He demanded, “what did I say to make you take that tone?”
“I think you are not quite sober.”
“But don’t you agree that it’s a tragedy for Adeline to give herself to Fitzturgis? Oh God, it makes me sick.”
He went to the cupboard and took out a bottle of French brandy. The poodle trotted softly beside him, peered into the cupboard, half entered it.
Patience said, “Becky, don’t! Maurice, don’t!”
He said, “You use exactly the same tone to me as to this poodle. Is thy servant a dog?”
She went to him and put the bottle back on the shelf. “Please, don’t,” she said. “You’re too good for this sort of thing. Will you trust me with the key? I’ll lock up for a bit, if you agree.”
“No, no, Patience, you can be sure I shan’t drink any more today…. One little drink tomorrow, and the next day — none. I’m in dead earnest.”
“But you are not really sober.”
“Perfectly sober. Put me to any test you like. Shall I stand on one leg? Walk along a crack in the floor? Repeat the alphabet backward?”
He stood before her, looking rather like the scion of some banished royal family. Or perhaps an earnest young actor studying a part. At that moment there was born in her a desire to serve him, to protect him, from the world and from himself. She contrasted his elegantly shaped head, his rumpled locks, with Norman’s, which were the very model for advertisements of hair cream. At that moment the thought of Norman became less painful to her and slightly distasteful.
“You and I,” she said, “both have suffered.”
He came and took her hand. “We have indeed,” he said, though he did not for a moment consider that her suffering could equal his.
They stood holding hands, their lips parted forlornly. “We will help each other,” she said in a comforting voice.
“I wish I knew some way of helping you, Patience. You’ve been so sweet to me.”
“You can help me,” she said in a tone between coaxing and command, “by cutting out this drinking — above all, this solitary drinking.”
“I will.” He spoke fervently, as though in a religious service. “I swear I will.”
“Oh, I’m so glad, Maurice. I have been worried about you. Christian has been worried.”
“No need to be worried any longer,” he said. “I’m determined to stop drinking — except with the greatest moderation. Just a drink in a sociable way with others. Never alone.”
“I’m so glad,” she repeated.
There came the sound of a motor, then little Mary’s voice.
“I must be off,” Patience said. “Are you sure it would not be better for me to lock the cupboard and take the key?”
“Positive. I shall be a rock for firmness. Look. I’ll lock it. There. And I’ll give the key to Christian.”
“Splendid. You’ve made me feel ever so much better…. Come, Becky.”
The poodle searched their faces with amused disbelief. But she was glad to be going — going anywhere, at any time, with Patience.
Maurice stood in the doorway watching them disappear down the road. He felt a new bond between himself and Patience. He had been treated as badly by Adeline as Patience had been treated by Norman. But to have lost Norman was a benefit as compared to the tragedy of losing Adeline. In this moment of melancholy he was convinced that Adeline had once loved him.
He heard small footsteps running. He hid himself behind the door as Mary ran into the studio. She was calling, “Maurice, come to tea! Mummy says you’re to come! I’m to bring you to tea!”
She stood in the middle of the great empty room, a tiny figure. She looked fearfully about her — at the pictures ranged about the walls; at a life-size charcoal drawing of a human skeleton. She knew she should have given the message to Maurice, but how could she? He was not there. She retired to a dim corner of the studio and shed a few tears.
Maurice stood silent, unmoved, till she trotted off. Then he found the key of the cupboard and poured himself another drink.
He tried to picture Adeline, to concentrate all his faculties on the calling up of the beloved image. But he could not extricate her face from the confused shadows of his imagination. Had she a face? Had she eyes that stabbed him — a smile that captivated him? Then, if they were real, why could he not recall them? The face of Patience was clear enough. He blinked to rid himself of it. She had begged him not to drink and he had promised. He had promised, but … only to get rid of her. Now he could not get rid of her face — that faithful look in her eyes…. If only he could remember Adeline’s eyes those eyes that mocked his pain. The deep-set eyes of Fitzturgis came to him — came without any other features — a triumphant light in them. The only way to rid himself of them, to recall Adeline’s eyes in their stead, was by drinking. He would drink till he could remember what he chose — forget what he chose. Yes — forget, and promises be damned!
Time passed and he sat there, his legs outstretched, his hands limp, his mouth open emitting the slow heavy breaths. It was beginning to rain, and Pheasant, having put her little daughter to bed, stepped inside, for she liked the feel of this room, its aloofness from the house, a room where something was being created by the hand of an artist. She did not know how Christian’s pictures would be judged by the world, if indeed they would be thought worthy of judgment. But to her they were wonderful, amazing. The sunsets had splendour in them; the woodlands, which she had known all her life, authentic mystery. Christian, in his artist’s smock, was a miracle, as he was in his first baby clothes.
She wandered about the studio, seeing the pictures dimly in the evening light, tranquil in the solitude. She was close beside Maurice before she saw him. She looked down in astonishment at the lounging figure, and he raised his heavy eyes to hers.
“why, Maurice!” she exclaimed. “You here?”
“Yes,” he said heavily.
“where were you when Mary came to call you?”
“Here.”
“Maurice — you’ve been drinking!” She bent over him in solicitude. He put out a hand to catch hers and hold it to his breast.
The first spatter of rain had become a determined shower, its vertical lines descending with ringing clarity on the roof of the studio. Pheasant wondered whether she should leave her boy here till Christian’s return or take him now into the house through the rain. In any case Piers must not see him. She decided that he should go without delay.
“Maurice,” she said, speaking more firmly than her tremulous heart warranted, “your father has gone to Jalna to enquire after a cow that has just calved. I want you to be safely in bed when he returns. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do,” he returned with sudden hot anger. “I’m to scuttle out of the way in deadly fear of my old man. But I’m not afraid. To hell with —”
He did not finish. He was on his feet, reeling toward the door. There he stopped. “W-why,” he said thickly, “it’s raining.” He turned back, as though to venture out in the rain were impossible.
Half laughing but on the verge of tears, Pheasant caught him by the arm and steadied him. “Come,” she said. “The rain will do you good.” She steered him through the door and along the streaming path to the house. Though the distance was so short, both were wet through when they arrived. They looked like fearful refugees escaping from tyranny.
Up the stairs she propelled him, he clinging to the banister. At the top they heard Mary calling. She had been woken by the sound of the rain gurgling in the eaves and dreaded a thunderclap.
“I must go to her,” Pheasant said, pushing Maurice into his room and closing the door on him.
He went, feeling deserted, ill-used. He muttered, “One squeak from young Mary and I’m nothing.”
He moved forward unsteadily in the darkness. He tripped over a stool and fell with a resounding crash.
The rain drummed on the roof. Little Mary, hearing Maurice’s fall, called out in panic for her mother. Above the drum of the
rain came the sound of a motor. Piers had arrived, and with him Christian, whom he had overtaken on the road. Maurice uttered a groan. Pheasant turned on the light and bent over him.
“Mooey, are you hurt?”
He covered his face with his hands. “No. I don’t know. Let me alone.” Anger flared in his voice. “why can’t I be left alone?”
Piers’s voice came from below. “what’s the matter up there? why doesn’t someone go to Mary?”
She, hearing his voice, instead of being comforted, cried in greater panic. Pheasant, closing the door on her eldest, hastened to her youngest. In the passage she met Philip. She caught him by the arm and begged: “Go to Maurice. Quickly. Keep the door shut. Don’t let Daddy know.”
He had been interrupted in listening to a war play on the radio and was a little cross. He stood, with knitted brow and pouting lips, staring at the prostrate form of his brother.
“Want any help?” he asked.
“No. Lemme alone.” The words came thickly. He wanted sleep. Nothing else but that.
“Dad’s back.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“Wouldn’t you like to go to bed?”
Maurice uncovered his face to give Philip a look of reproach. “Isn’t it possible,” he growled, “for me to have a lil peash? Tha’s all I ask. A lil peash.”
“But you can’t lie there all night.”
“Can’t I? Wait and shee.”
Christian now came into the room. Philip turned to him with relief. “He’s tight,” he explained, as though with that figure on the floor an explanation could be necessary.
“Put out light,” said Maurice. “Hurts my eyes.”
Christian squatted on his heels beside him. He said, “Look here, old fellow, you simply must get to bed. Let us help you.” He turned to Philip. “Take his other arm. Up you come!” They heaved him, first to a sitting position, then to his feet. They stood on either side of him, holding him up. They were sober, alert, anxious.
He looked doubtfully at the bed. “Don’ wanna go to bed,” he said. “Jus’wan’you fellows to get out.” Suddenly he was truculent. “Bring that blackguard Fitzturgis here. I’d like a word with him.”
“Tomorrow,” soothed Christian. “I’ll bring him tomorrow.”
They could hear Piers’s voice from the stairway. “Hullo! where is everybody?”
Then Pheasant calling, “I’ll be right down. I’ve been shutting the windows.” She put her head into Maurice’s room. “Is he all right?” she asked.
“Right as rain,” answered Maurice and lay down on the bed.
VIII
The Sister
SYLVIA FLEMING was met at the railway station by Adeline and Finch. She had looked about her anxiously, for though this station was not so overpowering as the one she had departed from, in New York, it was still as confusing as an anthill. She was anxious about her luggage. She was afraid that in the crowd she might not be discovered by whoever had come to meet her. As it was certain to be Maitland he would almost as certainly be late in arriving. As she pressed forward with the crowd she felt anger slowly rising against him. Although her health was again normal, she felt a tremor of nerves in this throng of strangers, in this strange city. Her eyes flew from face to face, searching for her brother.
Then she was discovered by Adeline, heard her name called and, wheeling, was face to face with the young girl and with Finch.
“Splendid,” cried Adeline. “I began to be frightened.” She embraced Sylvia, then released her to Finch. She had a proprietary air toward Sylvia. She looked on her as already a sister.
“You remember my Uncle Finch, don’t you? You met him once in Ireland, and he wasn’t very pleased with me that day, was he?”
She rattled on, asking questions, not waiting for an answer. At last they were able to disentangle themselves from the crowd, retrieve Sylvia’s luggage from the customs and put it into Finch’s new car. This car he regarded with pride and a little wonderment. Strangely enough he never could get used to owning things. As Adeline was impulsively possessive, so he was reluctantly so. Whether in material possessions or in human relations, it was his nature to stand back, partly in shyness, partly in a kind of self-protective aloofness.
Now it was Adeline who drew Sylvia’s notice to the excellence of the new car, to the glimpses of lake or farm. Possessively she searched Sylvia’s face for resemblance to Maitland. Saw how her skin was more delicate, her hair fairer, her lips more consciously self-controlled, her eyes less steady. But Adeline’s heart opened to receive Sylvia — the sister of her beloved — hersister. She wondered if Finch had noticed how Sylvia had improved in looks. She was quite lovely.
Finch was conscious only that Sylvia had the same effect on him that she’d had in Ireland. His brief encounter with her there had left the imprint on his memory of the fair crisply curling hair, the large blue eyes, the pointed chin, the extreme thinness. Her hands looked almost emaciated.
When the car drew up before Jalna, Adeline said, not having spoken as they passed through the green tunnel of the balsams and hemlock that bordered the drive, because always she felt that that was a dramatic moment, “Here we are!”
It was as though the conjurer, with a triumphant smile, had lifted the hat and exclaimed, “Here is the rabbit.”
She turned to see the effect of the disclosure on Sylvia — as though she had shown her in the brief glimpse the whole florid history of the family — as though she had put in motion the entire set of Whiteoaks, to display to this neCentenaryomer, who so soon would be almost one of them, all their individuality, charm and waywardness. To Adeline’s mobile mind all this was possible.
What Sylvia saw was a solid-looking brick house, with a stone porch, so enveloped in a Virginia creeper that its colour of a faded red could only here and there be glimpsed. But it was a house with an odd, knowing air, an air of enduring and endurance, as though it stood for an idea that would not soon die. And though the windows were open to the summer air, the curtains were drawn, as if those who lived under that roof would not willingly invite the intruding gaze of even the birds.
There were plenty of those about who scarcely took the trouble to fly more than a few yards away as the three alighted from the car and Adeline said, “Welcome to Jalna.”
It had been explained to Sylvia that Renny and Fitzturgis had gone to a place some distance away on important business. She was rather pleased to meet the family in relays. Now there were present only Alayne and Archer to greet her. He surveyed her with dispassionate interest.
He said, after the first interchange was over, “We used to be a large family, you know.”
“We still are,” Alayne said, almost apologetically, “but not all under the one roof. There are nearby three other houses where members of the family live.”
“I don’t quite live in mine yet,” said Finch.
Sylvia said, “I think it’s better not to have too many in the one house — I mean all mingling together as one family. Unless, of course, a very united family, as I know yours is.”
“How do you know?” asked Archer.
“Adeline has told me.”
“I don’t feel united with anyone,” said Archer.
Adeline gave him a quelling look. “You are, whether you like it or not,” she said. She then ordered him to help her carry Sylvia’s luggage upstairs. The two heavy suitcases were little impediment to their young strength. As they passed Nicholas’s room they saw Roma sitting there with him. In the room prepared for Sylvia Archer asked, “what is Roma doing there, I wonder?”
“Up to some of her tricks, I’ll bet. Probably she’s after money.”
“But she sat with him yesterday, too.”
“Then it’s more money.”
“He’d never give her money twice — so near together. There’s something sinister in it.”
“Goodness, you’re suspicious.”
“I’m observant. I’ve observed how it bores Roma to be with Uncle
Nick. Now I enjoy being with him, yet he never gives me money.”
“You’re not a large-eyed appealing young girl.”
“Neither am I an orphan. There’s something in being an orphan.”
He spoke musingly and Adeline did not hear him. She was absorbed in the appointments of the room over which she had taken much thought. She felt that all must be welcoming and beautiful for Maitland’s sister. Consequently she had filled every available vase with flowers. In this room there was a small grate, on the mantelshelf of which she had arranged six vases, large and small, of flowers of all colours. This was to say nothing of two large earthen jars filled with sunflowers in front of the empty grate, the grate itself replenished with ferns. Vases of pansies, sweet peas, roses and nasturtiums were on the dressing table and windowsill.
Archer regarded these decorations pessimistically. “Is this Sylvia going to stay here long?” he asked.
“As far as I am concerned,” she returned, “Sylvia may stay forever.”
“Mercy!” said Archer.
Meanwhile downstairs it had been arranged that Finch was to drive Sylvia and Adeline to inspect the new house. Only the last touches had to be added and he was soon to remove to it. Sylvia was not tired and was, she said, all eagerness to see it. Adeline wanted Fitzturgis to be present when they went on a tour of Jalna.
The front door of the new house stood open. The wholesome Finnish woman who was to work for Finch by the day was polishing windows. He said, a little apologetically, to Sylvia, “It’s really not worth coming to see. It’s very small. But I’m rather proud of it. For some time I’ve wanted a place of my own near to Jalna.”
Sylvia exclaimed in admiration. Never had she seen a house like this — small indeed, but with such large window’s looking out into what seemed a forest of stately trees. And inside, everything so new, so fresh and spotless.
“It’s adorable,” she said. “How I love new houses, new furniture. I’m accustomed to things old and fusty. This has a different smell.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 487