“Adeline,” he said, his voice hesitating and thickened, “you never have looked as you look tonight.”
“How do I look?” she asked.
“As though you could love me — a little.”
“I love everybody tonight,” she said.
He took her hand in his. “I wish I had drowned in that storm,” he said.
“It would have spoiled everything.”
“I don’t care about myself,” he exclaimed, “but you are all the world to me, and — to think that you are engaged to that young lout, Philip! Don’t do it, dearest. He isn’t worthy of you. Let’s celebrate tonight by breaking off your engagement to him. If you won’t have me — there is Pat. Look at him. What a man! He has no need to speak, because inner and outer are the one man. His body and soul cannot be divided.”
Patrick Crawshay asked, “what are you saying about me?”
“Maurice is tight,” said his brother. “He ought to go to bed.”
Maurice rose and stood up very straight, resting his hands on the back of a tall chair. He said, with great gravity:
“I publish the banns of marriage between Sir Patrick Crawshay and Adeline Whiteoak, spinster, of this parish.”
“For God’s sake, go to bed,” said his brother.
“I refuse to go to bed till I have performed this duty for two people very dear to me.” He swayed a little, and the chair tilted. Adeline sprang up from the floor and seated herself on the chair, raising her face to his, as he stood behind it. He went and kissed her forehead. “Farewell,” he said, “and, if forever, still forever, fare thee well.”
“He’s always like this when he’s tight,” said Christian.
“Somebody take him to bed,” said Wakefield.
Pat Crawshay gently led Maurice away, who could be heard complaining of the lack of affection shown him by his family.
After this the company was a little subdued. For one thing, they were tired and there was so much to do before they left on the following day. Through all the house that had been elegantly tidy on their arrival, there was now supreme disorder. So early had been the morning start that not a bed was made. The kitchen and dining room were a riot of dirty dishes. Wet clothing still hung about the fire in the living room. The storm had passed, but the lake tumbled wildly against the beach, striving to uproot trees — eager, it seemed, to attack the very house.
Finch was anxious about both Sylvia and Wake. Though they had come triumphantly through the ordeal, he felt apprehensive about its effect on them. When he had them tucked safely in bed, he found Christian absorbed in preparing for travel the sketches he had made. He said, with a nod toward the kitchen — “We’re not needed there.”
Finch found Adeline and Pat Crawshay washing the dishes. It was two o’clock in the morning.
At dawn, a flock of wild geese flew overhead going southward. Their disturbing cries sounded above the roar of the waves.
XVIII
Back to Fiddler’s Hut
The wind blew bitterly cold from the north on this morning. It blew the leaves from the trees, almost to the last one, so that the trees stood naked; their lovely shapes, which had been veiled by the foliage, now spread themselves in intermingling limbs against the stormy sky. The seven who had so eagerly arrived were just as eager to turn homeward. To place Sylvia and Wakefield safe and sound at home again was Finch’s concern. To return to his studio and finish the sketches he had made was Christian’s. Maurice, in a mood of melancholy, wandered alone by the lake. Only Adeline and Pat Crawshay were concerned to leave the house in order. In her there was a fastidiousness that refused to leave confusion behind her. In him there was the desire to help her in whatever she did. He sought to make himself as much like the others as possible, yet so strong was his individuality that it could not be done. He could sail a boat, shout, sing, be half-drowned or half-drunk, but always was the product of a serene life.
Finch drove his car to the opening of the path that led to Fiddler’s Hut. There Wakefield alighted.
“Your things will come in the other car,” Finch said to him. “Are you all right? Shall I go with you?”
“I’m fine,” said Wakefield. “I’ll go alone and surprise Molly.”
Sylvia was so tired that, wrapped in a rug, she was half-asleep in her corner of the car. Wakefield closed the door as quietly as he could, murmured a goodbye, and went off along the path. The golden leaves lay thick on it. Wakefield experienced a thrill as of childhood in scuffing through them. He moved leisurely along the path, scuffing the leaves, his face already alight for Molly’s welcome.
The door of the Hut was closed and it pleased him to knock on it softly rather than to walk straight in. Molly must have been expecting him the day before. She would be anxious when he told her of all he had been through.
He knocked a second time but there was no answer.
“Are you there, Molly?” He called out and opened the door and went in.
How tidy the room was! Tidy and empty and silent as was all the Hut. He saw the letter lying on the table and snatched it up and tore it open. He read:
My very dear Wake,
Do not think badly of me because I am going to leave you now. I am sure it is the very best thing to do. We have had wonderfully happy times together, but I feel that now we must separate and go our own ways. I do not feel guilty in doing this. I have known for some time that it must happen — for both our sakes. Thinking it over in this lonely place, it all seems clear. I shall go back to the life that means most to me — more even than you mean to me. You will go to your family for a time — then back to your work.
I’m too excited to write more now. Goodbye, dear Wake — I shall always love you.
Molly
Wakefield stared wildly about the little room, so neat, so sunny. A pottery vase of pale blue Michaelmas daisies stood by the letter. Why had she put flowers there? Surely to mock him.… But she could not have gone like that — left him, as though theirs had been no more than a passing affair. It was too heartless. He went into the two tiny bedrooms, into the kitchen that looked so scrubbed, so tidy. Everywhere there was ghastly neatness, mocking emptiness. He could not believe in it. He could not face it. He felt dazed, giddy. He dropped into a chair by the table and buried his face in his hands. He gave a harsh sob which in that loneliness was exaggerated to a cry of anguish. I am alone — deserted — he thought. There is no one to care whether I live or die. He sat quiet there, feeling very tired. The ordeal of the day before had taken toll of his new-gained strength. He felt strangely excited yet unutterably tired.
After a time he raised his head and looked about him in the leaf-stirring, bird-twittering silence. He found that his eyes were wet. He felt as though he were acting a part in a strange play, and he tried, for a moment, to think of a play with a part in it such as this — a part in which a man who had given his loyal devotion to a woman was deserted by her just when he most needed her.
He went to the chest of drawers that stood by his bed and found the small thermometer, with which he took his temperature. He was shocked when he found what it now was. His temperature stood out to him as terribly important, as frightening. Now the Hut became unbearable to him in its isolation. He must find Renny, tell him of this frightening rise in his temperature, of Molly’s desertion. His heart was thumping against his ribs. He felt dizzy as he ran along the path, where the thick carpet of fallen leaves now felt heavy to his feet. He tripped on the root of a tree and fell sprawling. He lay there sobbing among the wet cold leaves for some minutes before he gathered himself together and went on toward the house, moving slowly and irregularly.
The sun, coming out from behind a splendid white cloud, now shone full on the solid front of the house, which, stripped of most of its covering of vine leaves, showed the dim redness of brick and windows that looked out alert on the changing world — the world that was changing from fall to winter. A few leaves of Virginia creeper still clung to the house, and these ranged in col
our from a rosewood red to a pinkish shade, but the strong stalks of the creeper and its runners were evident.
As when Wakefield had been a child, he hastened to tell this eldest brother of his hurt. From the hall he could hear Renny’s low whistle as he cleaned his gun in the sitting room. Wakefield entered, leaning against the side of the door for support.
Renny, raising his intent gaze from the parts of his gun spread out on the table in front of him, exclaimed:
“Wake! what’s the matter?”
“It’s Molly,” gasped Wakefield. “She’s left me. She’s not at the Hut. I’m ill.” He looked ready to faint.
Renny put an arm about him and led him to the couch.
“Don’t be upset, old fellow,” he said. “I’ll get some brandy for you. You’ll be all right. There, there.” He comforted Wakefield, patting him on the shoulder. He gave him brandy.
Incoherently Wakefield, between sips and spilling as much as he swallowed, poured out his story. He drew the crumpled letter from his pocket and thrust it into Renny’s hand.
“She could write me a cool dismissal like that,” he said, “when she knew what a shock it would be to me. I wrote loving letters to her from the lake. I wrote to her twice. And she could do this. Why, it might be the death of me. If you knew how ill I feel, Renny.…”
“All this has happened at a good time for you,” said Renny, “because now you can come home. Cold weather is on the way. The Hut would be no place for you then. I can tell you I have worried a lot about you. Now, it’s all settled. You’ll go straight upstairs to a comfortable room where you shall be properly waited on. Before long you’ll be yourself again.… Come now.”
“You don’t know what it is to lose your mate,” sobbed Wakefield.
“Molly is a sensible girl,” said Renny. “She knew that that situation could not go on.”
“Did you say anything of the sort to her?” Wakefield demanded suspiciously.
“Not a word. What she did, she did of her own free will. You see, the stage is necessary to her — just as my horses and dogs are necessary to me. You’ll find out, Wake, how sympathetic and comforting animals can be.… But now bed is the place for you, and I’ll tell you where I am going to put you. In Uncle Nicholas’s room. It is sunny, and has a particularly good bed. The dear old Uncle would like you to have his room.”
So in that bedroom, so long occupied by Nicholas, Wakefield was installed. The doctor was sent for. Certainly Wakefield had had a setback, but it was not so serious as might have been expected. A few weeks in bed, with the right nursing, would correct the mischief. Soon all the family knew that he was safe at Jalna, and each according to temperament expressed approval.
Alayne was profoundly relieved to be rid of the presence of Molly, even though she had been hidden in Fiddler’s Hut. She told herself that she breathed freer than she had in months. She saw to it that Wakefield was offered the most tempting and nourishing food. She sat with him, and he told her of the play he was writing. He gave her the manuscript to read, and, while praising it, she offered criticism which he found helpful.
Meg was not interested in his play, but she was passionately interested in him. She could not see him, lying there in bed, without poignant memories of Eden crowding in to tear at her heart. But she hid her anxiety, took Wakefield into her warm embrace, fussed comfortingly over him. brushed his hair, drank tea with him — “In the long run, almost everything that happens to us is for the best. When you have reached my age and look back over your life, you will find this is so.”
She remarked to the Rector, “Rupert, dear, it seems to me that this would be a good time to tackle Wakefield on the subject of religion. He is in a weak condition and might easily be drawn back into the fold. It’s heartbreaking to think he is a Roman Catholic, even though not a very strict one.”
The Rector, however, stubbornly refused, saying that he would not be party to any wobbling back and forth between creeds.
Maurice and Patrick Crawshay now set out on a journey to the Pacific Coast, planning to return to Jalna for Christmas. A steady correspondence was carried on between the young Irishman and Adeline. There was nothing in his letters to be hidden, and, because of his comments, often witty, on what he saw on his travels, Adeline read them aloud to her parents. She read them with a jocular and almost possessive pride. She kept them in a drawer in her own room — along with Philip’s postcards — and replied to them in kind.
XIX
Coming of Cold Weather
Early in December a letter arrived for Renny, telling of the approaching marriage of Roma to Maitland Fitzturgis, shortly to take place in New York. There was to be no church ceremony. They were to be married in a registry office, with only the near relatives of the bridegroom present. Any of the Whiteoaks who wished to give presents, wrote Roma, should remember the Customs duty and also that she would be going into a small apartment. She wished that all the family might be present and sent her best love to each and all. At a family conclave it was decided that they should club together and send the little bride-to-be a cheque, with which she might buy something really substantial that she could look on with pride for the rest of her days, point out to her wondering New York friends as a wedding present from her family in Canada. The amounts varied from quite small subscriptions from Meg and Piers — “Roma would scarcely expect much from a poor clergyman’s wife or a poor farmer” — to quite large ones from Renny and Finch. All awaited with eagerness Roma’s reply. She wrote five grateful little notes, with tiny bunches of forget-me-nots printed in colours on the corner of each, but the family waited in vain for details of what Roma had bought. The truth was that she could not have told them, if so she had willed, for she had frittered away the cheque on whatever had attracted her. Feeling suddenly rich, she had become suddenly extravagant — on herself. Nothing did she spend on Fitzturgis, and when he ventured to inquire as to whether the money had been deposited in the bank or spent, she withdrew into a cryptic and noncommital reserve.
Fiddler’s Hut looked not less but more remote, with the coming of cold weather. Hidden among foliage, there was something mysterious and inviting about it, as though it were the home of fairy-tale dwarves. Standing among towering tree trunks, its doors and windows marred by withered leaves, it looked desolate indeed. Desolate, that is, to all but little Mary Whiteoak. To her it was always fascinating and she wished she might have had it as her own, for a playhouse where she could be quite alone with her fancies.
In a year or two Mary was to be sent to a girls’ school, but at present she came, on five mornings a week, to Jalna, where Alayne gave her lessons in English, French, and history. Alayne did this not so much because she liked the child as because she had a natural bent for teaching and found the mind of this little one interesting. Piers gave her lessons in geography and arithmetic, Pheasant in sewing, and Christian in drawing. So that Mary was as busy as any eight-year-old need be. In truth she would have preferred to have fewer lessons, for she found life itself exciting and time never lagging.
One mild December morning Alayne was obliged to go to town, and Mary found herself unexpectedly free. She had been told to wait at Jalna till she was called for, but she decided that she would take a little walk in the direction of the Hut. There was in her an urge to visit the Hut which would not be denied. So she set out, walking sedately over the frozen ground till she drew near the path leading to the Hut. Then she began to run.
The door stuck against the ice along its sill, but she was able to open it and, without fear, stepped inside.
The Hut slumbered in a strange twilight, even though the sun was shining. It was so dim, so small, so tidy, that Mary’s heart felt ready to burst with the sense of owning it, of belonging to it. Nothing she might find inside would have surprised her. But there was only twilight stillness, and a chill that penetrated her warm clothes. She remembered how Dennis had lighted candles there, and she saw that a fire was laid in the little stone fireplace. She found matches an
d touched the flame of one of them to the kindling. It was damp and was slow to ignite; but she blew into it and presently a crackling blaze was born. When Mary saw this blaze and its reflection on different objects in the room she gave a little cry of joy, and skipped about like a lamb at play.
Soon the room grew so warm that she threw off her coat and scarf. There was a sink and a tap in the kitchen. Mary filled the kettle and put it on the little oil stove. She intended to make some coffee, for she had found in the cupboard a bottle of Nescafé, and a tin of concentrated cream. Tea she drank every day, but coffee was a rare treat.
She was not quite sure how to make it, because the printing on the label had become blurred. But she was determined that it should not be weak. She put what she considered plenty into the coffeepot, then filled it up with boiling water. It was a large pot, and she wished she might have some guests to drink it up — not ordinary human beings but people out of a fairy tale, such as Humpty Dumpty or the Mad Hatter.
She chose the prettiest cup in the cupboard, poured coffee into it, then added cream. She drew up a chair and seated herself at table, waiting for the drink to cool. She had discovered a tin half full of Romary biscuits, and these she had arranged on a blue plate. Her heart was filled with happiness. She hummed a little nameless tune, and from the eave the dripping of melting snow made an agreeable accompaniment.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 525