# Whiteoaks of Jalna/Chapter 25

"What do you suppose I dreamed?" asked Wake. "You'll never guess."
Inarticulate sounds came from Finch's pillow.
"I dreamed that you were a flower!"
A grunt that weakened into a chuckle. Finch opened an eye. "What sort of flower?"
"Not a very pretty one, I'm afraid." His voice was gently regretful. "I don't know the variety. A long, yellowish sad-looking flower. . . ."
"Hmph."
"But"—gaily—"just crammed with honey!"
"The deuce I was!"
"Yes—and I was a bee! One of those jazzy little brown bees that go gathering——"
It was enough. Finch smothered him under a pillow and did not release him until he admitted that he was a liar, a toady, and an altogether filthy little reptile.
No mention was made, while Finch dressed and Wake splashed in the basin, of the ceremony of the night before. In the darkness the figure of Kuan Yin had disappeared, but Wake's sensitive nose was aware of a subtle fragrance in the room, a delicate elation of the spirit as from a lovely half-remembered dream.
It was a morning of swinging white clouds against an ardent blue sky. The thick yellow sunshine was flung on the grey walls of the attic room as though with a brush. More gold than gold it seemed; the sky bluer than blue; the grass and trees more green than ever green had been. That querulous artist Summer, who had given them during her season so many blurred and wanly tinted pictures, now seemed intent on splashing her last colour on the final canvas with furious brilliance.
"What a day," cried Wake, "for going on a visit! ​How I wish I were!" He paused in the scrubbing of his face with a washcloth to look pensive. "Do you know, Finch, I've never been on a visit in my life? Not one little visit! I wonder if ever I shall!"
"Of course you will. I'll take you somewhere—sometime," promised Finch.
He was excited about his own visit this morning. He recklessly made up his mind to stay the week with the Leighs, and, before he went down to breakfast, he put the pick of his wardrobe into a suitcase. Renny must be approached for money.
He found him on the rustic bridge. At this time of the year the stream was usually little more than a rivulet pushing its way through a rank growth of rushes and water weeds. But this year it had the fullness of spring and, beneath the bridge, had widened into a pool encircled by a thick new growth of watercress. The rippled, sandy bottom reflected swarthy sunlight. Renny was not alone. Perched on the rail beside him was Eden, lazily dropping bits of twig into the pool. They were not talking, but seemed to have finished a conversation which had left each absorbed in contemplation of his own position. Finch noticed the great improvement in Eden's appearance. His face and neck had filled out and showed a healthy pinkish-brown. Nevertheless, he retained a look of delicacy in contrast to the sharp vigour of Renny. Finch thought: "Eden looks indolent and good-humoured, and yet I'm glad it's old Renny I must ask for money and not Eden."
He approached, feeling self-conscious, and stood beside the elder, from whose clothes came the smell of pipe tobacco. Finch muttered, out of the side of his mouth: "I've had a letter from Leigh inviting me to stay with him for a week. I thought I'd go to-day."
"Oh, all right. It will do you good."
"I suppose—I think—I'll need to have some money." It was difficult to say the word "money." It had an ominous sound, since its disposal had lately been the subject of so much wrath.
Renny put his hand in his trousers pocket. His ex​pression was forbidding, but, after he had scrutinized the silver and the one crumpled banknote on his palm, he replaced them and produced from the breast pocket of his coat the worn leather pocket-book upon which the eyes of his family had so often rested in expectancy. He drew from it, with his accustomed air of trying to conceal exactly how much he had, five one-dollar bills, and handed them to Finch. Eden craned his neck to observe the transfer.
"A couple of years more," he said, "and your positions will be reversed."
Finch's face grew scarlet. Was he never to have any more peace? Was the legacy always to be a subject for sportive comment? He pocketed the money glumly with a muffled "Thanks awfully."
"In the meantime," said Renny, "he has a lot of hard work before him and I don't want him ragged about his money. I've told Piers so, too. You're a poet. You ought to know what it is to be sensitive and melancholy and neurotic, and all that. If he gets too much teasing he may give you another chance to save his life, eh, Finch?" Reticence was not a characteristic of the Whiteoaks.
Eden laughed, but his face reddened, too. He said: "Next time you try it on, brother Finch, choose the stream just here, and I'll fish you out from the bridge without getting my feet wet."
Finch grinned sheepishly and was about to turn away when Eden said: "Don't go! Stay and talk to me. Renny is off. Aren't you, Renny?"
"I'm late, now," said Renny, looking at the battered gun-metal wrist watch that had gone with him through the War. Always hurrying to mysterious appointments concerning horses was Renny, appointments which tended to make thinner rather than thicker the worn leather pocket-book.
Finch and Eden were alone. They stared into the darkly flashing pool in embarrassed silence for a few minutes, then Eden said seriously: "I told Renny the other morning that I believed I had done the best thing ​in my life when I saved yours. Quite apart from brotherly love, I make a guess that you're the flower of the flock. I'm damned if I know why I think so. I suppose it's intuition—I being a poet, and sensitive along with those other attributes ascribed to me by Renny. God, isn't he an amusing fellow?"
"He's splendid!" said Finch, hotly. "I don't want to hear anything against him."
"You won't. Not from me. I admire him as much as you do—though in a different way. I admire and envy the side of him that you don't know at all. . . . Tell me, Finch, what are you going to do with your life? Do you mind talking to me? Are we friends?"
"Rather! I hope I have gratitude——"
"Stop! Don't say that word. It's a vile word. Not one pleasant word will rhyme with it. Try! See what you'll get. Prude—dude—spewed—lewd——"
Finch added heavily: "There's nude, too."
"Preposterous! It's an unholy company." He looked into the brightness of the stream in silence for a little, then said, with sudden gravity: "Why on earth should you be grateful to me? I want your friendship. Have I got it?"
"Yes. . . . I mean I like you, Eden, but it will be strange being friends with you. Something quite new."
"But you'll try? Good. Have a cigarette." He offered a silver case filled with an expensive brand. Finch recalled the figure on the bench in Madison Square Gardens—shabby, despairing, ill. How thoroughly Eden had recovered, acquired a look of well-being! If he himself had been in such a plight, he doubted whether he could have recovered, and here was Eden, amused, contemptuous of sentiment, ready for another fling at life.
He accepted the cigarette and a light.
Eden said: "I believe we are more alike than you'd ever guess. I think we both got a good deal from our—what was it Gran called her?—our 'poor flibbertigibbet mother.'"
"Don't!" interrupted Finch harshly.
​"I don't mean anything disrespectful. I mean that we inherited from her the qualities that are 'flibbertigibbet' to the Whiteoaks—love of poetry, love of music, love of beauty. Don't you agree?"
"I think she must have been awfully different."
"Of course she was. So are we. . . . Acknowledge, now, you could say things to me that you couldn't say to any of the others without getting laughed at."
"Yes, I guess I could. Still——"
"Well?"
"Renny's been awfully good to me about my music."
"Certainly. But why? Because he understands your feeling for it? No! Because he looks on you as a weakling, and is afraid you'd go dotty without it! He has an equal contempt for me as a poet. He only tolerates me because of the blood tie. He'd be loyal to Satan himself if he was his half-brother!"
"I wish I were like him," muttered Finch.
"No, you don't! You can't make me believe that you would exchange your love of music for love of horses and dogs."
"And women," added Finch.
"Ah, we all love women! But you must be like me—love and forget. Uncle Nick was like that as a young man, too. He told me once that he's forgotten the names of the women he once cared for—excepting, of course, the one he unhappily married."
Finch said: "Eden, do you mind telling me something? Don't you care for Alayne any longer?"
"I don't love her as a woman, if that's what you mean. Perhaps I should have forgotten her name, too, if we hadn't married."
"Strange—when she is so—lovely, and so good."
"She loved my poetry first. Then me, as the author of it. And I suspect that I loved her for loving my poetry. It's all over."
"But she loves your poetry still, doesn't she?"
"I believe she does. But she loves it as disembodied art. It's Renny she loves now."
Finch turned away and crossed to the other side of the ​bridge. Here the stream lay in shadow. He rested his eyes on the cool shallow of it for a moment of silence, and then asked: "Are you writing anything now, Eden?"
"A good many things in the last month."
"I should like to see them."
"I'll bring them here some afternoon, and read them to you. I'll bring the first things I wrote after I came home. I don't believe they're of much value, but I'd like you to hear them because the theme of nearly all is the sweetness of life. I've never questioned that. No matter how despondent I may have seemed when you found me in New York, I had never once thought of taking my life. Good God, I'd sooner have spent the rest of my days and nights on that park bench where I could look up at the clouds and the stars than to have done away with myself." He crossed to Finch's side and put his arm about his shoulders. "You've read Lavengro, of course?"
"Part of it. I didn't care much for it."
"Well, Borrow said one thing—it doesn't matter how often it's quoted, it's always just as splendid. 'There's night and day, brother, both sweet things: sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things: there's likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother.'" He squeezed Finch's shoulder. "Keep that in mind, brother Finch, the next time the family concentrates on making you miserable."
"I'll try," said Finch, in a muffled voice. Eden glanced at him shrewdly, then, as though fearing he had been too solemn, said: "I was rather glad to hear that the family could stage such a thoroughgoing row without Gran. I was afraid they might degenerate into futile wrangling. She had such gusto for life. You should try to be like her. Get the most out of it."
Finch, sprawling against the railing, said: "I was watching that frog diving about under that big mound of honeysuckle—thinking what a good time he has."
"Yes. Amusing little devil. I wonder how often he's gone a-wooing this summer."
​Finch grinned. It was Eden, he thought, who was amusing. Inquisitive. He couldn't watch even a frog without speculating about its private life.
They watched the frog sit goggle-eyed on the mossy rim of the pool, his fingers spread, his full wet throat pulsing. They watched him galvanize, without apparent reason, into the green arc of a leap. When the surface of the pool had cleared, they saw him sitting under water, his fingers spread on the yellow sand, goggle-eyed, hallucinated as ever.
"If you don't mind," said Eden slowly, "I'm going to tell you something. Something I have not told anyone else."
Finch was immensely flattered. He turned his long face receptively toward his brother.
"I have it in my mind to write a narrative poem of the early history of French Canada. There's tremendous scope in it: Jacques Cartier. The perilous voyages in sailing vessels. The French Governors, and their mistresses. Crafty Intendants. Heroic Jesuits. The first Seigneurs. Voyageurs. The Canadien chansons. Those poor devils of Indians who were captured and taken to France, and put to work in the galleys. Think of the song of homesickness I could put into their mouths! Think of the gently-bred French women who came over as nuns! Think of their chant of homesickness for France—and ecstasy of love for Christ! If only I can do it as it should be done, Finch!" His face shone. He made a wide gesture expressing fervour and half-tremulous hope. Finch saw that the cuff of the grey tweed sleeve was frayed, that the wrist, in spite of its roundness, still looked delicate. His heart went out to meet Eden.
It was the first time that he had been treated as an equal by one of his brothers. And now, not only treated as an equal, but made the recipient of confidence! His face reflected the glow from Eden's. He felt a passionate desire to be his friend.
"It will be splendid," he said. "I'm sure you can do it. It is awfully good of you to tell me."
​"Whom else could I tell? You are the only one who can understand."
"Alayne could."
Eden said irritably: "I tell you, there's nothing—less than nothing—between Alayne and me now! When you're older you'll find out that there is no one so difficult to confide in as someone you have ceased to love—no matter how much you may have in common. We're always on our guard now that I am better."
"I don't see how you can live in the Hut together—if things are like that."
"We can't! She's going back to her work. I'm going away. Drummond says I must be in the open air all winter. That's the trouble." His fair face was shadowed by some disturbing thought. "Renny wants to send me to California. But I've made up my mind that I shan't go there. I must go to France. It will not only be a thousand times more congenial to me, but I'll be able to search out the beginnings of French Canadian history. I want to get at the roots. In fact, I must, or I'll never do this thing as I want to do it. I want to spend a year in France—stay till I've finished the poem—but how am I to do it? Renny can never afford money enough for that." The shadow on his face deepened to an expression of melancholy. "I'm helpless. I suppose I'll have to go just where I'm sent. There is no one to lend me an extra two thousand. I'd need that much."
"If only," cried Finch, "I had my money! I'd help you like a shot."
Eden gave him a warm look. "You would! I believe you. You're a trump, Finch! I'd take it, too, but—not as a gift. I'd pay it back with interest, once I'd got on my feet. But what's the use? Your money's tied up for ages."
Finch was tremendously stirred. If only he could help Eden! This new Eden who had talked to him about his poetry—while it was still seething in his poet's mind. A passionate desire to help him surged through all his being. Why, it was only right that he should help him, give him all the money he needed! Hadn't he risked his ​life to safe Finch's? He took excited turns on the narrow space of the bridge.
"If only I could get at it!"
"I hope," said Eden, "that you're not being stirred by any ridiculous sentiment—gratitude. You know how I hate the idea of that."
"But how can I help it?"
"Just don't let yourself. As Gran used to say, 'I won't have it!'"
Finch burst into loud laughter. He was almost beside himself with excitement. He had got an idea. A marvellous, a gorgeous idea! He stopped in front of Eden and grinned hilariously into his face.
"I have it! I can get the money for you! I'm sure I can."
Eden was regarding him with his odd, veiled gaze. "How could you possibly?" His tone was weary, but his heart was beating quickly. Was it possible that he was going to be able to save his face? Not going to be forced to suggest ways and means to the youngster?
"Why, it's like this," jerked out Finch, breathlessly. "There's my friend, Arthur Leigh! He's got any amount of money. He's of age and he's in control of a fair-sized fortune already. He'd lend it to me. I'd give him my note—with good interest, you know—then I'd be able to fix you up with just what you want!" Finch's face was scarlet; he had run his hands through his hair, standing it on end; his tie was gone askew; he had never looked wilder, less like a philanthropist.
Eden's eyes lighted, but he shook his head almost gloomily. "It sounds feasible enough, but I can't do it."
"Why?" Finch was thunderstruck.
"What would they say—the others? Renny'd never stand for it. He's putting up the money for California, and he thinks there's nothing more to be said."
"He need never know. No one need know, but ourselves—and Leigh. And I'll not let Leigh know what I want the money for. Oh, he's the most casual fellow you ever saw! He'd never ask a question. Just say, 'All right, Finch, here's your money!' and stuff my ​note in his pocket. He doesn't know what it is to higgle over money as we do. Eden, you must let me do this! I've hated like the devil having this money. It's hung over me like a curse. If I could do something splendid with it—like helping you—making it possible for you to write your books—it would seem quite different." His eyes filled with tears.
"What put the idea of borrowing from Leigh into your head?"
"It just came. A sort of inspiration, I guess." He must not admit that George Fennel had made the suggestion.
"If I took the money," said Eden, frowning, "I should insist on paying it back with a higher interest than you would pay your friend."
"The hell you would!" said Finch, grandly. "You'll pay the money back just when you can—without any interest. I tell you, I've made up my mind to do something for each one of the family out of this money. Then I shan't feel such a—such a sort of pariah! It just happens that you're the first one I'm tackling, and it's got to be kept an absolute secret."
Eden's face broke into a smile that was almost tender. He caught Finch's hand and squeezed it. "My poor wretch," he said, "how quickly you're going to be rid of your money!"