finch was generous and affectionate, but Ada’s was mingled with chagrin at the feeling which his presence aroused in her. His awkwardness repelled her to the point of dislike, yet the sadness of his face in repose, the lank fair lock on his forehead, his shapely hands, in contrast to his bony wrists, had a disturbing fascination for her. She knew that he was mystified and attracted by her. It amused her to think that she could play on his sensibilities, yet she had a subtle suspicion that to do so was to risk her own detachment.

Mrs. Leigh joined them, still more like a sister to Ada than a mother, after the exhilaration of their European trip. With her desire to please, she had almost the effect of being younger, or, at any rate, more ingenuous.

They talked of Europe, and Arthur said, ‘As soon as you come into your money, Finch, we’ll go to Europe together!’

‘I shall go, too,’ said Ada.

‘Never! This is to be a vagabond journey. Little girls,’ he included his mother in his glance, ‘will be safer at home. Finch, do you remember, when I talked of our going to Europe last spring, you scoffed at the idea? You said you’d never have the money to go abroad. Now look at you! ’

‘Yes,’ agreed Finch serenely, ‘there’s quite a difference.’

Mrs. Leigh said, ‘We didn’t know of your grandmother’s death until we heard of the legacy. I’m afraid that when Arthur wrote to you he was excited and perhaps forgot to say how sorry we are to hear of your loss.’

‘I’m afraid I did forget,’ said Leigh.

‘You must miss her. She was extraordinarily vigorous for her age, was n’t she?’

‘Yes.’ . . . The strong old face came before him — blotted out the pretty room, the pretty women. He saw the rust-red eyebrows raised in humorous disdain of such. He saw the toothy grin with which she would have dismissed them. His face lost the animation that had made it attractive and became blank.

‘I wish I might have seen her. We must get to know your family, Finch.’

‘ Y-yes. Thanks. I’m sure they’d like it.’

‘Are you really? Then I shall motor out to Jalna one day and call on your aunt, Lady Buckley!’

Finch hastened to say, ‘She’s going home to England. She is just here on a visit.’

‘Does she like England better?'

‘Oh, yes, she hates the Colonies.'

Leigh exclaimed, ‘Colony! I like that! Ye’re an independent part of the Empire.’

‘Of course. But I’m used to hearing us called a colony at home.’

‘I should think you younger ones would object,’ demurred Leigh.

‘I don’t see why. If you’re a part of anything, how can it matter what you’re called?’

Mrs. Leigh said, ‘It does n’t matter. We all love England — that is what matters.’

‘I don’t,’ said Ada. ‘I love Russia. I have a Russian soul.’

‘But how can you tell?’ asked Finch, wondering if possibly he had one.

‘Because it’s never satisfied.’

He sighed. ‘In that case, I’m afraid it’s my stomach that’s Russian!’

Mrs. Leigh noticed that he looked as though he had been ill and asked him about his health.

‘I’m awfully fit,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve never been better. I ’nr just naturally cadaverous.’

‘Perhaps. But more probably you have been growing very fast.’ Her mind flew back to his family. ‘ You have sisters-in-law at home, have n’t you? Mid one of them — the wife of a poet brother — is an American?’

‘ Yes . . . that is — they live in another house — just a little place. He’s been ill.’

‘We were so intrigued when we were crossing! A young man from Philadelphia was enthusiastic over both books of your brother’s poems. The lyrics, and — ’ She could not recall the other.

‘The Golden Sturgeon. It’s a narrative poem. I’ll tell Eden. He’d like that.’

Mrs. Leigh said eagerly, ‘Let me tell him myself! I shall go out and call on him and his wife.’

‘They are leaving, too,’ said Finch desperately. ‘I’m sorry. . . . You see, he has recovered, but he has to go to a warm climate.’

Her pretty face fell. ‘I’m doomed not to meet your family! Still — there’s another sister-in-law.’

‘Young Pheasant. She is scarcely grown up. My uncles would be frightfully pleased if you were to call on them. There’s nothing they like better than calls. It would be better to let them know which day you ’re coming. They’d make you very welcome.’ But his tone was a little anxious.

She leaned forward, smiling, her lips drawn back from her teeth. ‘Do you think I might just rush out for a very few minutes and entreat your brother to autograph his books for me? I bought them both yesterday. Do you think that would be too much to ask him?’

Leigh intervened. ‘I’ll take them out for you, if Finch thinks he would do it.’

Finch wished that Mrs. Leigh were not so interested. He began to feel that a somewhat ruthless interest was the keynote of her character. He assured her rather glumly that Eden would sign as many of his books as she desired. It was probably the first time he had been asked to autograph his poems, he added — and instantly wished he had not given his brother away.

When he had been two days at the Leighs’ he reached the point of moral courage where he could ask Leigh for a loan. It was not so easy to frame the words as he had thought. He was hot all over, and Leigh was not so casual as he had expected.

His bright glance dived into the turgid pool of Finch’s soul.

He asked, ’Are you sure that you want this for yourself, old fellow? It’s quite a lot of money, you know.’

Finch nodded.

Leigh smiled. ‘I’m afraid you’re lying, and I love you for it. But it makes me sick to think that someone has perhaps been working on your sympathies. Perhaps trying to get money out of you that he’ll never pay back. Upon my soul, I’m afraid to lend it to you for fear you’ve got some quixotic idea in your head about helping someone who is n’t worth it.’

‘But he is!’ burst out Finch.

‘There, you admit it! It is for someone else.’

‘I’m borrowing it to please myself, but I admit I ’in going to help someone — with some of it.’

‘Not all of it?’

Finch said hotly, ‘Very well, don’t lend it to me! ’

‘Finch, you’re angry with me. But I’m not going to get angry with you. It would be too unreal.’ Leigh’s voice shook. ‘I’ll lend you the money. For heaven’s sake get some security, if you can, from this friend of yours! ’

‘I can’t take it when you feel like this about it, Arthur.’

‘But you must. You know that all that’s troubling me is the fear that you’ll lose it.’

‘You don’t give me credit for any common sense, then!’

‘I know that your generosity is greater than your common sense. I’m terribly afraid that if you start off like this — lending your money before you ’re in possession of it — you ’re going to be an easy mark for unscrupulous people.’

It was easy to lie in the rose-and-ivory drawing-room, but how difficult up in Leigh’s study, among his intimate things, and with his clear eyes full of trouble for one’s sake.

‘Arthur,’ he said, ‘I can’t take it without telling you who it’s for, now that you’ve put things as you have. It’s for Eden.’

‘Aha, one of the family!’

‘Yes, but he didn’t ask me for it! I offered it. He’s been ill, you know, and he wants to go to the South of France for the winter for his health. And it is n’t only that. He has it in his mind to write something perfectly splendid, a tremendous piece of work. I wish I could tell you all about it. Renny’s willing to send him to California for the winter, but that won’t do at all. There’s a special reason why he must go to France and not be bothered by a job or anything for at least a year. Look here, Arthur, you know that Eden’s poetry is good. He’s had splendid reviews. Alayne gave up her job to come and nurse him because she’s so keen about his poetry. She’s not very keen about him now, you know. They’d been separated. I think it would be beastly selfish of me if I would n’t put out my hand to help my own brother, when he’s so clever, and his wife did, and there’s no one else!’

Leigh sprang up and came and took him by the shoulder.

‘Of course I see it! But why did n’t you tell me all this at first? It’s splendid of you. And look here, I won’t take a cent of interest. I want to help, too. Darling Finch, I want everything to be as clear as crystal between us!’

Even while Finch’s soul drew strength and happiness from Arthur’s love, it shrank within him at the thought of what Renny and Piers would have said if they could have heard that ‘darling Finch.’ But it was all right. Arthur was exquisite, and could use exquisite words; Renny and Piers were vigorous, and used vigorous words. And somewhere in between he floundered.

A note went to Eden that day: —

DEAR EDEN, —
Everything is arranged, so don’t worry. Shall be home Wednesday and will bring a cheque for the amount mentioned. My friend Leigh is coming out with me. He’s anxious to meet you. He knows a great deal more about poetry than I do, so I thought perhaps you would n’t mind reading some of your new poems to us both. We’d be pretty safe from interruption on the bridge. Leigh is bringing out your books for you to autograph. They belong to his mother, so perhaps you might think up something clever to write in them as well as your name. I guess you ’ll be pleased about the money. Some financier, eh?
FINCH

Now that the strain of borrowing the money was over, his promissory note carefully made out and handed to Leigh, Finch began to be almost happy. He began to realize the new amplitude which the possession of money would give to his life. He not only realized, but greatly magnified its possibilities. He had seen so little money; he had seen Renny and Piers jubilant over a small unexpected gain. Piers would be in a gale of good spirits if he got more than he had hoped for from a consignment of apples, or if one of his Jerseys had healthy twin calves. Renny would raise his voice and shout his winnings at the races. From the time Finch had been in sailor suits he had known that his grandmother’s money was the subject of jealous conjecture. He had seen the rivalry for first place in her affections from the point of view of an outsider, never in any flight of fancy picturing himself as her heir. Her decision to leave all her money to one person had always seemed to him cruel and unjust. He secretly believed that she had expressed such an intention with the direct purpose of keeping the family interest in her always at high tide, their nerves at concert pitch. She had succeeded. But now tide had ebbed into darkness, suspense no longer tightened the nerves, and Finch, looking about him, inexperienced and hungry-eyed, believed there was no limit to his power.

It was sweet to help Eden. They were travelers in a region which the rest of the family did not enter, and even though neither could fully understand the experiences of the other in that mysterious region, they knew each other as palmers to the shrine of beauty.

Finch found himself able to play the piano in front of the Leighs. His paralyzing shyness under Ada’s eyes was gone. Sitting before the keyboard, more erect than at any other time, with motionless head and flying hands, he looked and felt sure of himself. He seemed, to Leigh’s ardent eyes, capable of glorious things.

As Ada sat curled in the corner of a sofa while he played, Finch exulted in the fact that in these moments he was fascinating to her. He could tell that by the look in her eyes as they gazed at him through a veil of cigarette smoke. Yet no matter how balanced, how firm he felt, he could not recapture the amorous energy that had made it possible for him to embrace and kiss her on the evening of the play.

It was not until the night before he left that he had the courage again to approach such intimacy. They had been at a dance. She had been kind to him, dancing with him repeatedly because he was shy of other girls, and now and then throwing him an encouraging look from the arms of another partner while he stood glumly in a doorway. It was a night of sudden, intense chill; the white fur collar of Ada’s cloak was turned up against her cheeks during the ride home. Seeing her thus muffled, with only her hair, her white forehead, and her eyes exposed, made Finch feel suddenly inexpressibly tender toward her. She seemed like some flower bud wrapped in a protective sheath from which he longed tenderly to disengage her.

Arthur took the car to the garage, and as the two ran up the steps Finch put his arm about her and pressed her to his side. He put his face against her hair and murmured, ‘Darling Ada! You were so good to me to-night.’

‘It is n’t hard for me to be good to you, Finch.'

‘And I used to think you did n’t like me!’

‘I like you far too well.’

‘Ada, will you kiss me?’

She shook her head.

‘Then will you let me kiss you?'

‘No.’

‘But you let me kiss you once.’

‘I’m afraid.’

‘Of me?’

‘No, of myself.’

‘You said something like that once before— about being afraid. Are you afraid of life? ’

‘Not a bit. I’m just afraid of my own feelings.’

To hear that she was afraid made Finch afraid, too. A shiver of sympathy, ecstatic yet terrified, ran through him. There seemed a menace in the bitter nip of the night air, in the large glittering stars. His arm relaxed and dropped to his side. He took off his hat and passed his hand over his hair, looking down at her pathetically.

‘It’s frightful to be afraid,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid of myself, too, often. And of my feelings. It takes the strength right out of me.’

She gave him a scornful little smile.

‘I don’t think I understand your kind of fear.'

’I think I understand the difference,’ he said. ‘I think yours is a hot fear, and mine is a cold. Yours makes you want to fly away, and mine paralyzes me.’ His eyes sought hers, eager for understanding.

She was searching for her key in a brilliant-studded handbag. He saw the shadow of her lashes on her cheek.

‘If only you would let me kiss you,’ he breathed, ‘I think we could understand each other.’

‘Too well,’ she answered, with a catch in her voice. She fumbled with the key against the lock.

He took it gently from her and opened the door.

The next morning he and Leigh left early for Jalna. Finch would have liked to linger in the hope that he might have a few minutes alone with Ada, but Leigh was impatient to be off. Having it in his mind to meet Eden and hear him read his poetry, he could tolerate no delay in reaching the appointed spot, even though Finch declared that Eden would scarcely be there so early. Leigh left his car near the gate, and, descending into the ravine, they made straight for the rustic bridge across the stream. Eden was not there. Still, Leigh’s desire for haste was gratified. He perched on the railing of the bridge and extolled, now the beauty of the sky, now that of his own reflection in the pool below.

Leigh chattered on for a while, but soon the coolness of the ravine penetrated him. ’I wonder,’ he said, ‘whether your brother should come here this morning. It does n’t seem quite the right spot for anyone with lung trouble.’

‘He’s over that. At any rate, he looks pretty fit. Our doctor says that he needed rest and good food more than anything. Still,’ he looked dubiously at the wet boards of the bridge, ‘it does seem rather damp for him.’

‘Perhaps we had better go to him.’ Leigh would have hked to tell his mother that he had sought the poet in his retreat, perhaps glimpsed the wife about whom an atmosphere of mystery seemed to have gathered.

‘I think I hear him coming.’

‘Hullo, what’s that?’

‘An English pheasant. Renny is stocking the woods with them.’

She whirred heavily out of sight, young ones fluttering after her. A rabbit hopped down the path, but, seeing the two on the bridge, turned, showed a snowy stern in three successive leaps, and disappeared into a thicket.

Eden’s legs appeared, descending the path; then his body became visible, and last his head, touched by the flicker of sunlight between leaves. He was carrying some rolled-up papers. ‘A poet, and beautiful!’ thought Leigh. ‘How I wish the girls were here!’

‘Hullo!’ grinned Finch. ‘We thought you had got stage fright.’

Eden stood at the end of the bridge, his eyes on Leigh. Leigh thought, ‘He’s smiling at me, looking at me, and yet he does n’t really seem to see me. I don’t think I like him.’

Finch said, ‘This is Arthur Leigh, Eden. . . . He has been wondering if it’s too damp for you here.’

‘I’m as seasoned to damp as an oyster,’ answered Eden, shaking hands with Leigh so warmly that he obliterated the first impression of inviolable detachment.

Leigh said, ‘I hope you are not going to be as reticent as one. I’m very keen to hear some of your poems, if I may. Did Finch tell you?’

‘Yes.’ The eyes of the brothers met. Understanding flashed between them. Finch thought, ‘I’ve made him happy. It’s glorious, this doing things for others. I can’t imagine why other rich people don’t try it!’

Eden talked freely to Leigh of his coming trip to France, unconscious that Leigh knewFinch’s motive for borrowing the money. Leigh thought, ‘Does n’t he think me capable of putting two and two together? Perhaps he does n’t care. He knows he can make three or five of them whenever he wants.’

The sun rose high, pouring warmth into the ravine, which appeared to stretch itself, languorous and supine, under that delayed caress.

They sat down on the bridge, which was now dry, while Eden, in his deep mellow voice, read poem after poem. Some had been read before, to Alayne, but not all. They were the essence he had drawn from the past summer, what he had formed into strength and brightness from those shadowed months. As he listened to his own words, and saw the rapt faces of the two boys, he wondered whether the solution of his life might not lie in such moments. Might not the suffering he knew he had caused in the lives nearest him be justified, even be necessary to the creation of his poetry? The evil in him was inseparable from the good; he was like the gods, whose energies were directed first into one channel, then another. So he seemed to himself, and so less coherently he seemed to Finch, who never dared to hope that anything he might create would justify his own clumsiness in life.

There was a third listener to the reading, of whom the others were unaware. This was Minny, who, wandering into the ravine from the direction of Vaughanlands and hearing voices, had stolen from trunk to trunk of the trees till she was within sight as well as hearing. It chanced that this morning she wore a dark dress instead of the usual gay colors, so she was able to conceal herself behind a great clump of honeysuckle within a few yards of the bridge. She crouched there, her feet pressing into the moist earth, the succulent growth all about her exhaling a sweet, sticky odor, and, almost touching her face, a large and meticulously woven spider’s web in which two jewel-like flies were caught. She felt no discomfort in her situation, but rather an increased sense of adventure. As a doe might have crept close to watch the browsing of three stags, she observed with ardent interest every detail of their faces, their attitudes and gestures. She absorbed the beauty of Eden’s voice, but the words he uttered made no more impression on her than the words of the songs she sang.

She hoped, and tried to will it so, that the two boys would depart first, leaving Eden on the bridge. Contrary to the usual vanity of such hopes, this was what happened. All three got to their feet, but Eden did not accompany the boys when they ascended the path. Instead, he stood motionless, looking in her direction, and, after a few moments in which she was wondering whether or not to reveal herself, he called, ‘Come along, come along, Minny! Don’t you think you’ve been hiding long enough? ’

She stood up, straightening her dress. She was not at all ashamed, but advanced toward him, laughing.

‘How long have you known I was here?’

‘All the time. I saw you playing at Indian, creeping from one tree to another. You’re a little hussy!’

She liked that. Her laughter became teasing.

‘I heard every word you said!’

‘No, you did n’t!’

‘Yes, I did!’

‘What was it I told them that made them laugh?’

‘Shan’t repeat it!’

‘Because you did not hear.’

‘I don’t care! I heard all your poetry.'

‘It is n’t becoming in a young girl to spy on men.’

‘Men! Listen to the child!’

‘ Well, the others are boys, but I suppose you’ll admit that I’m a man.’

‘ You ! You ’re the greatest baby of all! ’

‘Me! I’m a disillusioned profligate.’

‘Then you’re a profligate baby! Your wife has made a baby of you. Coming all this way to nurse you when she does n’t really care a damn for you.’

‘ I suppose you would n’t have done that? ’

‘Of course I should.’

His laughter joined hers. They sat down on the bridge together.

As he held a match to a cigarette for her, he looked deep into her narrowed, mirthful eyes. ‘ I wish I understood you! ’

‘It’s a good thing for your peace of mind that you don’t.’

An obscure pity moved him to change the subject.

‘How did you like my poems?’

‘Ever so. Two of them sounded awfully like two songs I sing.’

‘It’s a wise poem,’ he replied gravely, ‘that knows its own creator.’

’I suppose they’ll make you famous one day.’

‘I hope so.’

‘What a pity you did n’t get any of the money! ’

‘My naïve young brother saw to that!’

‘I should think you’d hate him for it.’

‘I don’t hate anyone. I only wish people were as tolerant of me as I of them.’

‘I hate someone.’

‘Not me, I hope.’

‘You’d never guess.’

‘Tell me, then.’

‘Your wife.’

‘Do you really? My sister has done that.’

‘Not at all. I bate her on my own.’

His gaze slid toward her swiftly, but he made no comment on this. They puffed in silence, each acutely aware of the other. He heard her suck in her breath once as though putting some sudden restraint on herself. Now the sun beat down on them hotly, inducing a mood of dreamy acquiescence.

After an interval, she said, ‘I’ve been to the shore the last three mornings. It seemed lonely there without you.’

He was astonished.

‘Have you really? What a shame! And you did n’t let me know!’

‘I thought you’d expect me. I wouldn’t disappoint you.’

‘My dear child! ’ He took her hand in his.

At his touch her eyes filled with tears, but she laughed through them. She said, ‘What a silly I am to care so much!’

XXVI

There followed a succession of perfect September days, so alike in their unclouded sunshine — a sunshine which was without the energy, for all its warmth, to produce additional growth — that it seemed possible they might continue forever without visibly changing the landscape. Michaelmas daisies, loosestrife, with here and there a clump of fringed gentian, continued to cast a bluish veil beside the paths and stream. In the garden nasturtiums, dahlias, campanula, phlox, and snapdragons continued to put forth flowers. The heavy bumblebee agitating these blossoms might well think, ‘I shall suck honey here forever.’ The cow in the pasture, which this year had never turned brown, might well think, ‘There will be no end to this moist grass.’ The old people at Jalna might well think, ‘We shall not grow older and die but shall live on forever.’ Even Alayne, collecting her belongings in Fiddler’s Hut, did so as in a dream. It seemed impossible that she should be going away, that life held the potentialities of change for her.

She wondered whether the things with which the Hut had been so overfurnished would be left there. She had grown used to them, and they no longer seemed grotesque in the low-ceilinged rooms. She went about collecting the few things she wished to take away with her, and wondered what were Eden’s thoughts as he lay on the sofa reading, now and then giving her a swift look across the page.

An odd embarrassment had arisen between them. He no longer had need of her care; their relationship was meaningless. They were like two travelers, forced by the exigencies of the journey into a juxtaposition from which each would be glad to escape. If he came in tired, he no longer demanded her sympathy, but sought to conceal his weariness. She no longer tried to prevent his doing things which she thought would be bad for his health. His restlessness was a source of irritation to her, while her reserve, and what he thought her stolidity, made her presence weigh upon him.

Yet on this, the second day before her departure, a mood of pensiveness had come upon Eden. He felt a somewhat sentimental desire to leave a memory, not too troubled, of himself with her. He would have liked to justify by some simple, yet how impossible, act their presence together in these last weeks. They avoided each other’s eyes.

She went into his room and reappeared carrying his laundry bag. She took it to the kitchen, and he heard her talking to the Scotch maid. She returned and put a slip of paper into his hand.

‘Your laundry list,’ she said. ‘You had better look it over when if comes back. They ’re very careless.’

He crushed the neatly written list in his hand.

She began to take things from the desk. From her writing folio she turned out some Canadian stamps.

‘Here are stamps I shan’t need. On the blotter.’

‘Oh, all right. Thanks.’

He looked at her half-quizzically, half-reproachfully, then impulsively got up and went to the desk. He smoothed out the laundry list, then, licking the stamps one by one, he stuck them in a fantastic border round the edge. He discovered a picture tack and pinned the paper to the wall.

‘A memorial,’ he said, tragically.

She did not hear him. She was gone into her room.

He followed her to the door and stood looking in. She had changed into a thinner dress; her cheeks were flushed.

‘ Do you know,’ he said, ‘you are the most matter-of-fact being I have ever known.’

She turned toward him with raised brows. ‘Am I? I suppose so, compared to you.’

‘No other woman living,’ he returned, ‘could keep such orderly habits with such a disturbed mind.’ And his eyes added, ‘For your mind is horribly disturbed, you can’t deny it!’

‘I guess it was my training. If you could have known my parents and our way of living! Everything in such perfect order. Even our ideas pigeonholed.’

‘It’s deeper than that. It’s in your New England blood. It’s a protective spirit guarding you, eh?’

‘Possibly. Otherwise I might have gone mad among you.’

‘Never! Nothing would send you off your head. In spite of your scholastic forbears, I seem to see in you the spirit of some grim-lipped sea captain. His hands on the wheel, consulting the barometer, making entries in the log, while the blooming tempest raged and the bally mast broke and the ruddy blooder — I mean the bloody rudder — got out of commission. I can hear him saying to the mate, “Have you made out the laundry list?” — while the heavens split! And taking time to stick a stamp on the brow of the cabin boy so that his body might be identified when it was washed ashore.’

Alayne began to laugh.

‘How ridiculous you are!’ she said.

‘Tell me the truth: don’t you feel that old fellow’s chill blood in your veins?’

‘I feel it boiling sometimes. My greatgreat-grandfather was a Dutch sea captain.’

‘Splendid! I knew you had something like that somewhere. Now if only he had been a Spanish sea captain, how we might have got on together!’

She made no response, but began to take things from a bureau drawer and lay them carefully in the tray of her trunk.

‘I wish I could help you,’ he said, almost plaintively. ‘Do something for you.’

‘There’s nothing you can do.’ She cheeked an impulse to say, ‘Except to leave me alone.’

‘I wonder if you will be angry with me if I ask you something.’

She gave an unhappy little laugh. ‘I don’t think so. I feel too tired for temper.’

‘Oh, I say!’ His tone was contrite. ‘I’ve bothered you all the time you’ve been packing.’

‘It’s not that. It always upsets me to go journeys. What did you want to ask?’

‘Turn round and face me.’

Alayne turned round. ‘Well?’

‘Would you have come here to nurse me if Renny had not been here?’

The flush on her cheeks spread to her forehead. But she was not angry. The shock of what he had asked was too deep for that.

‘Certainly I should.’

A look, antagonistic but shrewdly understanding, passed between them.

He said, ‘I believe you, though I ’d rather not. I’d like to think that it was your love for him that dragged you here, against your reason. I hate to think that you did such a tremendous thing for me alone. Yet, in spite of what you say, you can’t quite make me believe that you would have come back here if you had never loved Renny. The place itself must have had a fascination for you. I believe places keep some essence of the emotions that have been experienced in them, don’t you? Do you think the Hut will ever be the same again after this summer? Alayne, I honestly believe that Jalna drew you back, whether you realize it or not.’

She muttered, ‘How can you be sure that Renny and I care for each other? You talk as though we had had an affair!’

‘When we came to Jalna after we were married, I saw that Renny had made a disturbing impression on you. Before many months had passed, I saw that you were trying desperately to beat down your love for him, and that he was trying just as hard to control his feeling for you.’

Under his scrutiny she lost her air of reticence. She pressed her hand to her throat. She had woefully failed, then, in her first effort to conceal her love for Renny. Eden had watched this smouldering passion with an appraising eye from the beginning!

She asked brokenly, ‘Did that make a difference to you? Knowing so long ago that I loved Renny? I thought you had only guessed it, later — believed that I had turned to him when I found you did n’t care any more — ’

He answered mercilessly, ‘Yes, it did make a difference. I felt an outsider.’

‘Then,’ she gasped, ‘I am to blame for everything! For Pheasant — ’

‘No, no. It would have come, sooner or later. It’s not in me to be faithful to any woman.’

She persisted doggedly, ‘I am to blame for everything.’

He came into the room and touched her with an almost childlike gesture.

‘Alayne, don’t look like that. You’re so — it’s stupid of you. You can’t help what you are. Any more than I can help what I am. My dear, I suspect that we are much more alike than you would let yourself believe. The great difference between us is that you analyze yourself, while I analyze others. It’s better fun. . . . Alayne, look up — ’

She looked at him sombrely.

‘The whole trouble has been,’ he said, ‘that you were a thousand times too good for me!’

She turned away from him and returned blindly to the arranging of her trunk.

He said, ’I told old Benny one day that you’d go through hell for a sight of his red head.’

‘Oh! And what did he say?’ Her voice was without expression. Eden should not bait her again.

‘I forget. But of course he liked it.’

She turned and faced him. ‘Eden, will you please leave me to pack in peace? You know? that I have promised to spend the evening with your aunt and uncles. I have no time to waste. Are you coming?’

‘No, you will be happier without me. Give them my love. Will Renny be there?’

‘I don’t know.’ How cruel he was! Why could he not let her be! How she would rejoice to be far away from all this in another twenty-four hours!

When he had returned to the living room, he hung about miserably. He hated himself for having upset her. If he had! Perhaps it was the thought of going away that made her look like that. And he had meant to say something beautiful to her at the last! The whole situation was ludicrous. The sooner this impossible atmosphere was dispelled, the better. . . . Did he hear a sob from the other room? Lord, he hoped not! That would be horrible. He stood and listened. No, it was all right. She was only clearing her throat He fidgeted about till she came out, ready to go. She looked pale, calm, her hair beautifully cared for, as always. She had a pathetic air of serenity, as though the final word had been said, as though she were now beyond the reach of emotion. He saw that she had indeed been crying.

The sun had sunk below the tree tops and had left them almost instantly in a well of greenish shadow. There was no afterglow, scarcely any twilight. After the rich radiance of the sun came shadow and chill. It was like the passing of their love, he thought, and mocked at himself for being sentimental.

‘Alayne — ’ he said.

‘ Yes ? ’

‘ Oh, nothing — I forgot what I was going to say.’ He followed her to the door. ‘You must have someone bring you home. It will be very dark.’

She hesitated on the flat stone before the door. She turned suddenly to him, smiling.

‘Home!’ she repeated. ‘It was rather nice of you to say that.’

He came out, took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Good-bye, Alayne!’

The crows were returning to their nests from some distant field. She heard their approach beyond the orchards, first as the humming of a vast hive of bees which, as it drew nearer, swelled into a metallic volume that drowned all other sound. The air rocked with their shouts. Separate cries of those in advance became audible, raucous commands, wild shouts, vehement assertions, shrill denials — every brazen, blackfeathered throat gave forth an urgent cry. They passed above the orchard, against the yellowish sky, hundreds of them, seeking the pine wood. Some battled with the air to overtake those ahead; some swam steadily with forceful movements of the wings, while others drifted with a kind of rowdy grace.

As Alayne followed the orchard path beneath them she wondered if it were possible that in a few hours she would have left all this behind and returned to a life so alien.

There was no mistake about the welcome from those at Jalna. Tiers and Pheasant were in Montreal. Renny, although the old people said they expected him, did not appear at supper. The summer had gone like a dream, Nicholas said. A strange, sad dream, Ernest added. Augusta tried to persuade Alayne to go to England with her instead of returning to New York. Augusta dreaded traveling alone, she dreaded returning to her lonely house, and Alayne had never seen England! Why could she not come? Alayne felt a momentary impulse to accept the invitation. Why not go across the ocean and see if she could find forgetfulness there? But how could she forget with one of that family beside her, with constant references being made to the others? No, she could not do it. Better cut loose from them entirely, and forever. Finch played for her during the evening, and she was filled with delight by the improvement in him, pride that it had been she who had persuaded Renny to have him taught. The air in the drawing-room, though subdued, was genial. It was full of a melancholy gentleness. Wakefield was allowed to take the jade and ivory curios from their cabinet to show them to Alayne, and afterward arrange them on the floor to his own satisfaction.

Alayne had never spent such an evening at Jalna. Something in it hurt her, made her feel more acutely the impending parting. And yet the old people were cheerful. They had been pleased by a call from Mrs. Leigh. ‘A pretty woman, egad!’ from Nicholas. ‘Very modern, and yet so sweet, so eager to please!’ from Ernest. ‘She was for going to hunt you out at the Hut, — you and Eden, — but I told her you were out. I thought it best,’ from Augusta.

Wakefield curled up beside Alayne on the sofa. He took off her rings and adorned his own small fingers with them. But when he went to replace them she shut her hand against the wedding ring.

‘I am not going to wear it any more,’ she said, in a low tone.

‘But what shall I do with it?’

‘ I don’t know. Ask Aunt Augusta.'

‘What shall I do with this, Aunt?’ He twirled the ring on his finger.

Augusta replied, with dignity, ‘Put it in the cabinet with the curios.’

‘The very thing!’ He flew to the cabinet. ‘Look, everybody! I’ve put it on the neck of the tiny white elephant. It’s a jolly little collar for him.’

Alayne watched him, with a smile half humorous, half bitter. So that was the end of that! A jolly little collar for a white elephant. And the glad thrill that she had felt when it had been placed on her finger! She fidgeted on the sofa. She had waited past her time in the hope that Renny would return. Why was he avoiding her? Was he afraid? But why should he be, when it was her last night at Jalna? All day she had hugged the anticipation of the walk back to the Hut at night. For surely he would take her back through the darkness! What he might say to her on the way had been the subject of fevered speculation all day. She had dressed herself, done her hair, with the thought that as he saw her that night so would she remain in his memory. And he had taken himself away somewhere, rather than spend the evening in the room with her!

Augusta was murmuring something about a horse — Renny — he had been so sorry — his apologies.

‘Yes? Oh, it is too bad, of course. Say good-bye to him for me.’

‘Oh, he will see you again,’ said Ernest. ‘He’s driving you into town himself tomorrow.’

No peace for her. The feverish speculations, the aching thoughts, would begin all over again.

She said, ‘Tell him not to trouble. Finch will drive me in, won’t you, Finch?’

‘I’d like it awfully.’

’What do you suppose, Alayne?’ cried Wake. ‘I’ve never been on a visit.’

‘What a shame! Will you visit me sometime? I’d love to have you.’ She pressed him to her, on the sofa, and whispered, ‘Tell me, where is Renny?’

He whispered back, ‘In the stables. I know, because he sent Wright to the kitchen for something, and I was there.’

Finch was to see her back to the Hut. He ran upstairs for his electric torch.

Alayne was enfolded in the arms of Augusta, Nicholas, and Ernest.

Ernest said, ‘How shall we ever repay you for what you have done for Eden ?'

Nicholas growled, ‘How shall we ever make up to her for what he has done? Turned her life topsy-turvy.’

Augusta said, holding her close, ‘If you change your mind about coming to England with me, just let me know. I’ll make you very welcome.’

Finch and Alayne were out in the darkness, the beam from the electric torch thrown before her. Cold, sweet scents rose from the flower beds. The grass was dripping with dew.

‘Let us go through the pine wood,’ she said. She had thought to return that way with Renny.

They spoke little as they went along the bridle path beneath the pines. Her mind was engaged with its own unhappy thoughts, Finch’s was filled with the sadness of life, its reaching out, its gropings in the dark, its partings. It was cold under the trees. From a cluster of hazels came the troubled talking of small birds passing the night there on their migration to the South.

Finch flashed the light among the branches, hoping to discover the small things perching. His attention was diverted to a more distant sound, as of footsteps moving among the pines.

‘What are you listening to?’ whispered Alayne.

‘ I thought I heard a twig break. Someone in there Wait a second.’ He left her and ran softly padding toward the sound.

She strained her ears to listen, her eyes following the moving beam of the electric torch. The sound of Finch’s padding steps ceased. The light was blotted out. She was in black silence except for the infinitesimally delicate song of a single locust on a leaf near her. She was frightened.

She called sharply, ‘Finch! What are you doing?’

‘Here! It was nothing.’

The torch flashed again; he trotted back to her. ‘One of the men hanging about.’ He thought, ‘ Why was Renny hiding in the wood? Why did n’t he turn up at the house? If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man! Gosh, he looked like Gran!’

The Hut lay in darkness, save for starlight sifting among the trees. A tenuous mist hung among their trunks, weighted with chill autumnal odors, dying leaves, fungus growths such as wood mushroom and Indian pipe, and the exhalations of deep virgin soil.

Alayne opened the door. Dark and cold inside. Eden had gone to bed early. He might have left the lamp burning and put wood on the fire! Finch flashed the light into the interior. She found a match and lighted two candles on the table. Her face in the candlelight looked white and drawn. A great pity for her welled up in the boy’s heart. She seemed to him the loneliest being he knew. He glanced at the closed door of Eden’s room. Was Eden awake, he wondered.

Alayne said, ‘Wait a minute, Finch. I must get that book I want you to read.’ She went into her room. ‘ Goodness, what a muddle I have here! ’

When she returned, after what seemed a long while to Finch, what little color she had had in her face had been drained from it. She laid the book on the table.

‘There,’ she said in a strained voice, ‘I hope you will like it.’ She went on, with an odd contraction of her mouth, ‘I have just had a note from Eden.’ He saw then that she had crumpled a piece of paper in her hand.

‘Oh!’ he said stupidly, his jaw dropping. ‘What’s he writing a note about?’

She pushed it into his hand. ‘Read it.’

He read: —

DEAR ALAYNE,—

After all your preparations, it is I who am to flit first! And not to flit alone! Minny Ware is coming with me. Are you surprised, or have you suspected something between us? At any rate, it will be a surprise for poor old Meggie. I’m afraid I am never to have done taking favors from your sex. There is only one thing for you to do now, and that is divorce me. I am giving you good grounds — and not so impossibly scandalous as the first time. My dear child, this is the first really good turn I’ve ever done you. My withers are wrung when I think what you must have gone through this summer!

If you and Renny don’t come together, I’ll feel that I have sinned in vain.

We are not going to California, but to France. I shall be writing to Finch from there, so he will be able to inform your lawyer of my exact whereabouts.

Thank you, Alayne, for your magnanimity toward me. I can say thanks on paper.

Yours,

EDEN

Finch read the letter through with so distraught an expression that Alayne burst into hysterical laughter.

‘Oh, Finch, don’t!’ she gasped. ‘You look so funny, I can’t bear it!’

‘I don’t see anything funny about it,’ he said. ‘I think it’s terrible.’

‘Of course it’s terrible. That’s what makes it so funny. That, and your expression!’ She leaned against the wall, her hand pressed to her side, half laughing, half crying.

He put his arm about her.

‘Dear Alayne, don’t tremble so! I’m afraid you’ll be ill.’

‘I’m all right. Only I’m very tired, and Eden’s way of doing things is so unexpected ! ’

‘I’ll say it is! I’m the one that ought to know. He did n’t tell me he was going to take a girl with him when he borrowed the money.’

She was bewildered. ‘Borrowed the money! What money?’

‘The money for the year in France. I raised it for him. But for heaven’s sake don’t tell Renny of it, or I’ll get into a frightful row!’

She ceased trembling, her face set. ‘He borrowed money from you — to go to France?’

He assented, not without self-importance.

‘But, Finch, Renny was paying for a winter in California! ’

‘I know. But Eden did n’t want to go to California. He wanted a year in France. He must have it because of something he’s going to write. I can’t explain. You understand how it is. You left your work and came here to nurse him because of his poetry. It makes you feel that what he is does n’t really matter. You and I feel the same about art, I think. I hope you don’t think I’m a fool.’ He was very red in the face.

She must not hurt his feelings by deprecating his act. Ah, but Eden would never pay him the money back! She put a hand on each of his cheeks, and kissed him.

’It was a beautiful thing to do, Finch! I’ll not tell a soul. . . . Strange how he uses us, and then leaves us standing staring at the spot where he has been.’

He broke out, ‘You can’t stop here tonight! You must come back with me.’

‘I am not afraid.’

’It’s not that. It’s the gruesomeness. I could n’t stick it myself. I ’ll not leave you.’

‘I would rather be here.’

’No. It won’t do! Please come. Aunt will like to have you. There’s your old room waiting.’

She consented. They returned.

There were lights upstairs now, but a light still burned in the drawing-room, and from it came the sound of the piano. Nicholas was playing.

From the hall they could see his gray leonine head and heavy shoulders bent above the keyboard. Alayne remembered with a pang that she had not asked him to play that evening, though she had urged Finch.

He was playing Mendelssohn’s ‘Consolation.’ When had one heard Mendelssohn! His terrier sat drooping before the fire, waiting for him to come to bed.

Finch whispered, ‘Shall you tell him?’

‘Yes. Wait till he has finished.’

They stood motionless together. When the last notes had died, Alayne went to his side. He remained looking at his hands for a little, then slowly raised his eyes to her face.

Startled by her reappearance, he exclaimed, ‘ Alayne, my dear! What is wrong? ’

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing serious. It’s only that Eden has gone away a little sooner than I expected. He left a note at the Hut for me. Finch would n’t let me stay there alone — so I ’m back, you see.’ Her head drooped; she twisted her fingers together. Her voice was scarcely audible as she added, ‘He took Minny Ware with him/

Nicholas’s large eyes glared up at her. ‘The deuce he did! The scoundrel! He ought to be flogged. My poor little girl—’ He heaved himself around on the piano seat and put his arm about her waist. ‘This is the return he makes you for all your kindness! He’s nothing but a young wastrel! Does Kenny know of this?’

‘I haven’t seen Renny.’ She was filled with shame at the thought of Renny. Now she did not want to see him. She would leave this house and never return to it again.

Augusta was calling from upstairs, ‘Did I hear Alayne’s voice? What is wrong, Nicholas?’

Full of excitement, he limped vigorously to the foot of the stairs.

‘Gussie!’ He had not given her this diminutive for years. ‘Come along down, Gussie! Here’s a pretty kettle of fish. Young Eden has run off with that hussy Minny!’

‘Nick, you don’t mean to tell me!’

Ernest appeared at the top of the stairs in nightshirt and dressing gown, the cat Sasha rubbing herself against his legs.

‘What’s this new trouble? ’ he demanded.

Augusta on the stairs, midway between the brothers, answered, ‘Some scrape of Eden’s. I’m afraid that Ware girl has been leading him into mischief. Nicholas does get so excited.'

Just as they drew together at the bottom of the stairs, and Nicholas was demanding to see Eden’s letter, and Augusta was declaring that she had always expected something like this, and Ernest was saying what a blessing it was that Mamma had not lived to see this night, and Nicholas was retorting that no one enjoyed a to-do better than Mamma, quick steps were heard in the porch and the door was opened by Renny.

Before he had seen her, Alayne fled down the hall. She could not face him there before the others. She would escape to her room and not see him before morning.

She heard his question: ‘What’s up?’ She heard Nicholas put the situation pithily before him. He made no audible comment, but she could picture his expression, how the rust-red eyebrows would fly up, the brown eyes blaze. Then she heard Augusta’s voice.

‘Alayne is here, poor girl. She is staying the night. Why, where has she gone? Alayne, dear, Renny is here!’

She did not answer. The door of Grandmother’s room stood open; she stepped inside and drew it to after her. She was startled to find the night light burning. By its faint radiance the room was revealed to her in an atmosphere of sombre melancholy: the tarnished gilt flourishes on the wallpaper, the deep wing chair before the empty grate, the heavy curtains with their fringe and tassels, the old painted bedstead, on the headboard of which perched, above the fantastically pictured flowers and fruit, Boney, his head under his wing.

Alayne stood by the bed, listening. Had they gone upstairs again, or into the drawing-room to talk? She could hear voices, but Renny’s voice, which carried so distinctly, was not audible.

He was coming.

Involuntarily she moved toward the door, as though to bar it against him. But he was there before her. He pushed it open and came inside. In the clouded radiance of the night light, against the background of a heavy maroon curtain, she saw the face she loved. The face she called up in the night, the face that haunted her by day. There he stood — she could put out her hand and touch him. He lived in her, and the urge toward him would not be denied. But what did she really know of him? What was really his conception of love and happiness ? She did not know. He was an enigma to her to which the only answer was the cry of her heart.

He said, scanning her face, ‘Shall you divorce him, now?’

She breathed, ‘Yes.’

‘And marry me?’

‘Yes.'

Her eyes fell; she was afraid of their nearness. Against it she raised the barrier of a question.

‘Why did you not come to-night?'

‘I couldn’t,’ he answered, ‘because I knew they had gone.’

‘You knew’ Eden and Minny had gone?’

‘Yes.’ He gave a short, strained laugh. ‘I was riding. The gates at the crossing dropped as I got there. It was just light enough for me to make out their two figures on the platform. They were carrying bags. And when the train passed I saw him again at a window.’ His grimness was dispersed by the sudden arch grin so amazingly like old Adeline’s. ‘He saw me and waved his hand! ’

‘And that is why you did n’t come in to supper? ’

He nodded.

In sudden pain, she asked, ‘And you were n’t going to tell me? You were going to let me go back to the Hut and find out for myself?’

‘I suppose.’

‘But how cruel of you!’

He did not answer; his eyes were on the little pearl-white hollow of her throat.

Now her eyes searched the dark depths of his. Was he really cruel, or only shy as a wild animal is shy, afraid of things he does not understand? She remembered the sound of someone moving in the pine wood, Finch’s odd look when he returned from searching.

‘Were you in the woods? Was it you Finch and I heard, then?’

Again he did not answer, but this time he came and put his head against hers, and whispered, ‘Don’t ask me questions. Love me.’

She felt the fire of his kiss on her neck. She clung to him, her forehead pressed against his shoulder. They could find no words, but their hearts, pressed close, talked together in the language of the surging tides, the winds that bend the branches to their will, the rain that penetrates the deep warmth of the earth.

XXVII

A month later a party were setting out one morning from Jalna for the wild-duck shooting. They were going by motor to the lakes and marshlands haunted by canvasback, mallard, and snipe. With Maurice Vaughan were to ride two friends of his, Mr. Vale from Mistwell, and Mr. Antoine Lebraux from Quebec. Piers and Renny were to take the dogs, which, filled with gladness by the sight of the guns, trotted without rest from point to point of interest — the dunnage bag, the provisions, the weapons, and their masters’ legs, clad in thick woolen stockings or leather leggings. The sky was gray, broken by small patches of cold blue, while the scattered sunshine seemed deliberately to seek out the burning red of the maple trees. A strong wind was blowing from the southeast, bringing with it the smell of the lake and sound of its thunder on the beach.

Wright came from the house, carrying a heavy canvas-covered hamper, and stowed it in the back of Renny’s car.

‘The bacon’s in this one, sir,’ he observed, ‘and the small tinned stuff. The bag of dog biscuits is in this corner. And this here’s the sperrits.’

‘Good.’ Renny stuck his head into the car. ‘We can start directly. . . . All set, Maurice?’

‘Yes, it’s time we were off.’

Nicholas and Ernest, Finch, Wakefield, Pheasant, and Mooey were out bareheaded to see the party off. Nicholas wore a heavy red-and-green-plaid dressing gown; his iron-gray mane had not yet been combed, and rose in a crest above his strong features. Ernest stood chatting to the strangers, hands in pockets, looking slender, feeling young again, exhilarated by the bustle. Pheasant, her short brown hair fluttering, was everywhere in pursuit of her son, who, on his feet now, wrapped in a muffler of Piers’s, his small nose blue, was in imminent danger from cars, dogs, men, and the excited racings of Wake.

How Finch wished he were going!

He stood curved like the new moon, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, watching with a wistful grin the fascinating activities of the hunters.

Piers was passing him with a pointer on a lead, when he stopped abruptly and stared at him. The grin faded from Finch’s face. He stiffened, expecting a sneer. Piers said, ‘Why don’t you come along?’

Finch returned pleasantly, ’Yes, I see myself! ’

‘I’m in earnest. It ’d do those fool nerves of yours good. Set you up for the winter.’ He called to Renny, who was peering suspiciously into the engine of his motor.

‘ Why don’t you let young Finch come? He might be of some use.'

‘He’d be more likely to put a shot into one of us! He’s never been. Why take him?’

‘Why not?’ persisted Piers. ’Look at him! He’ll never live to enjoy his money if he goes on like this. He’s all legs and nose.’

The two surveyed him. Finch giggled distraughtly, feeling himself to be dangling in mid-air.

‘Very well,’ agreed Renny laconically. ‘But don’t waste any time getting ready.’

Finch flew toward the house.

‘Why, he’s as keen as mustard,’ said Piers, approvingly.

‘Me, too!’ clamored Wake. ‘I want to go!’

Piers tried to quiet him by standing him on his head, but the moment he was released he got into the car and established himself on the dunnage bag, whence he had to be forcibly ejected.

‘Do you know,’ he said, tears in his eyes, looking up into Renny’s face, ‘that I have never been anywhere in my life?’

‘You can’t come.’ Renny took out some silver and put two fifty-cent pieces into the little boy’s hand. ‘Try to have a good time on this.’

Wake had never had such a magnificent sum given to him before. He was effectually quieted, even made solemn by the responsibility.

In his room Finch was throwing clothes and boots into a suitcase. In a fury of haste he dragged a bottle-green sweater over the dark red one he wore. ‘Gosh,’ he exclaimed, ‘this is fierce!’ What he designated as ‘fierce’ can only be guessed, but he probably referred to the furious speed with which life was moving. There were Eden and Minny Ware mysteriously disappeared, and there were Aunt Augusta and Alayne in England, and here was he off hunting with the other men.

He tore down the stairs, the suitcase bumping against his legs, and appeared wild-eyed before the others. He sprang, bag in hand, into his brother-in-law’s car.

‘Here,’ objected Vaughan, ‘you can’t ride in this car! You’ll have to go in the other.’

‘Get in here with the dogs,’ said Renny.

He put his suitcase on top of the mound of luggage, and wedged himself in with the two spaniels and the pointer. They were trembling with excitement. They licked his hands and face and cried with glad eagerness to be off.

They were off! Maurice’s car was turning into the drive, its three occupants waving and calling out to the group who were left. It was impossible to believe that he was in the car behind Renny and Piers. He put his head out of the window and shouted, ’Good-bye, Uncle Nick! Good-bye, Uncle Ernest! Good-bye, kids!’

They shouted back. Wake was dancing up and down with excitement. Uncle Ernest had Mooey in his arms. Pheasant and Mooey were throwing kisses. The joy, the abandon, of it pained him. He could bear unhappiness, but he had no defenses against joy.

On either side of the road the oaks and the maples stood up showing their scarlet and mahogany-colored leaves, a few of which, with every gust, were swept from them and flew a short way like bright birds before they sank to the roadside. As they neared the church the cedars of the graveyard rose in a dark green cluster against the sky. Renny touched Piers’s hand on the wheel. ‘Go slow here,’ he said.

The car crept past the graveyard. The brothers looked up the steep path, remembering how only a short while ago they had carried a coffin up there. Renny took off his cap. He shot a quick glance at the others, and they too pulled off theirs. Piers held his in his brown hand, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Renny for the signal to replace it. But Renny looked over his shoulder and said to Finch: —

‘Finch, do you remember what her last word was?’

‘Gammon,’ answered Finch.

(The End)