Variable Winds at Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

Finch.

      “Fine. Renny couldn’t come to meet you. He’s off to a sale and taken Fitzturgis with him.” Piers chuckled. “Trying to teach him the elements of breeding show horses. I can’t make the fellow out. What sort of life does he lead in Ireland, Maurice?”

      “Very pleasant, I believe. I don’t see much of him. Did Adeline go to the sale too?”

      “No. I guess Renny thought that Fitzturgis would have no eyes for the horses if she were there. He’s badly smitten.”

      They were moving swiftly through the shimmering countryside, where every hour the sun gained in power, the shadows crept closer under the trees, the breeze created by the movement of the car became hotter. Yet Maurice was exhilarated. He was glad he’d come. After all the years in Ireland this was strangely home. He was grateful to Finch for having persuaded him to come, and turned toward him to smile his gratitude. But Finch looked suddenly detached, lost in his own thoughts. What were they, Maurice wondered. What did Finch feel about coming home?

      Finch was thinking of his new house and how densely it was surrounded by trees. He thought of it as shady and cool. But he must have some of the trees cut down. That would be a problem, what trees to cut down. They had stood there so many years. They had surely absorbed through their roots the very essence of those who had lived in the old house which had been burned down. Those who had lived there and those who had died. Eden had died there. He had looked out on those same trees from his bedroom window when he was ill. Finch’s brows drew together in pain as he pictured Eden, in that light blue dressing-gown, standing at the window, looking out at the sombre wintry scene, longing for spring. Why did one remember the sad things about the dead? He should have remembered Eden’s gaiety and generosity — remembered him when he was full of life, not declining into death. Finch thought of his dead wife Sarah, not in pain but in wonder at how unreal she had become to him. She was as a ghost, playing a ghostly tune on that violin of hers. She had played her own tune on his emotions, on his nerves, when they lived together, but only a faint vibration of it remained. Even the son she had left him seemed … well, he could hardly think of Dennis as unreal. He was an active eleven-year-old, but somehow Finch had never been able to feel close to Dennis, never had wanted to have the child with him. Now, for the first time, he asked himself why. Was it because he felt in Dennis a predatory reaching out toward him that reminded him of Sarah? Was it because there was probably no fatherliness in himself — not as in Renny, who had been as a father to his brothers — a rough and ready one at times but generous and warm-hearted? Finch found in himself no eagerness to see Dennis, who was at a boys’ camp somewhere. He had brought him a camera because he knew that was what Dennis wanted, but he had not written to him — had not answered the neat little letter Dennis had sent him. Why had Dennis signed it “Your aff. and only son”? That was like Sarah — possessive.

      Finch leant forward to ask of Piers, “How is Dennis? Have you heard lately?”

      “He’s all right, I believe. He’ll be home soon. Renny only sent him for half the season. He thought you’d want him with you. Your house is ready. You’ll have fun furnishing it. Meg is all agog to take it in hand.”

      The dimple at the corner of Piers’s mouth was roguish as he glanced over his shoulder to note the effect of these words on Finch. He looked more imperturbable than he felt. He said:

      “That’s very kind of Meg. However, I don’t intend to furnish all the house straight away. I shall go slowly and get the sort of things I’ll enjoy living with.”

      “That’s right,” sang out Piers, his attention again on the road.

      Maurice asked, “If Auntie Meg is letting her house where will she and the two girls live?”

      “With Finch, naturally.”

      “There has been nothing arranged,” Finch said in the loud tone that betrayed his nerves.

      “Meggie has arranged it all,” laughed Piers. “It would never do for you — a poor lone widower, with a child — to struggle with housekeeping when she —”

      Finch interrupted, “Nothing is arranged.”

      “Tell her that. She thinks it is.”

      They drove on in silence. Then they were in the familiar road, with its spreading trees, and the quiet fields and orchards of Jalna lay on the left. They were in the driveway, that green tunnel that looked cool but still was breathlessly hot. Now they were in front of the house, with the browning grass, the drooping flower borders subservient to the sun.

      “We need rain,” said Piers and took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Out of some shady corner the dogs gathered themselves, as though this were the last effort of which they were capable, and sent up a concerted bark, which on the part of the spaniel ended in a howl of protest. The front door opened and Alayne stood there, in mauve, her silvery hair elegantly brushed back from her clear-cut cool features.

      Finch had always been a favourite of hers, and now she welcomed him. “Why, Finch, what weather we have for you! What heat! Do come in where it’s more bearable.” Then, seeing Maurice — “My dear, what a lovely surprise! Does your mother expect you? Will you all come in and have a cold drink?”

      “How strong?” asked Piers.

      “I was thinking of blackcurrant cordial, but, if you like something stronger …”

      Piers said, “I think we should be getting along. Don’t you, Maurice? You’re anxious to see your mother, aren’t you?” Maurice agreed that he was.

      Finch was now out of the car, had saluted Alayne on the cheek and, with Maurice’s help, was unloading his luggage. Wragge appeared, with his anxious secretive smile, and took possession of the two lightest of the suitcases. Maurice promised to return later that day and the car disappeared down the drive. Finch stood in the porch, its familiarity, its very insignificance, its sun-warmed stone and brick festooned by vines, drawing him in, dimming the immensity of the flight under bright sky and over dark sea, the confusion of crowds, the concert halls. Here his surname became the surname of all about him. He was no more than “Finch.” Yet — so infinitely himself that in that moment it seemed to him that he had no meaning elsewhere.

      The dogs pushed their way into the house — and threw themselves with grunts on to the coolness of the floor.

      “What a day for a sale,” Alayne said. “But Renny would go and would take Maitland with him. The poor man will be melted. He so feels the heat.”

      They were in the shuttered coolness of the drawing-room. Wragge had brought the iced blackcurrant drink; and after enquiring for Nicholas, Finch asked:

      “How do you like Fitzturgis?”

      “Very much.” Alayne spoke almost as though in defence of him, as though she perhaps were the only one who understood him. “He and I have had some interesting talks. I find him quite unusual.”

      “He’s not so unusual in Ireland.”

      “I think he would be unusual anywhere.”

      “Do you think he can make Adeline happy?”

      Alayne gave a resigned little shrug. “Who knows? And just what is happiness?”

      “I certainly cannot answer that question,” said Finch and, sipping his iced currant drink, let himself sink into the blank-minded familiarity of the room.

      “How is Maurice?” asked Alayne.

      “He’s still in love with Adeline, if that’s what you mean.”

      Alayne showed surprise, without maternal gratification. “I did not know,” she said, “that there was anything serious in his affection for her. I thought it was just cousinly.”

      “It’s quite serious.” After a pause Finch added, “He drinks more than is good for him.”

      “I’m sorry to hear that. Pheasant would be so distressed if she knew.”

      “I’m