“Do you mean he’ll get over wanting me?”
“I don’t know about that, but he’ll get over this affair of Fitzturgis.”
“He may, but I shan’t!” she cried.
Finch said soothingly, — “Well, well, we’ll see. You gave us a fright, you know.”
“I had no idea how long it would take me to find Mait’s house.”
“Adeline, what was your object in going there?”
She turned her candid eyes on him. “I wanted to find out if he still loved me and why he hadn’t come.”
“And did you?”
“Oh, he loves me with all his heart, but—”
“But what?” Finch encouraged gently.
That was enough. Like a stream in springtime flood Adeline poured out the incoherent story of her stay in that house. Every picturesque and passionate word she had garnered in her short life she now flung at Finch in a vehement desire to convince him of the reality of her love for Fitzturgis and of his for her.
Finch was so satisfactory to confide in. He neither blamed nor offered a solution of the problem, but she was sure he understood; sympathy emanated from him. Now and again he would take his hand from the wheel and give her a pat or he would murmur, — “It’ll all come right —” just as though he knew from experience that it would.
At Glengorman Maurice made a great effort to be friendly, to behave as though nothing had happened, but his unhappiness was so palpable, his attitude toward Adeline so silently accusatory that, after two days of this atmosphere, Finch suggested that he and Adeline should set out on the tour of Ireland he had already planned. At first she drew back from this. In her absence a letter might come from Fitzturgis. Yet she longed to put miles between her and Maurice. It ended by her writing this note, in her surprisingly firm and well formed handwriting:
My dear Maitland,—
(In my heart I begin this letter with the word darling but as you have not written to me I shall not use it.) This is to tell you that I am going away for a while with Uncle Finch who is the dearest uncle a girl ever had. When I come back I shall hope to see you — that is if you want to see me.
Again I say I am like my great-grandmother. She was a woman who was true to one love in her life — and so shall be I.
Adeline.
The next day she and Finch set out.
XVII
MOUNTING ANGER AND LOVE
It was almost what Noah Binns had prophesied months ago. Backward spring had burst into sudden summer, not actually “roastin’ bilin’” hot, as Binns had foretold, but hot enough for discomfort. Because of lack of rain the foliage of the trees began to take on the look of August before July was well on the way. The grass crops suffered from drought, the small dry kernels of wheat and oats rasped faintly together in the hot dry wind. A man might stamp on the ground with his heavy boot and leave no impression. The pasture became so poor that the udders of the cows no longer bulged with milk, while about the eyes and nostrils of the poor beasts a horde of buzzing flies tormented.
The only ones who enjoyed the extreme heat were Noah Binns who rejoiced in the fulfilment of his prophecy, and the two old uncles, Nicholas and Ernest, whose spirits flowered in the heat as the dry flowers of the everlasting. The prolonging of winter had been very hard on them, but now they felt stronger than they had in a long while. It did them good to feel their flesh warmed through and through, their dry old palms moist with heat. They chaffed each other and laughed in a way that did Renny’s heart good.
All the happenings of the farm or stables he related to them to keep their interest alive, nor did he spare them the unpleasant things, such as the doings of Eugene Clapperton. In truth Alayne sometimes wondered if it were good for them to be worked up into such rages. “Rascally old interloper!” Nicholas would growl, thumping his fist on the arm of his chair. “Despicable old rascal!” Ernest would sneer. Seldom did they anathematize him without reference to his age, though he was at least thirty-five years younger than they.
All pretence of friendliness between the two houses had vanished. There was instead open antagonism. In all this Alayne could feel only a reflected warmth of anger. She would have wished above all to hear no more of their hateful neighbour’s doings. The very name of Clapperton bored and almost sickened her. It was a shame, she thought, that the last years of the two old men should be poisoned by the hate and fear of Clapperton. At the same time she was aware that, in a sense, they were revitalized by the irritation. There was always this subject for animated speculation. Now it was certain that a factory was to be built on the land bought from the Blacks. The deal would be completed within a fortnight, it was said, and in a matter of months a hideous structure would rise within a stone’s throw of Jalna.
For some reason it seemed to outrage Renny’s feelings less than the bungalows just beyond his stables. The factory would be hidden from them by woods, but the sight of them insulted him in all his activities, for they all led sooner or later in the direction of the stables. Two more had been added in as many months. It seemed impossible that they could be well built, yet Eugene Clapperton insisted that this was so. Every day he inspected the progress of the building, made friends with the families of those that were already occupied, enjoyed the smell of the clean planks that were piled on the ground, the wholesome sound of saw and hammer. In the stir of these schemes he found outlet for his energy which was still abundant, and he felt something amounting to glee in completely overcoming the opposition of Renny Whiteoak. Renny had worked hard to rouse the feelings of property owners of the neighbourhood, had originated petitions with their signatures and presented them to the authorities without avail. “The time is coming,” he told himself “when we shall be driven to sell Jalna, but — not while I live and have fight in me.”
One noonday, when the temperature was well past ninety degrees, he came out of the comparative coolness of the stables into the blazing light of the sun and walked, as he had a habit of doing, to a point where he had a clear view of the bungalows. He was alone, for, when he had left the house, his sheepdog, peering out of its woolly coat, had told him as plain as words could speak that this was a day unfit for venturing forth and had thrown itself with a thud on the floor of the hall. The bulldog and the Cairn terrier had followed him, side by side, halfway to a field where Piers was cutting hay, then the little Cairn, after giving Renny a long reproachful look, had turned and resolutely trotted back to the house. The bulldog had sturdily jogged on, had stood slavering while the brothers had talked, and then panting heavily had returned with Renny. When they reached the branching of the path he had halted and looked with yearning eyes toward the house, but he would not return without permission, yet was ashamed of asking for it.
Renny gave him a pat. “Go back, old boy,” he said. “I agree that it’s as hot as hell.”
The bulldog nuzzled his hand in gratitude, then lumbered back. He could not get into the house but he found a shady spot in the garden where among the geraniums he dug himself into the cool earth, leaving broken stalks and scattered blooms for Alayne to discover.
“I don’t remember a time,” thought Renny, “when all those three deserted me. It really must be hot.”
He himself was one of those men who never seem to look either very hot or very cold. His high-coloured, weathered complexion remained the same, his dark red hair, which in this bright sunshine showed a light sprinkling of white, never lay limp with sweat but covered his hard-sculptured head crisply. He walked to a point in the paddock behind the stables where he could look down on the five bungalows built on the edge of the hollow in which Vaughanlands lay. This was a form of self-torture in which he indulged at least once a day. In resentment he had watched their claptrap progress from foundations till the day when washing fluttered on the clothesline in the little yard. He pictured them spreading like a rash of ugly pimples over a well-known face, till the face of Vaughanlands was changed, and at the thought he made a grimace expressing helpless anger and chag
rin at his helplessness.
It was the hour when the three workmen had found a shady spot and were eating their lunch. They were drinking cold liquids from thermos bottles. Their muddy old Ford stood in the lane. Mrs. Barker was so sociable she could not keep away from the men.
“My goodness,” she remarked to one of them, “it must be awful hot up on that there roof shinglin’.”
“You bet it is,” he answered, “square in the sun.”
“when will it be finished?”
“By the end of the week.”
“Say, you boys work fast.”
He laughed. “We got to work with that guy Clapperton always pokin’ round, watchin’ us.”
“There he goes now,” said another. “why don’t he stay indoors and keep cool?”
“He’d sooner die of sunstroke than lose a nickel.”
“Don’t you go talking against him,” said Mrs. Barker. “He’s been awful kind to me. He’s given me a lot of good advice.”
“About what?” sneered the man.
“Human nature, if you want to know. He makes a study of it.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” laughed the man. “He’d better make a study of Tom Raikes. He could learn a lot there.”
Mrs. Barker’s attention was turned to the new bungalow.
“Look who’s on the roof,” she exclaimed.
“Darned if it isn’t Colonel Whiteoak And he’s ripping off the shingles I just put on, as fast as he can.”
They stared stupefied, bottles half-way to mouths, at the sight of the master of Jalna sitting astride the ridge-beam, prizing off, with the prongs of a hammer, shingle after shingle. At the same moment Eugene Clapperton appeared from the direction of his house and was frozen, high as was the temperature, by the sight that met him. He could for a moment scarcely believe his eyes; then he strode nearer and shouted:
“How dare you do that?”
“It comes apart damned easy,” returned Renny, “even easier than I expected.”
“Come down off that roof,” almost screamed Eugene Clapperton, “or I’ll call in the police.”
Down flew a shingle almost in his face. He turned to the workmen. “Bring that man down,” he ordered.
They presented uniformly sheepish smiles.
“Better call the police,” said one.
“Do you mean to say,” fumed Clapperton, “that the three of you are afraid to bring him down?”
“I’d hate to tackle him,” said another.
“I wouldn’t do it,” said the third. “Not on that roof.”
Mrs. Barker soothingly spoke. “Never mind, Mr. Clapperton. The men will put the shingles on again.”
Eugene Clapperton gave her a furious look and strode to the bungalow. Children from the other bungalows gathered about, open-mouthed. Shingle after shingle came frolicking down the roof.
“I’m going straight in,” cried Eugene Clapperton, his voice cracking with fury, “to telephone the police.”
Renny Whiteoak tossed up the hammer and caught it. Then he threw a leg over the ridge and slid down the roof to the top of the ladder. He descended the ladder and strolled across the gravel to face Clapperton. He, with his spirit on its way to California, had bought himself a suit of a light material, pale buff in colour, and a tie with gaudy figures on it. He wore no waistcoat.
Renny looked him over in astonishment. “So, “he said, “you’ve come to this.”
“Get off my land.”
“Yes, gladly. As soon as I’ve had a good look at you.” He gently took the end of the tie in his fingers. “Expensive,” he said, “but what a design! I wonder your wife allows it.”
Eugene Clapperton drew back as though from the touch of a viper. “You have not heard the last of this,” he said.
“And you’ve not seen the last of me. I’ll come every day and take down what your men have built. I think I can keep up with them.”
“Put Colonel Whiteoak off my property,” Clapperton ordered his men. They sniggered but did not move.
Clapperton now spoke more quietly. “You will be summoned tomorrow, sir, for trespass and damage to property.”
“Spoken like a man,” said Renny. “But I still don’t like your tie.”
He returned the way he had come. On the lawn he could see the figures of his uncles, half reclining in comfortable chairs in the shade. Indoors he found Alayne, his sister Meg, and her daughter Patience, sitting with blinds drawn, enervated by the heat.
“why, Meggie,” he exclaimed, pleased as always to see her, “and Patience! what brought you out in the heat?”
She put a plump arm about his neck and for a moment held him close.
“Oh,” she moaned, “that little house of ours! It’s simply unendurable in this weather. So I just staggered to the car and Patience drove me over. Alayne has kindly asked us to stay to lunch.
As their arrival had been timed to coincide with that meal there really had been no alternative for Alayne.
“No one,” went on Meg, “feels the heat as I do.”
“No one,” said her brother, “is as fat as you are.”
“Fat!” she cried. “Fat! I don’t weigh a pound more than a hundred and thirty-nine.”
“I dare you,” he teased, “to come out to the barn and let me weigh you.”
She ignored this remark. “what makes me feel the heat so terribly is having to do my own housework and eating so little.”
“I thought Patience did all the work.”
“I refuse to be teased. It’s too hot.”
Wrinkling his forehead, he remarked, — “I suppose I’ll find it nice and cool in jail.”
Three puzzled feminine faces were turned to him.
“Explain,” said his wife.
“Jail!” echoed his sister on a note of apprehension.
“Now what have you been up to?” laughed his niece.
“Clapperton,” he returned, “is going to have a summons served on me for pulling down one of his bungalows and tweaking his tie.”
Alayne made a sound of exasperation. “It’s much too hot to be funny,” she said, “if that is what you are trying to be.”
“I was never more serious,” he returned. “I haven’t actually razed the bungalow to the ground, but I ripped off part of the roof, and I didn’t injure his tie though it was the most obscenely ugly object I’ve ever laid eyes on and I’ve been through two wars.”
Alayne pressed her hand to her forehead. “All this,” she said, “is going to lead to very real trouble.”
Patience hugged her own body and laughed inwardly. “I’d have given worlds to see that show,” she murmured. “Not that I think Uncle Renny did right.”
“Right,” cried Alayne. “It was madness, and it’s going to bring us a most unpleasant publicity.”
Meg raised her hand. “There,” she said, “there goes the gong. How glad I’ll be of a little nourishment, for I declare I haven’t eaten enough during this heat to keep a dickybird alive.”
At table the two uncles were told by Renny of the encounter with all details added. They were enormously pleased. Nicholas demanded to hear it all twice repeated. Ernest struck his slender fist on the table and exclaimed:
“Good for you, Renny. You’ve taught that old fellow a lesson.” Though what was the lesson he did not say.
“I’ve this to say about Clapperton,” Renny looked about the table as though he challenged anyone to deny it, “I’ve this to say. I don’t believe he knows what it is to have one generous impulse. He’s a coward too, for he winced when I took a step toward him.”
“And a spiteful coward,” added Ernest. “Vindictiveness sticks out all over him.”
The object of this criticism was indeed feeling quite shaky in the legs after his encounter with Renny, and deeply revengeful in spirit. Over and over again he pictured that man ripping the shingles from the roof of the bungalow, grinning in derision at the one whose property he was mutilating. He recalled the foolish faces of the workmen as they sn
iggered at the scene. He recalled the figure of the woman standing with arms akimbo. He had a mind to put them all, with finality, off his property.
The coolness of the living room was balm to his disarranged being. It was dim too, after the glare outside. He could just make out the shapes in his beloved picture of the shipwreck. He sat down in front of it trying to relax. The ornate clock on the mantelshelf chimed the half-hour. The door softly opened and his sister-in-law came in, closing it after her. She drew close, looking down on him.
“Well?” he enquired in irritable surprise.
“Eugene,” she said in a low voice, “I’ve something to tell you.”
Now what? he wondered, instantly suspicious.
“It’s about the mare,” she went on rapidly. “The one you sold because of its eyes. Well — there’s nothing wrong with its eyes. I found that out this morning. I was in the woods at Jalna painting a group of those lovely silver birches and …”
“Go on,” he urged harshly.
“And that man Wright came along and he began to talk about the trees …”
“what the devil have trees to do with the mare?”
“He says there’s nothing — absolutely nothing — wrong with her eyes. He saw her yesterday at the farmer’s who bought her from Raikes. The farmer said there never had been anything wrong with her sight. And not only that. She’s in foal. She was when he bought her and, of course, Raikes charged a great deal extra for that. Wright thought you should know. But I beg of you — don’t, don’t tell Gem I told you.”
“why?” he got out, through his rage.
“Oh, she thinks Raikes is perfect, just as you do. No — not as you do.”
“Not as I do,” he gasped. “Not as I do. In some other way. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“No. No,” she cried and ran from the room.
He put his hand on the mantelpiece to steady himself. He felt dizzy. He had had suspicions that Raikes was not quite so reliable as he seemed, but he had put them from him. He stubbornly had wanted to think well of the man. He was honestly fond of him. Raikes had a soothing effect on him and he knew this was a benefit to his health. But what black suspicion Althea had planted in his brain! Not Raikes and the mare alone but Raikes and his wife. A thousand only half-noticed incidents crowded into his heated brain. Why had he not forced Althea to be explicit? She was very clear-headed beneath her oddities.
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