“I saw nothing strange in her,” said Finch.
“They say she’s been found wandering on the roads alone in the middle of the night.”
“They say — they say! Don’t believe everything you hear, Maurice.”
Maurice stared. “Then you are in sympathy with Adeline’s feeling for Mait?”
“How you twist things, Mooey! You’re unreasonable. But I don’t think we need worry about Adeline. All the while we’ve been away together she’s appeared a happy girl.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Maurice moodily.
Finch was sorry for the youth. The return to Ireland was so different from what he had looked forward to. Yet he was irritated by Maurice for continuing to wear the mien of disappointed lover. He was sure that was not the way to attract Adeline. She on her part had come back to Glengorman with the intention of playing the charming cousin to her young host, of taking up their old relationship once more. But it was impossible. What right had Mooey to look at her as he did, to criticize her silently for her behaviour, as though he held a microscope to her every act. She wanted to take long walks alone, when she might dwell with clinging thoughts on her recollections of Fitzturgis. She had known him so short a while that sometimes a fear would come to her that his image would grow less clear. At other times she felt that his face was clearer to her than the face of anyone she knew, except her father’s.
Each time the clump of the postman’s boots was heard on the drive she ran without shame to the door and without shame she let the blankness come into her face when the letter was only from Roma. One morning there was a letter for her, addressed in a masculine hand and having an Irish stamp. Maurice appeared in the hall at the same moment. The postman had laid the letters on a small table by the door. Maurice was there first and picked them up — almost snatched them up.
“That’s for me,” she cried, reaching to take her letter from him.
He held it out of reach, but only for a moment; she was almost as tall as he.
“Give it to me,” she demanded.
“what urgency!” he exclaimed, in what she called his superior voice.
She caught his wrist. They struggled together, their faces flushed with the anger they could not conceal. The letter was torn in half.
“Beast!” she hissed between her clenched teeth.
“Spitfire!” he returned, putting his half of the letter into her hand.
As she ran up the stairs with it he called after her, — “Sorry. I didn’t know you’d take a little teasing that way.”
She did not answer. In her room she stood motionless a moment, the mutilated letter pressed to her breast, her breath coming hard. Then she took the two halves from the torn envelope and looked at the first words. She read, —
“Dear Miss Whiteoak,
I wonder if you remember me. I am the boy from Chicago you danced with on the boat. I have never forgotten you and I’d certainly love to meet —”
She crushed the letter in her hand.
She walked up and down the room still crushing it between her two hands. She went to the window and laid her forehead against the cool pane. The garden lay below in the high bright tones of summer. Pigeons were perching on the damp stone walls. They made her think of home. For an instant the thought of home rose before her. But the day was only breaking there, the pigeons only fluttering down from their high night perches. She tried to think of home but the image was broken by the feel of the letter in her hand, by her disappointment that lay like a stone on her heart. Why had he not written to her? Sent no message?
Her shame that she had so struggled for a worthless letter resolved itself into anger at Maurice. If he had not shown himself so unfriendly to Maitland, Maitland would have come to see her. All her being cried out for some reassurance from him — that, or a complete cutting away. She could bear the uncertainty no more.
She saw Finch and Maurice mounting the steep stone steps beyond the garden, the two Labradors bounding ahead of them. She would run downstairs now and telephone to Mait. Why had she not thought of doing that before? She would hear his voice and ask him straight if he loved her.
Down the stairs she ran and along the passage to where the telephone was. She found his name, the number of his telephone in the book. It was so easy. She pictured the tiny room where his telephone was, the unshaded bulb, the glossy calendar advertising whiskey on the wall. She asked for the number and after a little a voice came on the wire. It was a woman’s voice with a thick brogue. Adeline could not understand what she said.
“Could I speak to Mr. Fitzturgis?” she repeated.
“Misthress Fitzturgis,” came thickly over the wire, and more as though in a foreign language.
“It’s Mister Fitzturgis I want,” she said, with desperate distinctness.
“Och, the masther,” said the voice. Then silence.
At last she heard steps. His voice, with a shock of reality, as though it were the only reality in the world, spoke to her.
“Oh, Mait, is it you?” she exclaimed, in a low voice, tremulous with feeling.
“Adeline!”
“Yes. I had to speak to you.”
“where are you?”
“At Glengorman. Soon I shall be going to England.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you care?”
“You know what I feel.”
“Yet you’ve never written — not one line. You didn’t even answer my letter.”
“You know why.”
“And we’re never to meet again?”
“Oh, Adeline — you make it hard for me.”
“But I want to see you. Is that clear?”
“I’ll come.”
“when? Let it be soon.”
“Today. I’ll be there at three. Where can we meet? No — it’s not to be secret. I’ll come straight to the house.”
“Oh, Maitland — how shall I live till then?”
She gave a laugh of happy anticipation, and it was echoed briefly by him, as though he too would be happy but dared not let himself.
She chose one of her prettiest dresses for lunch that day. Finch surveyed her with a half-humorous admiration. He touched the ruffled elbow sleeve, ran his fingers along the delicately rounded arm, saying:
“I hope this dressing-up is for me.”
Taken aback, she found nothing to say.
“who for, then?” he asked.
“Do I look so dressed-up?” she hedged.
“She’s expecting Mr. Fitzturgis,” put in Maurice.
She turned her eyes full on him. “what if I am?”
Neither Maurice nor Finch found anything but the defiance of words in this. Neither for a moment believed that Fitzturgis would be so openly prepared for, were he indeed expected. Under the luminous darkness of her gaze Maurice’s heart melted toward her. He smiled almost tenderly.
“You look sweet, Adeline,” he said.
Her friendliness always ready, she smiled and leant toward him. “Thanks, Mooey.”
Finch said, — “You should have seen how people stared at us in the hotels. They thought we were on our honeymoon, and what an ill-assorted couple! whatever did she see in that old codger, they asked each other.”
“Oh, it was fun,” cried Adeline, thankful to have the talk turned into a different channel. “But people didn’t think as Uncle Finch says. They thought, whatever did that distinguished-looking man see in that empty-headed girl? She’ll lead him a dance.”
“And so you would,” said Maurice.
The meal proceeded amiably. Not long before three o’clock the two men set out to inspect a cottage that had been newly thatched. Adeline was left alone.
She paced the lime-shaded drive between gate and house. She thought of her situation as romantic. Who wouldn’t? A beautiful young woman — for, when alone, she acknowledged herself as beautiful — waiting in a mossy tunnel, with fuchsias and brier roses all about, for her lover. She wished the two handsome dogs were with her to
complete the picture but they had followed the men. She tried not to look at her wrist-watch oftener than every five minutes. She would bend and hold communion with some small flower whose name she did not know, while all the time her ears were strained for the sound of his car. There were so few cars, his would be the one.
It was half-past three when she heard it and her whole being froze to attention. If he did not come she would lie down here, in the cool shade, and die. Yes, die, and they would find her body and be sorry. She pictured herself stretched out on the earth, the little nameless flower in her hand. The dogs would discover her and run whimpering to tell the news.
The car had turned into the drive. It had stopped. Fitzturgis was out and coming toward her. He looked pale and intent. She noticed the line of his shoulder and the easy movement of his walk.
She could not speak but went to him holding out both hands. He took them and she looked into his eyes. They were so close to her, they became two worlds, mysterious, that she could not look into without fear. What was their colour? The colour of the sea on a cloudy day. “Yes,” she thought, “if I drew him to me, so close that our foreheads touched, still would his eyes be strange to me.”
“Am I late?” he asked. “A fellow stopped me on the road and talked to me. I couldn’t get away.”
Adeline thought, — “If I were going to you, a whole army would not stop me.”
“I really couldn’t,” he reiterated. “You don’t know what that fellow is. He started some rigmarole about a will he’s contesting and it was impossible to stop him. I started out in time, I —”
“Oh, Mait,” she interrupted, “you’re here. That’s all that matters.”
He laughed, out of sheer joy of looking at her, hearing her voice. “what shall we do?” he asked, as though they had a long while ahead of them and a choice of places to go.
“Uncle Finch and Maurice are out. We could sit on the bank here and talk.”
“They’ll be back soon?”
“Oh, yes. But they needn’t see us.”
He opened his eyes wide and looked at her as though in defiance. “I refuse to have them saying,” he spoke in heat, “that I have met you in secret. I refuse to be the sort of fellow that every decent man would like to kick on sight.”
“what do you want to do?” she broke out. “Go and sit in two straight-backed chairs in the hall, with our eyes fixed on the front door, waiting for them to come back?”
“Oh, my darling — you will not put yourself in my place,” he said. “You’re too young.”
“I’ve grown a lot older in these last weeks,” she returned. “I’m no longer a carefree girl — if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I curse myself,” he said, “for every moment of unhappiness I’ve given you.”
“I had to grow up.”
They sat down on the bank and he began, — “Am I the first man you’ve —”
She interrupted, — “I’ve told you already. The first and the last — forever.”
He looked at her in wonder. “what am I to deserve this?” he asked, taking her, as he spoke, into his arms. Through her thin dress she felt the pounding of his heart. She put both arms about his neck.
“You’re just the one man for me,” she answered.
“I daren’t let myself kiss you.” He hid his face against her hair. “If I kiss you I’m lost.”
“Lost — to what?” she breathed.
“To you. It’s not to be, my darling. You’re to go back to your father, free of any promise. You may tell him, if you choose, that you met an Irishman you rather like and, when you come back to visit Maurice, if I am here and things are different with me …”
She interrupted, — “Do you know what I call you?”
“No.”
“The half-hearted lover.
“Half-hearted?”
“Kiss me then. Just one little kiss, Mait, and I shan’t feel so lonely.”
He put his hand beneath her chin, raised her face to his, and their lips met and the wild leaping of their pulses met and the yearning of their two beings urged them on. Incoherent phrases were spoken, as though they were learning a new language, as though they were foreigners with the necessity of understanding one another in some grave matter.
“Is this a parting?” she asked, as she leant back against a tree wreathed in ivy, as though in weakness.
“If I had my way,” he said, “we should never be parted again.”
She put all her longing into the wish, — “If only I might take you back to Jalna.”
He gave his short laugh. “what a picture! what a prize! Oh, my darling …”
She cast herself from the support of the tree, against his shoulder. She clung to him, as though she would never let him go. “You must not say such cruel things about yourself, Mait. It hurts me, because you’re so splendid, so …”
He silenced her with a kiss, then put her from him. She saw how pale he was. Shyly she put her hand on his mouse-coloured hair. “I’ve always wanted to touch it,” she said. “And your eyelashes are curly, too.” And then added, — “My, but you’re beautiful.”
That made him laugh outright. “what distortions love can make!” he exclaimed. “I wager I’d look a satyr to your dad.”
Before she could answer, her quick ear caught the sound of voices. “They’re coming,” she cried. “I won’t move! I will sit here with both my arms about your neck.”
But before she could touch him he was on his feet, facing the direction from where the voices came. Now Finch and Maurice were appearing round the bend in the drive. Adeline exclaimed, on a despairing note:
“Oh, why did we stay here — to be found! I know the loveliest spot by the sea where we might have been. I’d say goodbye properly and sweetly, Mait, if you’d come there tomorrow. Do say you will.”
He scarcely heard her. His frowning defensive gaze was on the advancing figures. Maurice’s eyes were, on him, Finch’s, in concern, rested on Adeline’s emotion-swept face.
Maurice broke out, — “So you did come, Fitzturgis.”
“Yes. To say goodbye to Adeline.” He turned to Finch. “You don’t mind, I hope.”
“That depends,” returned Finch.
“On what?”
“On how you say it.”
“We said it with a kiss,” Adeline’s voice came clearly. “There’s nothing wrong in a kiss, is there, when you love a man?”
Maurice said to Fitzturgis, — “You know what my uncle and I think of this.”
“I cannot prevent my feelings toward Adeline,” returned Fitzturgis. “Having those feelings, I came to bid her goodbye. But goodbye it is. I shall not see her again — not till I’m able to offer her marriage.”
The word marriage was to Maurice a challenge from an opponent, a coming into the open with a drawn sword. To Finch it was solidifying feelings that had been mercifully fluid. Now there was no escape, except to get Adeline out of Ireland as soon as possible, return her to the authority of her father.
To Adeline the word gave her a new status. She could face those male relations, shoulder to shoulder with Fitzturgis. She rose and stood beside him. A line from a history book came into her mind: “Don’t shoot till you see the whites of their eyes.” She stiffened her spine, looking into Maurice’s eyes.
Finch said to Fitzturgis, — “I’m glad to hear you speak as you do. You see, Adeline is in my care. I’m accountable to her parents.”
“Eighteen is of age in a girl,” put in Adeline. “Not that I intend to be defiant to you, Uncle Finch, for no uncle could have been sweeter to me than you, but I know what is in my heart and I don’t see any use in hiding it.”
“That’s a good girl,” said Finch, trying to cajole her back into childhood.
“There’s nothing more to be said,” added Maurice.
Fitzturgis looked from one to the other. “I may as well be going,” he said.
“Much better,” agreed Maurice.
A flush crept
up from the Irishman’s neck and suffused his face. He turned away, as though he could not trust himself to speak. Finch held out his hand to him. He said, — “Goodbye, and I hope that, when we next meet, the atmosphere will be more serene. Please don’t think I haven’t enjoyed meeting you. It’s just …”
“I understand,” Fitzturgis returned coolly. “I was all right so long as I kept my distance.”
“Just that,” agreed Maurice.
Adeline turned fiercely on her cousin. “You are enough, Mooey,” she said, “to make me throw myself right at Mait’s head.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“You’re horrible.”
“Thanks.” He turned away and strode toward the house.
Finch stood irresolute. Should he leave Adeline and Fitzturgis alone, for a last goodbye? It would be only kind. Yet he was responsible for her. What if she ran off with her lover? She had Gran’s wild blood. It might lead her to some passionate exploit for which Renny would never forgive him.
Fitzturgis was regarding him with an ironic smile.
“I’ll settle it for you,” he said.
He came to Adeline and put his hand on her shoulder. “Goodbye, Adeline.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“Write to me.”
Her eyes were large and dark in her pale face.
“No,” he answered. “It will be better not.”
“But you can’t leave me like this,” she cried.
“Yes, I can — and must.”
“If I write, won’t you answer my letter?”
Fitzturgis looked at Finch.
“I think you might answer,” said Finch. “I certainly think you might.”
“Thanks.” A light came into Fitzturgis’ eyes. “Then I will.” He went quickly to his car.
Finch put his arm about Adeline. She stood rigid while Fitzturgis backed his car and turned it. He waved his hand from the window.
Adeline broke from Finch. She ran a few yards after the car, called out “Goodbye, Mait,” in a strangled voice, then halted. She watched the car pass through the gate, then, with a dazed look in her eyes, came back to Finch.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 465