Finch's Fortune: A Novel

XXIV

THEY had not spoken since. News traveled fast at Jalna, and Alayne had already heard, when she met Renny in the hall, an exaggerated account of all that had happened since his return. The Glasgow youth had run all the way to the house to tell his friend Bessie. Bessie had run on tiptoe up two flights of stairs to gasp it out to Alma as she was giving Mooey his bath. Alma had repeated it with whispered embellishment to Pheasant when she carried some toast and tea to her. Pheasant had told Alayne. . . . When Alayne and Renny met in the hall, she had already heard how he had gone into a terrible rage, threatened the men who had dispatched Barney, insisted on himself unearthing the body, had caressed it, wept over it. The sight of him standing there with the light from the stained-glass window turning his clothes into motley, falling on his red hair in a purple stain, was shocking to her. The frozen grin on his face was repellent. When he said what he said, she drew back with a feeling of repulsion. She made no answer, but stood rigid, her back to the wall, her palms pressed against it while he passed.

He went into the sitting room, shutting the door behind him. A moment later she heard him draw the folding doors between there and the dining room with a bang. She was filled with bitterness and disillusion. And yet, she felt, she had always known he was like this.

As she climbed the stairs with heavy limbs she said to herself, ‘I never liked him. That is the trouble. I was mad for him. But I never have liked him.’

In her room she sat by the window looking down on the parched garden. The flowers hung their limp heads. Their foliage separated, showing the dry earth beneath. Her own head ached so that she could scarcely hold it up. She pressed her fingers to the space between her eyebrows where there was a knot of pain. She felt as though she were going to be ill.

She sat with drooping head, going over incident after incident in her life with Renny, trying to discover if she had been at fault in the marked change in their relations. She could not see where she had failed him. She had managed to live peaceably in the house with Piers who hated her but she could not live peaceably with Renny who — but did he love her? Or had he felt for her only a desire for her body, while she stretched out her hands for the satisfaction of her soul? She could not blame herself. Something stubborn in her refused to accept the blame.

Again the jealousy of Clara Lebraux surged through her like a racking pain. She felt it in her back, in her throat, in the nerves of her stomach. That woman — with her streaked hair, her pale eyelashes, her bony hands — what fascination was there in her that drew him to the fox farm when he might have been with his wife? The thought came to her with a shock that because Barney had come from the fox farm he was doubly dear to Renny — that Renny even suspected her of agreeing only too willingly to his destruction because of that.

When she went down to supper she found that places were laid for only herself and Piers. She was not surprised that Pheasant was unable to come to the table, but where was Wakefield — where that other? Piers, looking at his plate, muttered that Pheasant was still feeling rocky and that young Wake had had a turn with his heart — too much excitement — and was sleeping. He did not speak of Renny, but soon she saw Rags pass through the hall carrying a tray. He went into the sitting room and shut the door cautiously behind him. She saw Piers frowning, the corner of his mouth drawn to one side.

Rags, when he returned to the dining room, wore an expression of profound secrecy, as though torture would not induce him to reveal what was taking place on the other side of the folding doors. Alayne remembered how Meggie had had most of her food carried to her on trays by Rags. Was Renny going to follow Meg’s example? She had a hysterical desire to laugh. She could not choke down the cold roast beef, but nibbled a little cress and thin bread. Piers stolidly consumed beef, and peaches and cream. Now and then he cast a frowning look at the door of the sitting room.

Alayne made no attempt to talk to Piers. She did not know what his attitude toward her in the affair was, but she supposed he blamed her. If he brought up the subject of the dog’s death she did not think she could endure to remain at the table. However, he did not, but when he had half-finished his meal he began to talk about the sale which he had attended. In a muffled voice he gave her a description of the animals on which he and Renny had bid. He carefully described a Clydesdale stallion he had bought and a nice cobby mare for general use purchased by Renny. The stallion had cost a pretty penny, but Piers hoped to get it out of him again.

Alayne answered in monosyllables, but she was grateful to Piers, for she saw that he was trying to make things easier for her. When he had finished the glass of ale he always had for supper he held his cigarette case out to her, and for the first time during the meal their eyes met. She saw that the look in his was kind and her own filled with tears. He began gruffly and hurriedly to talk of the crowd at the sale, the intense heat, and to describe the mannerisms of the auctioneer. He knew she did not smoke, but he had offered her a cigarette as though he wanted to do something for her. She accepted and puffed at it awkwardly. It was the first time they had ever sat for a while together talking.

Now five days had gone by, and she and Renny had not spoken. She lived in a kind of haze. Sometimes, when she was dressing in the morning, her mind became confused. She would hesitate, look blankly about the room, and begin to take her clothes off again, thinking it was night instead of morning. Then, seeing the sunlight, she would remember and shamefacedly continue her dressing. She had always been proud of the clarity of her mind, of the fact that she could keep her wits about her. She had often been intolerant of Eden’s bemused ways. There had been a break in the weather and now the nights were wet, but with each morning came bright sunshine that was continually being darkened by moving clouds. A forlorn look had descended upon the flower beds.

She had never before been in a house with anyone with whom she was not on speaking terms. She was not able to remember a shadow in the cheery attitude of her parents toward each other. Renny addressed all his conversation to Piers, seeming to include Pheasant in his resentment. He was even less indulgent to Wakefield and insisted that he go to his lessons, though it was plain to be seen that the boy was not well. Pheasant seemed absorbed in her own musings. She too was ailing and several times had to leave the breakfast table. On three days of the five Renny did not return to dinner. In the relief of his absence, Pheasant and Wakefield chattered continually, while Rags regarded them with disapproval. Though Alayne discovered that Renny had, in these absences, dined with the Vaughans, she still believed that he spent much of his time with Clara Lebraux.

On the sixth day Rags brought the mail to Renny at the breakfast table. He tore open a letter and, having read it, handed it to Piers.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘it’s just as I said. It was scarcely worth the trouble of sending it, but I wanted to prove that it was nothing but callous cruelty.’

Piers read the note and gave a sympathetic grunt.

‘Show it to Alayne,’ said Renny, looking at his plate.

Piers slid the paper along the table to her. She picked it up and read. It was the report from the Government Analyst stating that the head of the dog had been examined and that no evidence of rabies had been present. She read it dully, feeling nothing more than a quickening of her sense of injury.

‘Let me see it, please!' cried Wakefield. ‘Is it something interesting?’

Alayne passed on the paper to him.

‘I don’t think,’said Piers, ‘that anyone was to blame for that. The men did just what was natural — seeing a dog in that condition. Alayne did just what was natural. She wanted him put out of the way with the least possible pain. And it was n’t. Quinn’s fault that he did n’t understand the gun. ... If it had been my dog, I’d just try to put it out of my head — forget the whole thing!’ He began to draw horizontal lines on the tablecloth with his knife.

‘Yes, indeed!’ cried Pheasant, revolting against her silence of the week. ‘If ever I saw a terrifying object, it was that dog. If he was n’t mad he’d no right to act as though he were and frighten darling little Mooey and Alayne and me almost to death!’

‘Don’t bring me into it, please,’ said Alayne coldly.

Renny sprang up from his chair. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘You make me sick, the lot of you! ’

He gave a wild look about the room and then flung out of it and out of the house.

Those who were left exchanged one startled look. Then Piers slit open a letter to himself; Pheasant bent her head over the newspaper, casting a sidelong look at Alayne, who, summoning all her will, picked up a letter in the handwriting of the younger of her aunts and forced herself to read it.

Wakefield kept repeating to himself, over and over, in a gabbling tone, ‘You make me sick, the lot of you! . . . You make me sick, the lot of you!’

Piers, suddenly becoming aware of this, scowled at him. ‘Shut up,’he said curtly, ‘or I ’ll put you out.'

To hide his chagrin, Wakefield examined his reflection in the hollow of a spoon, making grotesque grimaces at it.

Alayne thought, ‘What if Aunt Harriet is writing to say that they are coming at once? I never can endure that with things as they are!’

But there was no word of a visit. Helen, the elder aunt, was ill. Her sister was greatly troubled.

Alayne’s first sensation was one of pure relief. Then anxiety for her loved relation swept relief away. There was a note of foreboding in the letter very unlike the cheerful tone with which Aunt Harriet usually faced life’s worries. A rather shaky postscript said that if there was any change for the worse Alayne had better come. She could not bear the responsibility alone.

All her life Alayne had been accustomed Lo make sudden decisions. There was nothing of wavering in her at such moments as this. She would wait for no telegram. She would go at once — to-day. For a moment she considered the idea of allowing the others to believe that Renny’s behavior was unendurable to her — of punishing him in this way. But she put that aside. She was too proud for pretense.

She took Pheasant aside after breakfast and told her of her aunt’s serious illness. Something skeptical as well as compassionate in the girl’s expression made Alayne give her the letter to read. Pheasant threw her arms about her and kissed her.

‘ Darling Alayne! I do hope it will be only a little visit! I shall miss you so! Jalna is n’t very comfortable for a prospective young mother these days. Oh, I do wish Uncle Nick were here! I’m sure he could have kept us out of this tangle!’

At one o’clock Piers came in with the news that Renny had gone off somewhere on business with Maurice. He did not say what the business was and Alayne was of the opinion that Renny was simply spending the day at the Vaughans’. Meg had not been well and Alayne knew he was worried. She packed clothes to last her for a month’s visit, then sat down at the writing table in her room to write a note to Renny. She wrote one that sounded so frigid when she read it over that she tore it up. Better nothing than that! She began another on which, in spite of herself, tears fell, and she tore it up, too. He should get no wifely weeping note from her. Better, perhaps, that he should hear the news from the family.

Piers had the car freshly washed for taking her to the station. He sent Wright to drive it and kept out of the way at the moment of good-bye. Pheasant had hovered about her all the afternoon. She had brought two little embroidered handkerchiefs as a gift. She had led Mooey to Alayne and he had said, having evidently rehearsed the words, ‘I’m shorry I was a naughty boy. Auntie Alayne,’ and held up his face to be kissed.

Wakefield begged to be allowed to see her off. He had so little in the way of change that he was delighted when she agreed. He and Wright carried her things into the Pullman for her. It was the first time the boy had ever seen one.

‘How jolly this is!’ he exclaimed. ‘I wonder if the day will ever come when I’ll be going somewhere. I’ve lived all these years and I’ve never been anywhere. Is n’t it terrible. Alayne? ’ Yet there was a certain pride in his bearing like the pride of the oldest inhabitant. People about were casting admiring glances at his dark eager face.

All night Alayne tossed in the grip of a nervous headache. She was at the point of exhaustion when she reached the pretty stucco house up the Hudson. Miss Helen was just able to recognize her; in two days she died.

When all was over and order was restored in the house, Alayne and Miss Harriet had many long talks. Alayne’s heart was wrung by her aunt’s loneliness. She made up her mind that she would remain with her for some time. She had written twice to Pheasant and had had two letters in reply. Things were going on about the same as usual at Jalna. Pheasant wrote, ‘R. was very much surprised when you did not appear the next morning. He did not say much, but his look was one of the completest astonishment.’

There was not much time for thought in those first weeks. Miss Archer had many friends eager to condole with her and to see Alayne after her long absence. The friends agreed that marriage had not improved Alayne’s looks. She had grown sallow and there were shadows under her eyes.

Miss Helen had left Alayne all her money — not a large sum, but one sufficient to make many things possible for her which had not been possible before. Miss Harriet expressed a desire to own a motor car. Her sister had been content to hire one and had been timid about motoring. Now one was purchased and Alayne took pleasure in driving her aunt over the smooth roads above the river. The autumn weather was delightful.

Alayne accompanied Miss Archer to a small club formed of ladies of the neighborhood. At the meetings in drawing-rooms, where elegance and a certain austerity were combined, literature and questions of the day were discussed. Selected members brought intelligent articles from the best magazines, which they read aloud, enunciating so clearly that not a word was missed by their hearers. Alayne herself read an article of great interest, in which it was demonstrated, with quaint examples, that the rural people of the Southwestern states retain in their dialect many words of Elizabethan English.

She liked the club. She was strangely exhilarated by the mental atmosphere of the place, and began to have the feeling of clearheaded alertness which she had known in the days before her marriage. She was like a plant returned to its native soil. Her complexion cleared, but the shadows beneath her eyes remained. No matter how well she slept during the night, she woke at four o’clock and there was no more sleep for her except a mere snatch, achieved between the time when the maid first stirred about the house and the time when she herself must rise. That snatch of sleep refreshed her. It took the edge off the sharp remembrance of the thoughts that had kept her awake. They were thoughts of how her life was ruined, of how these cool and pleasant days were like a clean pinafore that a child puts on to hide its torn and shabby clothes. They were thoughts of how she had lain in the arms of Renny.

XXV

With the departure of Alayne a change came over the family at Jalna. The spurious order that had afflicted them during the summer was thrown aside like hampering harness, and they ran free. In the basement, where her persistent weekly visits of inspection had been looked forward to with dread, it was as though the lid had been removed from a bubbling pot. The contents of the pot bubbled, boiled over, and the smell of its exuberance rose to the realms above.

‘White Wings, they never grow weary,’ sang Mrs. Wragge, in a rich contralto, as she threw the remains of a joint, of which she had no desire to make a mince, to the dogs. Her husband, with a cigarette in his lips and his sleeves uprolled, polished the best silver coffeepot, the inside of which had not been washed for many a day. Bessie was plucking a young goose, letting the feathers drift softly where they would.

‘What was that the missus called them, that first day she come rampagin’ down here?’ she called to Rags.

‘Plumage, that’s wot. It’s American for fevvers. She’s got a rum way o’ talkin’. Puts the haccent on the wrong syllables and drawls out the last word in every sentence. She got on my nerves if ever a lidy did.’

‘It’s not the way the boss talks.’ said Bessie. ‘He sort of shoots the talk at you. Makes you jump out of your skin sometimes.’

‘And serve you right,’ returned Rags, blowing on the coffeepot. ‘You’re the laziest young Canadjen I ’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a good many.’

‘Give me a cockney for laziness!’ jeered the girl. ‘ What you do know is how to look busy! Why, you’ve been half an hour on that there coffeepot!’

Rags set down the silver pot and advanced toward her. There was a scuffle in which the air was filled with feathers, as though the combatants were two birds. Mrs. Wragge stopped singing to stare at them with disapproval.

‘Get on with yer work and stop yer foolin’, Bessie,’ she ordered, ‘Alfred, don’t you be makin’ so free.’

A baby voice sounded from the tairway. ‘Fight some more, p’ease! We’re coming.’

It was Mooey. He and his cousin Patience were descending the stairs, carrying their blue china plates in their hands.

Maurice Vaughan and his little daughter had come to stay at Jalna while Meg was at the hospital. The two children had been hungry in the middle of the morning, and Alma had set them down at their little table with bread and butter and brown sugar before them. They had soon devoured that, and, Alma being engaged in trying to hide her freckles under some of Pheasant’s face powder, they had stolen from the room and laboriously descended two flights of stairs to the basement.

There they stood, three steps from the bottom, Patience in pink, Mooey in fawn, holding their plates before them like two small mendicants and smiling ingratiatingly. Mrs. Wragge came to them beaming. She had the pneumatic bosom and fat red face that inspire confidence in children.

‘Well, I’m blessed,’ she declared, ‘if I ever seen two lovelier kiddies!’ Rags and Bessie also gathered to inspect them.

‘She’s the spit of ’er mother,’ observed Rags. ‘Sime complexion. Sime smile.’

‘She ’as ’er daddy’s gray eyes,’ said his wife.

’This one,’ continued her husband, placing the tips of his fingers on Mooey’s head, ‘ is the most beautiful blend of two parents I’ve hever seen. ’E’s took the best points off both on ’em.’

Mooey said, ‘I want gingerb’ed, p’ease.’

‘There is no gingerbread, dearie,’ answered Mrs. Wragge.

‘Jam, then, and a piece of celery.’

‘Patty wants an egg!’ said Patience.

‘Listen to them! At this hour in the morning!’ cried Bessie.

‘ They’re half starved along o’ that Alma,’ declared the cook. ‘ Run you to the larder, Bessie, and fetch those two hard-boiled eggs. I cooked too many for the jellied veal.’

While the eggs were being shelled the children ran round and round in a circle, holding their plates before them. They liked the feel of the brick floor under their feet. Presently Patience slipped and fell. The plate flew from her hands and was broken. Mooey tripped over her and fell, too. They sat, shouting with laughter, among the fragments of china.

‘Patty wants anozzer p’ate, p’ease,’ said Patience, holding up her hands.

‘Give’er that cracked one,’ said Rags, ‘just to see wot she’ll do with it.’

Finding it in her hand, Patty rose and, assuming the classic attitude of the disk thrower, hurled it to the other end of the kitchen. At the crash she looked astonished for a moment, then said, ‘Patty wants anozzer p’ate!’

Bessie brought a tin plate this time. Patience took it trustingly and, with a wide gesture, hurled it down the room. It fell with a thin clatter.

‘Oh, hell!’ said Mooey. ‘That won’t b’eak! ’

‘Chips of the old block,’ said Rags, sententiously.

At this moment Alma came down the stairs in search of her charges. She was greatly disturbed. She had just discovered that Patience was Mooey’s aunt as well as his cousin and it made her head spin round and round. She explained how strange she felt and Mrs. Wragge suggested that they had all better have a cup of tea.

Maurice Vaughan had had an opportunity to let his house furnished for two months, and Renny had suggested that he take advantage of the offer and make Jalna his home for the period. Meggie would be in the hospital for several weeks, and when she was convalescent she would almost certainly recuperate more quickly in the atmosphere of her old home. Renny thought that Vaughanlands was unhealthy, situated as it was in a hollow and having no basement. The presence of Maurice and Patience in the house would help to distract his mind from the awful fact that Meggie was obliged to undergo an operation. The very word ‘hospital’ filled the Whiteoaks with loathing and fear. Not one of them had ever entered one as a patient. When their time came they simply took to their beds and died. That was all there was to it. No surgeon’s knife had ever cut into their stubborn flesh.

Meggie had come to tell them good-bye, looking pale but sweetly firm and reconciled. She had always had a sense of the dramatic and it now helped her in this trying time. She embraced Mooey, exclaiming, ‘And you must always, always be a good boy!’ She laid her two hands on Renny’s chest and said, deeply, ‘You will always guard little Wake, won’t you?' She visited her grandmother’s room and stroked the silent Boney, murmuring, ‘Nevermore’ — having evidently confused him in her mind with Poe’s Raven.

The most heart-rending thing was that she brought a little gift to each of them. As though they needed anything to remember her by! She brought a gift to even the least of the servants, which was Alma Patch, and adjured her to be kind to Patience, her baby. To Piers she brought a silk handkerchief holder with a pink bow. To Wakefield, a little black lacquer writing case given to her by her grandmother when she was a girl. To Renny, a diary. It had been given to her, she explained, the Christmas before, but she had not had the strength to write in it.

Renny kept several account books, but he had never owned a diary. He carried it darkly to his room that night, lighted his lamp, and sat down at the table with the little book before him. He opened it and read on the flyleaf in a spidery hand, ‘To dear Meggie with love from Nellie Pink.’ This had been firmly crossed out and underneath, in his sister’s bold hand, was written, ‘For Renny, with my abiding love, Meggie.’ Dubiously he fluttered the narrow pages under his thumb. Three fourths of the year were almost gone, and it was difficult to know how to set about the enterprise.

After giving his fountain pen the severe shake it always required before it would write, he pressed open the diary at January. The only event he could remember in that month (aside from events in the stable, of which a meticulous record was kept in his office) was the death of Lebraux. He wrote, ‘Tony Lebraux died. Age 45. Weather very rough.’ In the space for the first day of March he wrote, ‘Finch of age. Dinner party. Finch spoke.’ In May he wrote of the departure of Nicholas, Ernest, and Finch for England. In June he recorded Wakefield’s birthday and his height and weight that day. In July he recorded his own birthday, adding the words, ‘Getting on.’ At the end of August he wrote, ‘Barney killed by four brutes with hayforks.’ His next entry was, ‘Alayne left to visit her aunt, owing to illness (later death) of other aunt.’ He stared at this entry for quite a long while before he turned to the space for that day. Herein he wrote, ‘Meggie entered hospital to-day for serious operation. Gave me this book.’ . . . He heaved a deep sigh, leaned back, and filled his pipe. . . . He never opened the little book again.

Like a sweet rain after a thought, word came that Meggie had not only survived the operation but was progressing famously. Maurice went to see her and returned jubilant. She was weak, but she was out of all danger, her appetite was good, and she was cheerful as could be. Later Piers and Pheasant went to see her and took her jelly and a cake. Wakefield was taken to see her and visited several other patients besides. But Renny did not go. When Maurice suggested it he ordered flowers to be sent her, but he could not go inside that place.

Now that she was safe, his spirits went up with a bound. Above stairs as well as below there were freedom and cheeriness in the house. Without the restraining presence of either Augusta or Alayne, dogs were allowed to make themselves at home in every room. Rags dusted or not as he saw fit. Pheasant was ailing and often did not come down to her meals. More and more frequently certain horsy friends of Renny’s came to the house. One of these was a Mr. Crowdy, who had never until now got farther than the hall. Nicholas and Ernest were annoyed by the very sight of him, but now that they were not present to object he formed the habit of dropping in at mealtime. Renny liked him about. He was so burly that he filled the space ordinarily allotted to two people at table. His face was so rubicund and his eyes so twinkling that his mere presence lent an air of jollity to any scene. He bred race horses, and he could watch one of his horses lose a race, even fall and throw its rider, with the same impenetrable, beaming gaze with which he watched a success. He probably understood horses as well as is possible for any human being. Renny valued his opinions as jewels.

He would stand gazing at a horse as though in a kind of trance, then, extending the palm of his left hand, he would, with the forefinger of his right, inscribe on it some hieroglyphic full of mystery to all but himself. After looking at this intently for a space, he would utter his pronouncement in a thick wheezy voice that always had a squeak of merriment in it. You might take his advice or leave it; it was all the same to him. There was no hard feeling in him for any man. He admired fine things of many sorts. He would stand in the doorway of the drawing-room at Jalna and gaze meditatively at the Chippendale furniture, then, flattening his thick palm, he would inscribe some symbol on it with a massy forefinger, and remark, ‘Good stuff. Good stuff. Very nice and showy. Not things you’d ever want to part with, Mr. Whiteoak.’

The other was a civil engineer named Chase. He was a man who had seen hard service in the War, experienced hard luck prospecting in the North, and made barely enough in his profession to keep him; he had no ambition now except to spend as much of his time as possible among horses and dogs. He loved only two human beings, Crowdy and Renny Whiteoak, and disliked all women, from eighteen to eighty. He had a fund of droll and sometimes bawdy stories which he told without moving a muscle of his long, swarthy face.

After supper these two, with Maurice and Renny, would play poker in the sitting room until the early hours of the morning. Maurice and Chase both took a little too much to drink.

Once Crowdy said to Renny, while the cards were being dealt, ’Mrs. Whiteoak is paying quite a long visit in the States, is n‘t she?’

‘Yes,’ returned Renny a bit brusquely.

The horse breeder laid his left hand on the table, palm upward, and made a minute memorandum on it with the forefinger of his right. Then he looked beamingly into the faces of the other three.

‘A delightful lady,’ he said. ‘A very delightful lady. Not the kind you meet every day. No, indeed.’

Chase said, ‘Well, I’ve never married and I thank God for that. I count it as the chief among my few blessings.’

XXVI

It was good to be at home again. When Nicholas let himself down into the armchair in his own bedroom, Nip quivering with delight on his knee, he felt that this was the return from his last trip abroad. Every few minutes Nip turned to give his face or his hand a quick lick of the tongue.

The luggage had been carried upstairs and the box which contained the presents had been opened. It was the rule that a returning Whiteoak should not fail to bring presents to the rest of the family. Especially was this the rule when the journey had been to the Old Country. Ernest had now unpacked and distributed the presents. He was beaming happily on his nieces with their scarfs and strings of beads (Meg’s a little the handsomer), on his nephews with their gloves and neckties. A flaxen-haired doll had been brought to Patience and a black doll in striped suit and red waistcoat to Mooey.

Ernest had enjoyed himself thoroughly, but he was now beginning to feel rather tired. He had arranged that the opening of the box should take place in Nick’s room. Now at any moment he might fade away to his own room and relax. He had forgotten what, splendid voices his nephews had, how their noise and laughter excited and fatigued one. Meg kept her arm about his shoulders. It was a lovely plump arm, but it weighed on him. In the midst of all the present-giving she was trying to tell him about her operation. Maurice was trying to explain something about having slept in his room which he simply could not take in because of the din. Patience and Mooey were running round and round him in circles, holding their dolls on high.

Ernest glided away to his own room. . . .

Later, when all was quiet, he returned. He found his brother with a glass of whiskey and soda before him and Nip still on his knee.

’I had to have a peg,’ explained Nicholas to Ernest’s disapproving look toward the glass, ‘to buck me up after all that row. What an exciting lot they are! Children getting badly spoiled, too.’

Ernest picked up a doll’s shoe from the floor and put it on his finger. ‘Yes — but they’re very sweet. I have n’t seen two prettier children anywhere. It ’s very good to be home again.’

‘Yes. I’ve taken my last trip. Here I stick till they take me off to lie beside Mamma. Sit down, Ernie, and rest yourself. You must be tired after all the to-do.’

Ernest sat down near enough to stroke the little dog’s head. ’Did you notice anything about Pheasant?’ he asked.

Nicholas grunted. ‘Strange we were n’t told of it.’

‘We did n’t get many letters. Meggie’s operation was the subject of most of them. What do you think about it, Nick?’

‘I think there are kids enough about the house, but I suppose she is going to have a regular Whiteoak family.’

‘Poor child! She looks pale. Much more ailing than Meggie.’ He tapped his teeth with the tips of his fingers and added, in a reflective tone, ‘Do you know, Nick, that the Vaughans are still staying here? I’d only been in my room a few moments when Maurice came to my door. He said he’d forgotten some of his things. There were his brushes on the dressing table and a coat on the back of the door. I naturally looked a little surprised and he explained, rather apologetically, that Meggie is n’t fit yet for the responsibility of housekeeping. I remarked how well she is looking. Then he told me that their house had been let furnished and that the tenants were very keen to have it for another month.’

‘H’m. It is rather strange. But not half so strange as Alayne’s not being home yet. Why, it must be two months since her aunt died. What did she say in her letter to you?’

‘She said she was going to visit Miss Archer for a time, but I certainly expected to find her at Jalna when we returned. Meggie has her room.’

‘Well,’ growled Nicholas, ‘it was Meg’s before it was Alayne’s.’

‘Of course, of course, but if Alayne were suddenly to return it would be awkward.’

‘Where is Maurice going to hang out now?’

‘In the attic, he said. In Finch’s room.’ A yawn made Ernest’s eyes water. He had slept little on the train. When in a short while the dinner gong sounded, he was almost too tired to respond. Yet he still felt the exhilaration of the return and he was curious to press further inquiries about Alayne.

In the passage they passed Rags carrying a tray, on which were arranged creamed sweetbreads on toast and a glass of sherry, to Meg. The two tall old gentlemen stood aside while the little cockney, with an air mysterious and important, slid past them with the tray.

Nicholas chuckled as he heavily descended the stairs. ‘At her old tricks again, I see. I fancy this convalescence wall extend through the rest of her life. She’s always preferred her little lunches to proper meals and at last she has an authentic excuse.’

Ernest, following, poked him warningly between the shoulders. Maurice was in the hall below. He was talking to Renny and two men who appeared at first to be strangers, but, when they faced round, turned out to be Renny’s objectionable friends Crowdy and Chase. Their presence in the hall came as a shock to the returned travelers. Renny was not quite comfortable about their advent, either. He concealed his misgivings under a formal manner, introducing his friends to his uncles as though unaware that they had met before.

Nicholas greeted them in a gruff tone, not claiming any former acquaintanceship. Ernest said, ‘ I think we have met before,’ and went down the hall to look in his mother’s room. He was astonished to find Mr. Crowdy at his side. He wondered what he could say to be rude to him, but could think of nothing. It went against the grain to speak to him at all.

The door of the room stood open. It seemed as if his mother had just left it. As the outline of her body was imprinted on the mattress of the old painted bedstead, so her spiritual shape had left its stamp on the atmosphere of the room. It would not be put aside. Though her fiery brown eyes had dried to dust in their sockets, they still kindled in this cherished retreat. The rubies and diamonds on her strong old hands still flashed. Her carven nose, her mobile mouth, around which a few stiff hairs had grown, were as existent in this room as the parrot that had fondly pecked at them.

Boney sat humped on his perch, his pale eyelids updrawn. A piece of cardboard which had been given him to play with lay torn in fragments beneath him. He stood on one scaly foot, while with the other he clutched a bar of the cage.

Mr. Crowdy stared at the parrot over Ernest’s shoulder, breathing portentously. When Ernest, with a deep sigh, turned away, Mr. Crowdy extended his left hand toward him, palm upward. With his right forefinger he traced mysterious marks on it. Then, with a piercing look into Ernest’s eyes, he observed, ’Rare old bird.’

‘Yes,’agreed Ernest, polite in spite of himself, ‘and he used to talk quite wonderfully.’

‘Has n’t spoke a word,’ Mr. Crowdy informed him, ‘for over two years. He’ll never talk again.’

‘I suppose not.’

They moved toward the dining room, where the others were waiting. They gathered, seven men and a boy, about the table. It was all so different from what Ernest and Nicholas had expected. It was their first home-coming without the extended welcome of their mother’s arms. Instead, there were present these objectionable strangers. Yet, how delicious the roast beef was! They had tasted none like it — so juicy and so rare — since they had left Jalna. Renny drew them on to talk of their trip. There was a propitiatory air about him. Plainly he knew very well what they thought of such company. But nothing could have been more deferential than the manners of Messrs. Crowdy and Chase. After the elderly men had had their say, Mr. Crowdy told of his one and only trip to the Old Land in his young days, when he had gone — though he did not clearly explain in what capacity — with a rich American gentleman who had crossed to buy some thoroughbreds.

Chase had been born in Leicestershire, but he had not a good word to say of his own country. He never wanted to set eyes on it again. However, at the close of the meal he told several stories so amusing that Nicholas and Ernest forgot for the moment their dislike.

But when they had returned to their rooms it all came back. They drew each other’s attention to a number of things that had jarred on their sensibilities. Had Nicholas noticed Crowdy’s nails? Had Ernest noticed the way Chase sat sideways in his chair with his legs crossed? And Renny’s ill-groomed appearance? And Wakefield’s actual rags? And the general air of rakishness about the whole establishment? Where were Meggie’s eyes? Even Pheasant, poor child, should know better!

‘Nicholas,’ said Ernest, in deep solemnity, ‘everything in Mamma’s room was gray with dust!’

They captured Piers, who was passing the door, and brought him into Nicholas’s room. He came somewhat reluctantly.

‘Are you,’ asked Nicholas petulantly, ‘in a very great rush? We should like very much to have a word with you.’

Piers seated himself on the piano stool and looked at them questioningly out of his prominent blue eyes. He at any rate, they thought, looked just as he should.

‘Now,’ growled his elder uncle, ‘what does it all mean? How does it come about that those two ruffians are making themselves at home in Jalna? Why are the Vaughans still here? And why is Alayne not here? ’

Piers blew out his cheeks and expelled his breath through his lips. ‘Damned if I know,’ he said.

‘Nonsense! Of course you know all about it!’ Nicholas spoke sternly.

Ernest put in, ‘Don’t bombard the boy with questions, Nick! Ask him one thing at a time. I’ll begin. Piers, can you tell me why the care of my mother’s room has been neglected during my absence? There is a film of dust over all the furniture. In fact, every room I have seen looks as though it needed a thorough cleaning.’

‘I should n’t think you’d need to ask that question,’ returned Piers. ‘You and Uncle Nick have been away. Renny always spoils servants. If Mrs. Wragge cooks good meals and Rags falls over himself serving them, it’s all that Renny asks. Renny does n’t mind disorder in the house. He rather likes it. Lots of food — plenty of company — and no one to criticize him or his dogs!’

‘How long has this been going on?’ asked Nicholas. ‘Did n’t Alayne object?’

‘Rather! Latterly, her life was just one long objection, I think. Once a week she stirred things up in the basement so that the Wragges were on the point of leaving. And she was after Wake, and after Mooey, and even after Renny and his dogs. Pheasant heard her tell Renny that he talked like a fool, and heard him tell her that she was the worst-tempered woman he’d ever met. I never expected that marriage to turn out well. Then there was the affair of that dog. I don’t suppose anyone wrote to you about that. But, anyhow, Alayne and Pheasant and the house servants and Quinn, a man I took on since you left, all thought the dog was mad and Alayne got Renny’s gun and they stabbed him with pitchforks. Soon after that Alayne left.’

During this quick recital Piers’s full lips had scarcely moved. He sat regarding his uncles with an imperturbable expression while the tale of horrors that had wrecked the life of Jalna gushed from him as from a fountain. Ernest, who had been prepared to probe the matter with question after guarded question, felt slightly sick. Nicholas, with dropped jaw, sat dumbfounded. If the faded medallions of the carpet had parted, disclosing a chasm beneath, they could scarcely have been more aghast.

‘But — but I thought Alayne’s aunt had died! ’ stammered Ernest.

‘So she did. Most opportunely. It gave Alayne an excuse for cutting out.’

‘Piers, I don’t think you know what you are saying. If you are trying to — to pull our leg — I think you have chosen a very unfortunate time. As you have told it, the whole affair sounds a dreadful muddle to me. Can you understand it, Nick?’

‘I only understand that if I had been here things would never have got into such a mess.’

‘Just what I was saying to Pheasant the other day,’ agreed Piers heartily. ‘We’ve never been without an old person in the house before. It was as though we’d thrown our ballast overboard.’

Nicholas pulled at his gray moustache grimly. ‘I should have been something more than mere ballast if I had been here. Your explanation has been very incoherent. Piers. I wish you would tell me one thing clearly. What does Renny think about Alayne’s leaving him?’

‘I don’t think he realizes it.’

‘Does n’t realize,’ — Ernest spoke in a bass voice for the first time in his life, — ‘does n’t realize that his wife has left him ?'

‘No. I don’t think he does. Pheasant and I both think that he believes she’s just in a tantrum and that she’ll get over it. But she won’t. You can take it from me. She’s found a second Whiteoak too much for her.’

Nicholas and Ernest looked at each other. Ernest wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and Nicholas reached for the soda-water siphon.

Piers rose from the piano stool. ‘Well,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I must be off!’

‘Sit down!’ ejaculated his uncles simultaneously.

Piers obeyed, with a smile, sweet as Meggie’s, curving his lips.

Ernest demanded, ‘When did the trouble begin? As soon as we had left?’

‘I can’t quite remember. Yes — I think it did.’

‘You say,’ put in Nicholas broodingly, ‘ that Alayne got Renny’s gun, in order to do away with some dog, and that they killed the dog with hayforks. I can’t make it out.’

‘No wonder,’ answered Piers. ‘When the poor brute’s head was examined, not a trace of rabies was found.’

‘But what was the quarrel about?’

‘Well, it began with Ben’s getting on Alayne’s nerves. Actually on her bedspread.’

‘Good heavens!’ Nicholas turned red with anger. ‘They’ve killed poor old Ben, Ernie.’

‘Oh, no,’ Piers reassured them. ‘It was quite another dog. It’s my opinion that he was inbred. But Renny won a fiver of me because he made friends inside of the month.’

The uncles looked into his fresh-colored face with positive distaste. He made them feel travel-worn and baffled. They wished he would take off that enigmatic smile.

‘What I cannot get into my head,’ Ernest said wearily, ‘is why Mamma’s room should be neglected, and why Maurice should have been sleeping in my bed.’

‘Because Nip would n’t let him sleep here.’ answered Piers.

‘How long are the Vaughans staying on?' asked Nicholas, gratefully stroking Nip.

‘Well, you know, Uncle Nick, that Maurice never minds taking favors. He’ll never stop talking about the cost of Meg’s operation. He has let his house, and if he can keep the tenants I venture to say that he and his will settle down here for the rest of their days.’

The brothers exchanged a look. They liked Maurice; they were deeply fond of Meg and her little one; but to have them always in the house! And with Pheasant obviously bent on increasing the tribe!

‘It would be intolerable,’ said Ernest vehemently. ‘Alayne must be mad to have flown off like this. Her love for Renny is too strong, too fine, to be embittered by — by the events you’ve been telling us of. As a matter of truth, I have n’t got it into my head yet. The cause of their quarrel, I mean.’

Piers regarded him pityingly. ‘I suppose it is confusing for you, but you can take it from me that the real cause of the trouble is Clara Lebraux.’

‘Aha!’ exclaimed Nicholas. ‘I remember very well that at Finch’s birthday party Renny sat by Mrs. Lebraux most of the evening and Alayne did n’t trouble to hide her annoyance.’

‘And no wonder,’ said Ernest. ‘Mrs. Lebraux is n’t at all the sort of woman we are accustomed to. She is one of these very modern women, in my opinion.’

‘She would have suited Renny as a wife,’ returned Piers, ‘much better than the one he got. He spends half his time there now. He’s looking to you, Uncle Ernest, to help him educate her youngster.’

‘I shall never stay away from home so long again,’ observed Ernest. ‘Too many new situations develop in so long an absence.’

‘No more traveling for me,’ said Nicholas. ‘Here I stick till they carry me out.’

In the evening Nicholas found himself alone with Renny. He said, ‘I’m very much disappointed not to find Alayne here. I had no idea her visit would be such a long one.’

He had a feeling that Renny stiffened, that a wary look had come into his eyes, as though he realized that his affairs were the subject of warm conjecture in the household.

‘Miss Archer is Alayne’s only relative,’ Renny answered. ‘She could not leave her until her affairs are in order and some sort of companion got for her.’ As though by an effort he turned his gaze to Nicholas’s face and looked steadily into his eyes.

I have wondered sometimes,’ Nicholas went on, ‘if it would be better if you and Alayne had not quite so many of your family about you. It does n’t suit everyone, you know, to be mixed up together in the way we are accustomed to. Alayne’s life must have been singularly quiet. I can’t help wondering if the presence of all your people about her may not be rather overpowering.’

‘She’s never hinted at anything of the sort.’

‘She’s an unusual woman, then. I don’t want you to be afraid of hurting my feelings. Has she never said that she wished she could see more of you without so many of us about?’

‘Never that I can remember. I think Alayne is happy. That is, as happy as it’s possible for me to make a woman of her sort. I know there’s a great lack in me. But she '11 get used to me, I think.’

‘I think you should go down to see her. I’m sure Miss Archer would like to meet you.’

‘No! She disapproved of our marriage.’

‘I am sure she would be charming to you. I think you ought to fetch Alayne — a woman likes these attentions. I made a mess of my own marriage, Renny. I’m in a position to give advice.’

‘What have they been saying to you, Uncle Nick? There is nothing to worry about. When Alayne’s visit is over she will come back.’

Nicholas longed to continue his persuasions, but something in the other’s face forbade him. Renny looked on the point of leaping to his high horse. Either he had set his face against interference in his affairs or he was simply, as Piers had said, unaware of their precarious condition. Perhaps he was right and the others wrong. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Nicholas made up his mind to one thing, however. He would write to Alayne and sound her on the subject of her return. He missed her presence in the house. She had brought something different into it to which he had become accustomed — her dignity, her interest in the affairs of the world, her half-sad gayety.

XXVII

Miss Archer and Alayne sat in the charming little living room of the house on the Hudson, surrounded by a bright-colored litter of folders advertising a world tour. Outside, it was raining and there was a raw wind, but in the room the gently sizzling radiator diffused a comforting warmth, and the vivid illustrations of the folders lent a touch of the exotic to the somewhat austere effect of the neutral-tinted hangings and the black dresses of the women.

Alayne did not approve of the custom of wearing mourning, but Miss Archer was old-fashioned and insisted that she should. The black accentuated the pallor of her face. It intensified, too, the shadows under her eyes and the compressed line of her lips. She sat regarding her aunt with wonder.

For Miss Archer, after the first prostration of grief over the loss of her sister, had risen most astonishingly to the call of the world from which Miss Helen’s delicacy had so long shut her off. First it had been the car. Then excursions in it, farther and farther afield. Visits to New York to view exhibitions of pictures by very modern young painters, over which Miss Archer was unfailingly enthusiastic, for, though conventional in her life, she prided herself on being broad-minded, abreast of the times. No painter, no composer of modern music, scarcely a novelist, could shock her. But her conventional soul had received a shock by Alayne’s marriage to Renny. She had taken to Eden at first sight. His air of deference to her, his poetry, the beauty of his person, had charmed her. The breaking of that union had been a disaster. But she had heard nothing of Renny that had drawn her to him. His photograph had, in truth, repelled her. When by signs, rather than by words, she became cognizant of a breach between Alayne and him, she felt gratitude to the good which she was convinced guided mortal affairs, and set about the planning of a world tour.

She had secured congenial companions in a professor of economics and his wife, old friends of hers and of Alayne’s father. She sat now in the clear light from the electric lamp examining a fresh supply of ‘literature’ concerning a tour which went round the opposite way from the one they had last considered. She was now puzzled as to which one they should take. There remained in her mind only the question of whether they should turn to the right or to the left, both ways leading inevitably back to the house on the Hudson. Professor and Mrs. Card did not seem to care much which way they went so long as they went. Alayne, too, left the choice in her aunt’s hands.

Miss Archer sat there now in pleasurable indecision, her abundant white hair smoothly coiled, her large face, with its almost transparent pallor, alert and somewhat excited. Alayne sat watching her, comparing her aunt in her mind to Augusta. Opposed to Miss Archer’s indeterminate nose and gentle mouth she pictured Augusta’s beak, the majestic curve of her nostril into her lip. Opposed to Miss Archer’s white hair and transparent pallor, Augusta’s crown of magenta-tinted black, her sallow, speckled skin. She recalled the complications of Augusta’s dress, the beads, pins, brooches, and bracelets. In Alayne’s mind Augusta compared unfavorably with Miss Archer, and yet there was something about Augusta one could never forget. Alayne remembered how Augusta had shed tears at her wedding in the church at Nymet Crews. What would Augusta think if she knew the turn things had taken?

Then Alayne thought of Professor Card and the intimate information concerning all they saw on the trip that would be diffused from him. She thought of the neverfailing interest with which he and Mrs. Card and Miss Archer would view these strange lands, the pleasant curiosity they would feel about all on shipboard. She thought of Nicholas home at Jalna again, his gouty leg propped on an ottoman while he introduced into his system, by sips, more of that which had produced the gout. He and Ernest would have much to say of their trip, but it would be familiar gossip of people and things they knew. That was one of the striking things about the Whiteoaks.

They lacked curiosity about things that did not concern themselves. Their own life, the life of the family — that was the important thing, and they would have carried it with them round the world. If they could have been introduced into this room, she thought, with her aunt and Professor and Mrs. Card, all the curiosity, the eagerness, would have been on one side. Augusta would have suggested a game of cards. Renny would perhaps have tried to sell the Professor a horse. . . . Oh, why had she thought of him! For weeks she had scarcely allowed the thought of him to trouble her; now it came in a swift feverish rush, making her feel stifled in the little room, sickened by the sight of the gayly colored folders.

Miss Archer was saying, ‘Leaving the Red Sea, we pass through the Strait of Bab el Mandeb. Does n’t the very name thrill you? I can reach a peculiar state almost bordering on hallucination by the mere repetition of the name. . . . And Penang! Does n’t it make you feel as though you were losing your very identity when you say Penang? I am so thankful that even with age and all the ups and downs of life I have never gotten over my enthusiasms.’ Her clear gray eyes beamed into Alayne’s. She noticed the dark shadows under them, and took Alayne’s hand and pressed it close.

‘You have been so wonderfully good to me through all this time of trouble, dear Alayne. Now I must think of you, instead of myself. You are not looking as well as you should. But this trip will be highly beneficial; it will bring the color to your cheeks. Just close your eyes and visualize you and me riding in a rickshaw. Or in the bazaars of Cairo. Watching the sunset at Penang. My mind will fly back to Penang!’ The pressure on Alayne’s hand became firmer. ‘ You are happier, dear, are n’t you? I love you too well not to have been aware of your unhappiness. But day by day I see a look of reassurance coming back into your eyes. Am I not right?’

Alayne nodded, clasping her fingers about those of Miss Archer, who continued: —

‘We all make mistakes in our lives. You have inherited your father’s capacity for self-analysis. I am afraid that you are reproaching yourself for something.’

‘No, no. ... I am just drifting.’

‘Alayne, cannot you confide in me? I do not urge it, but it would make me so happy.’

‘ There is nothing to confide. We cannot get on together — that is all.’

‘Must you see him — before w set out on our trip?’

‘No. Not necessarily.’

‘But you write to him?’ Miss Archer’s clear mind could not reconcile itself to such a situation, but she clung with tenacity to the hope of a disclosure of feeling.

‘Yes. Commonplace notes. To keep the family from guessing.’

‘And he replies?’

‘Yes. In the same tone.’

‘Oh, he has failed you in your need for understanding — I feel that.’

‘Perhaps. . . . We are just — not suited. He possibly thinks that I have failed him.’

‘But your love for him is — quite gone?’

Alayne withdrew her hand and rose with a gesture of irritation. She went to the window and looked out into the rain. ‘There is no use in my trying to explain my feelings for him. Or in trying to describe him to you. He is like no one you know — he is like no one else. I shall never be the same again after having lived with him. I could n’t make you understand. ... If I could think of a comparison — well, this, we’ll say. The ground that is torn open by an earthquake will close together again — but its formation will be different. It will not be as it was before.’

‘He must be a very peculiar man. From what I have heard of the family I feel that they are the victims of strange complexes and frustrations.’ Her ingenuous face was alight with the congenial task of psychological analysis.

When at last Alayne was sitting alone in the living room, it was time for bed and her head ached dreadfully. She was enveloped in a cloak of depression beyond anything she had ever experienced. There was none of the active pain of grief. There was no anger to kindle it. There was only this choking sense of aloneness. She thought of the projected trip with shrinking. How could she ever, she asked herself, have thought of it otherwise? The company in which she was preparing to cast herself for six months now was presented to her as austere and even desiccated. And at the end of the six months, what? She now had an income on which she could live. The world appeared to her as a pallid waste. What had happened to her? Only a week ago she had enjoyed a meeting of the women’s club. But — had she enjoyed it? Could the paltry satisfaction of discussing world affairs with others no wiser than herself be called enjoyment? Once it might have been pure enjoyment, but now her sense of values was disarranged. She remembered the expressions of enjoyment she had caught on the faces of Piers, Pheasant, Renny, and even Finch. She thought of Eden’s joy in certain things. She remembered the joy she had had in his poetry. She felt that she had had a wide emotional experience in her life. She felt, with a sudden pang, that her response to it. after the first rush of feeling, had been puritanical and prudish!

For the first time in her life she directed sneering thoughts toward herself. At Jalna she had always been considering whether or not things were congenial to her. When she had married Renny she had known exactly what life there was. If he had not given her more of his time, why had she not gone in search of him as Pheasant went in search of Piers? Why had she not followed him to his stables and stood by his side dumb in admiration of the beauties of his beasts? If her clothes had smelled of the stables as well as his, perhaps she would have become impervious to that odor. If she had tramped about with him in the mud, she might not have counted his muddy footsteps on the rug. Good God, those same rugs had been lying on the floors of Jalna before she was born! Mrs. Wragge, or others of her sort, had cracked the glazing on the dishes years ago. Why try to remedy it? What matter if Renny threw burnt matches on the floor or old Ben napped on her silk bedspread or Mooey threw her talcum on his head? Surely she was not such a fool as to expect her life with Renny to pass in an unbroken rhythm of joy! She could not expect continued intimate contact with a soul so aloof and shy as his. ‘For he is of finer stuff than I,’ she thought in her heart.

If only she might live the past year over again! Her discipline of herself would have produced some richer fruit than a trip round the world with Miss Archer and the Cards.

In the midst of her regrets came the thought that perhaps it was well that she had cast loose from Jalna when she did and had come to the ordered domesticity of her aunt’s house. From here she was able to look back on the Whiteoaks and see them as she never could in their midst. During all these weeks she had been dreaming, imagining that she could find tranquillity in sinking back into the subdued pattern of her old life. Now she was broad awake. That pattern appeared to her not only subdued but colorless, its background flimsy.

She went to the window and flung it open. The damp night air swept in. It was heavy with the smell of wet earth, dead leaves. It swept down from the north, bearing the scent of the dead leaves of Jalna. . . . Oh, if she might have a child of Renny’s! If, when the new leaves thrust out, she too might quicken!

What had she been doing? Casting sweet love from her. Trying to create chill order in her life out of the entanglements of desire. . . . Out of the darkness his face appeared before her and she felt faint with longing to see him in the flesh. . . .

At breakfast she told Miss Archer that it was necessary for her to return to Jalna before she could make final arrangements for the trip. She had dreaded her aunt’s questioning at this announcement, but she need not have dreaded it. Miss Archer was existing in such a daze of preparation, such an enchantment of anticipation, that nothing surprised her. She saw Alayne depart that evening with confident cheerfulness.

Alayne had not sent word that she was coming. She did not quite know how she was to get to Jalna. She hoped that by now the Vaughans would have left the house; from Pheasant she had learned of their prolonged visit. But even if they were not gone — well, she must see Renny, that was all there was to it.

She was, at times, conscious that her headache had not left her. For three days now it had been thudding against the back of her neck. Its thudding mingled with the throbbing of the train. She put up her blind and looked out into the new day, and was surprised to see snow lying in the furrows of the fields and feathering the shrubs alongside the track.

While she was at breakfast they crossed the border, and here there was more snow, but it was soft snow and was soon wet under the sun. The air was clear and bright, but quick-moving clouds cast their shadows on the fields. She sat in her seat with her things about her while the train sped past Weddels’, the station nearest Jalna. She saw Wright in the new car waiting for the barrier to be raised so that he might cross the track. The wholesome, kind look of him pleased her. Why, this little village looked like home!

Arrived at the station, she had secured a porter and was waiting for a taxi when her attention was caught by three men who were getting into a shabby car. Her heart missed a beat, seemed to turn in her breast when she saw that one of them was Renny. His companions were Crowdy and Chase. She took a few hurried steps toward him and called his name. In the chill light, faces looked wan. All but Renny’s. More than ever his looked fierce and highly colored. He took off his hat and came toward her, laughing in delighted surprise. She had forgotten how red his hair was, how red his face, how tall and thin and sharp and strong he was.

If he had been angry at her when she left, had brooded on what he thought her bad behavior toward him and kept his heart shut against her, he forgot all this when he saw her standing there in the wan light, her face pale, with blue shadows beneath the eyes, her hair bright beneath her close-fitting black hat. He noticed at once that she had bought herself a new fur scarf. It set her off wonderfully, he thought.

They stood facing each other, she in tremulous wildness, he in amazed gratification.

‘But why,’ he demanded, ‘didn’t you write? ’

‘I only made up my mind at the last minute.’

‘But you could have telegraphed.’

‘I could n’t make up my mind to that.’

‘Oh, that mind of yours!' he laughed. ‘You’re always making it up or not being able to make it up, are n’t you?’

She drew close to him. She asked, in a choking voice, ‘Are you glad I’ve come?’

‘ What a question! ’

‘Oh, if only we could ever be alone! What are those dreadful men doing here with you? ’

‘We were shipping some horses; I’ve been in town overnight. I must get rid of that taxi for you. What luck that I should be here with the car! Crowdy and Chase must come with us, though. But they live just outside the city. I’ll drop them there.’

The two friends came forward, looking rather crestfallen. Chase vouchsafed no more than a stiff bow, but Crowdy soon recovered himself and beamed at her. Somehow her luggage was stowed in the car. She was in the seat beside Renny. She was glad it was the old car — muddy, with ill-fitting curtains, rattling as though this must surely be its last trip. It had been just as it was now when she had first ridden in it, five years ago. In it Renny had first spoken of his passion for her. She recalled his words. They had been few, and his tone almost matter of fact. It had been at night and it had rained. Neither had had any hope that they could come together. Now it was morning. Rain was beginning to fall. They were together, together — yes, together. . . .

She could not understand herself, yet now she could understand him. She could not understand why it was that she did not mind the presence of Crowdy and Chase in the car. Yet she could sympathize with his feeling for them. They were real — that was it. They were as real as this raw wind that made the curtains flap. They were as real as Professor and Mrs. Card had become unreal to her. She had changed. She was becoming a new person. It had been the birth pangs of this new self that had torn her.

Renny asked her questions about her life with Miss Archer. He seemed to think that it was the natural and proper thing that she should have made a long stay with her aunt. He did not reproach her with the brusqueness of her letters, with her writing so seldom to him. Her heart turned with joy as she slid her eyes toward him. . . . He reached for the cloth he kept for the purpose and wiped the windshield.

When the car was stopped for Crowdy and Chase to alight, Chase bowed and backed away from the curb, but Crowdy drew close to her. He extended his left hand and on its palm, with the forefinger of the right, made cabalistic signs. His shrewd little eyes indicated Renny.

‘You have a fine husband, Mrs. Whiteoak. None better. Thoroughbred.'

Alayne put out her hand to shake his. They gazed steadfastly into each other’s eyes, she and the horse dealer. She could picture the hideous houses on hideous suburban streets into which he and Chase would disappear.

As they drove on again Renny’s face wore a pleased smile at her magnanimity toward his friends. She let her weight rest against his shoulder and relaxed as she had not relaxed for months, Renny talked on and on about the horses they had been shipping that morning.

The heavy branches of the evergreens along the drive seemed to have extended since she had last seen them. They swept the windows of the car, drenching them. After the house on the Hudson this old red brick one looked long and rambling. There was a covering of wet snow on the steps of the porch, and, on the snow, footprints of dogs. He carried her things on to the porch.

She asked suddenly, ‘Were you surprised?’

‘A little. Not much. I was expecting you any day.’ But there was a shyness in his eyes. After a quick glance at her he opened the door and they went into the hall.

She came to him. ‘Renny,’she said, with an effort, ‘I am so sorry about your dog. It was cruel that it should have been killed unnecessarily.'

For a second there was a look of shrinking in his eyes. Then he exclaimed: —

‘You should see how Cora’s colt is developing! It is growing into the most charming filly you ever saw.'

‘And Cora. . . . Is she well?’

‘Fit as can be! She has a heart of gold, that mare! ’

(To be concluded)