Then Clara put all her own love, all her hopes from her. She laid her hand on his knee and said:
“Renny, you must go to her. There is nothing else for it. In a separation like this one of the two must throw pride aside and make the first move to reconciliation. I think you ought to be that one. She went away and left you. Now, I make my guess that she is waiting — hoping for you to go and bring her home. You have told me that Adeline was to go to her. Why don’t you take the child yourself? Why don’t you take her and say to your wife — ‘Here I am with our child! Are you coming back to us or aren’t you? Does our past love mean nothing to you?’ I think you should make her understand that she’s got to come back to you or — give you up forever.” On the last words Clara’s voice broke and unaccustomed tears filled her eyes.
He laid his hand on hers which still rested on his knee. He was deeply touched by her obvious emotion. He said, with rather a twisted smile:
“You think that would bring her to time?”
“I think you ought to do something and do it right away. It’s too miserable, the way you are going on. I can see how unhappy you are. You have enough on your mind — enough to bear — without estrangement from the wife you love, thrown in!”
“And you think I should go without sending her any word? Just as I walked in on you today?”
Oh, this turning of the screw! Clara bit her lip and looked at him dully in her pain.
“Yes,” she said, “just as you walked in today. Only with a heart full of love.” Now she had done everything for him she could do. Surely she had in a measure repaid the long years of friendship, of comfort and support he had given her — the short months of passion!
“Clara!” he exclaimed. “You can’t think how much I care for you! I shall do just as you say. I always have taken your advice, haven’t I?”
She squeezed his knee then withdrew her hand. “Good. But I haven’t been one to give advice, have I? I’m not that sort of woman. And I’m the last one to give advice in affairs of the heart but — in this case — I feel that I am talking sound sense. If you and Alayne don’t watch you are going to have your lives crumbling in ruins about you. And that’s an awful thing, believe me.”
She got up and went suddenly to the window. He followed and stood close beside her. He said in a muffled voice:
“Don’t think I shall ever forget what has been between us. You were beautiful and kind and — I shall never forget.”
“Don’t!” she exclaimed hoarsely.
A motorcar turned in at the gate and she saw her brother alight from it. She switched on the light and saw Renny’s face vivid and expectant beside her. She put out her hand and touched him caressingly on the cheek, then turned to the door which now opened.
Her brother was a small, spare, rather weazened man. He had been brought up in luxury with the expectation of inheriting a fortune. The loss of his father’s money had embittered him as misfortune had never embittered Clara. From extravagance he had turned, with the strength of a single-minded nature, to penuriousness. He was constantly worrying over the amount of grain his leghorns demolished in order to produce eggs. They were such fragile little birds and so insatiable!
Now, as he came in, he noticed that only one light was burning and looked pleased. Then he saw Renny and showed his surprise.
“My brother, Duncan,” said Clara. “Duncan, this is Mr. Whiteoak. You’ve heard me speak of him.”
Duncan twinkled up at Renny, gripped his hand and said, in a high-pitched voice:
“I am very glad to meet you. My sister and her husband were greatly indebted to you. Well — I’m very glad! It’s been a filthy day at the market. And I got very poor prices.”
He talked on, scarcely stopping to draw breath. It was delightful, he said, to have someone besides his sister to talk to. With unaffected heartiness he begged Renny to stay to supper. And Renny would have stayed but for something in Clara’s eyes. She did not want him to stay, he felt sure of that. Her brother insisted on showing him his poultry. By the light of a lantern they inspected the interior of rows of poultry-houses, where pouting pullets peered down at them from under dangling blood-red combs. Duncan pounced on two eggs hidden in the straw of the nests and railed against the carelessness of the hired man who had left them there to freeze. He confided to Renny that Clara was and always had been an extravagant woman. Yet, in spite of his meanness, Renny liked the little man. And he liked Renny and, though he had driven far that day, insisted on taking him to the station. Under his twinkling eyes Renny and Clara said goodbye.
As he strode along the road to Jalna his heavy soles crushed the nobbles of ice into which the slush had frozen. There was a full, white moon dipping her way through the shining scales of a mackerel sky. The trees about the house stood like pointed black towers touched with silver. There were lights in most of the rooms and a spiral of smoke uncurled itself from each chimney. He felt a new hope in him, a fresh strength. That was what Clara did. She freed him. His gratitude flowed back to her. He thought — “If only I could do something for her! If only she could have a different life!”
But the thought of her was driven from his mind by the sight of a pale figure moving across the lawn toward the silver birch tree. He went quickly to it and discovered Sarah, wrapped in a grey squirrel coat, a fur toque on her head.
She made as though to avoid him but, when she found she could not, she faced him with her enigmatic smile.
“Well,” he said, “it’s an odd time for you to be prowling about!”
“Prowling!” she repeated softly. “That’s a strange word to use. It sounds as though you grudged me a foothold.”
He returned, almost complainingly — “How can I help it when I know what is in your mind? You’re not like an ordinary person taking the air. I feel that you have unaccountable things in your mind.”
At this she looked pleased. “What sort of things?”
“Well — spying on Finch, for one thing.”
“That’s not unaccountable.”
“It is to me. I can’t understand how any woman who has pride can so hang on to a man who wants to be free. He’s shown you by every means in his power that he does not want to see you.”
“But surely I may look in on him!”
“In that room? Were you looking in the window?”
“Yes. He’s there. With his uncles. He looks so young and sweet.”
“Sarah,” said Renny solemnly, “you must never do that again!”
“Very well, I promise…. What else do you think I had in my mind?”
He gave a grim laugh. “We’ll not put that into words. All I have to say about that is — the sooner you get it out of your mind the better.” He turned on her suddenly, almost savagely. “Finch will never live with you again! You will never own Jalna. Remember that!”
She flinched like a child that is threatened but the smile still flickered over her face. Merlin, inside the house, had heard Renny’s voice and had scratched on the door till Rags let him and Floss out. They came racing across the snow, filling the air with their joyful barks. Somewhere from behind the house the sheepdog joined them, adding his deep tones to the welcome. In the stable a stallion neighed. Finch’s figure appeared in the window of the drawing room.
“There he is!” exclaimed Sarah and began to run toward the house.
But Renny caught her by her fur coat and held her fast.
“Have you no shame?” he said sternly. “Do you want to go home by the road or through the ravine?”
“Through the ravine,” she answered meekly.
“The snow must be deep there.”
“I came that way.”
He led her through the gate and to the top of the path. The beautiful stark shadows of the trees were penciled against the snow. Sarah’s face looked wanly beautiful in the moonlight. As Renny stood supporting her on the slippery path a vibration of hate that was almost akin to love passed between them. He released her and she descended the path s
lowly, holding to tree after tree as she went, the silver-grey fur of her coat strangely one with the scene.
He returned with his dogs to the house. Inside he looked sharply into Finch’s face, discovered that he had seen nothing. He said:
“I’m going down to New York tomorrow. I’m taking Adeline to visit her mother.”
“This is news!” said Ernest. “Have you known long that you are going? Alma should have time to get the child ready. I’m not sure that she has appropriate clothes.”
“I can buy her something there, if necessary. Alayne will attend to that.”
Nicholas said — “This is very good news, Renny. I hope that you will bring Alayne back with you. I don’t at all like the way things have been going. You tell her for me that I think she ought to come home.”
“It’s never been anything more than a temporary separation,” said Renny stiffly.
Nicholas’s heavy eyebrows went up.
Ernest said — “If you are travelling by day — and I think that would be best for Adeline — you should let Alma know at once. She is such a slack creature that I dare say the poor child doesn’t own a clean shift.”
Renny went up the stairs to the nursery two steps at a time. The children were asleep. Alma was with the Wragges and Bessie in the basement. Renny took an electric torch from his pocket, opened the door of the clothes cupboard and turned its beam on the small garments hanging there. The dresses were in good condition as Adeline was generally in riding breeches. There was the little fur-trimmed coat she wore on Sundays. He went to the chest of drawers and peered into one after another. What he saw made him scowl. He put out the light, tiptoed from the room, and descended the stairs. This time to the basement. Alma went to bed with red eyes.
XXIII
ADELINE’S FIRST JOURNEY
SHE WAS WOKEN by Alma while it was still dark. She did not know whether it were night or morning and she was almost afraid of Alma’s great shadow looming on the ceiling. Without preliminary Alma lifted her, rosy and warm, from the snugness of her cot. She hung limp on Alma’s hands like a sleepy puppy.
“Wake up! My goodness, what a sleepyhead! I wish I was you. You’re going on the train today.”
“Where?” Adeline’s eyes flew open.
“To New York to see your Momma.”
“Me too! Want to go see my Momma,” cried Roma. She had forgotten all her French and now chattered freely in English.
“You can’t,” said Alma. “Your Momma isn’t in New York.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“But I must go too.”
“You lie down and keep warm, like a good little girl. I’ve got my hands full.”
Alma was in a state of excitement. She had been up since five, ironing the things she had washed before she went to bed. She had sewn on buttons, polished little shoes. A suitcase was already packed with Adeline’s clothes.
She ate her breakfast sitting opposite her father, the light still burning above the table though the sky was growing blue. With the fatalism of childhood she never questioned this upheaval in her life, but behaved as though she had known all along that she was to go to New York. But unlike some children she was not too excited to eat. She munched her way steadily through her breakfast, her eyes scarcely leaving Renny’s face. He was preoccupied, nervous. He kept throwing scraps to his dogs, talking to them in endearing terms, as though he were to be long separated from them.
Ernest came down in his dressing gown, carrying his own travelling rug which he insisted Renny must take for Adeline’s comfort. He remained to put her into her little hat and coat and draw on her tiny gloves. She was to go upstairs, Nicholas had sent word, to say goodbye to him. The car was at the door.
Renny stood by it looking at his watch. Still Ernest did not return with the child. Rags had gone to the basement, dragging the dogs with him.
“My God!” Renny shouted through the open door, “do you want me to miss my train? Uncle Ernest, bring that child down!”
There was no answer. Merlin, escaped from Rags, came round the outside of the house and climbed into the car. Renny caught him by the tail, took him in his arms and carried him to the top of the basement stairs.
“Rags, you blasted fool!” he shouted, and delivered the dog to him. He returned, swearing along the hall. He looked at his watch.
He bounded up the stairs, met Ernest mildly interrogatory at the top, snatched Adeline from him and ran with her in his arms to the car.
“Now,” he said to Wright, “step on it!”
They shot down the drive, through the gate and along the icy road. The sun rose red across the lake which steamed like a glassy caldron. Gulls flew in and out of the rose-tinted mist uttering thin cries. Adeline was in a state of mingled bewilderment and bliss.
This state continued all day, with now one emotion predominant, now the other. She was swept into a new life, into undreamed-of things, into a state of intimacy with her father never before achieved.
But no matter how great her bewilderment she was always mistress of herself. As soon as they had arranged their things in the train and she had found out what was expected of her, she behaved like a seasoned traveller.
Renny was proud of her — of her looks and her behaviour.
He was proudly conscious of the admiring glances she received when he led her through the long rows of carriages to the restaurant car. Many eyes turned toward them as they sat at table there, the small child composed, making animated conversation with him in an almost unchildlike way; the man attentive to her but nothing of the doting father in his aspect. The two were complete in their relation.
She grew very tired as the day wore on, very hot in the overheated carriage. He showed her the pictures in his newspaper. For hours she looked out of the window at the snowy landscape. Then he laid her on the seat with Ernest’s rug folded under her head and she fell into a deep sleep. When she woke it was night, a strange night of shifting lights, roaring darkness and changing faces. Her hair clung moistly to her head, her cheeks were blazing. Renny stood her on the seat and put on her coat and hat. She stared bewildered as the negro porter brushed his clothes and dusted his shoes. She had never seen a negro before. All day this one had been nice to her, leant over showing his white teeth, brought her a coloured travelling guide to look at.
“Goodbye!” she called to him over Renny’s shoulder. “Goodbye, and good-luck!”
There were more people in the marble station than she had dreamed were in the whole world. She clasped her arms tightly round Renny’s neck and wondered however they should find her mother in such a place.
Renny had hoped to go straight to Alayne that night but when he considered how tired the child was and the question of Miss Archer’s being able to put them up at such short notice, he decided to go to a hotel.
It was the first time Adeline had ever been in one. She had not known that there were houses larger than Jalna, except, of course, the King’s Castle, and she was almost frightened by the innumerable doors opening from the unbelievable length of the corridors. She marched along sturdily, grasping Renny’s hand. She thought of food and wondered if ever she would get something more to eat. She thought of milk, and thought — “I could drink a whole cow-full!”
At last a door was thrown open. The porters carried in their bags and they found themselves in a bedroom looking out on a hundred lighted skyscrapers.
She watched Renny attack the radiator, heard him talking to it under his breath, heard its terrible hissing, sizzling retorts, drew in a deep breath of relief when he threw open the window, raised her voice and howled at the top of it as famine implacably attacked her.
He came to her aghast.
“What’s the matter? Have you a pain?”
“No!” she howled out of a square mouth.
He caught her by the arm. “Now, look here, no tantrums —”
She gripped her stomach and glared at him out of streaming eyes.
/> “Hungry?”
She made a gurgling assent.
Oh, the long wait for food! Oh, the unspeakable bliss when it arrived! A glittering damask cloth was spread before her. A waiter disclosed a tureen of soup enough to serve four. There were biscuits and custard and little cakes. She felt that she could go on eating forever, beaming at her father out of grateful eyes.
But quite suddenly she could eat no more and wanted nothing but to go to bed. She felt a revival of excitement at sight of the glaring white bathroom, at sound of the volcanic taps. The water came out raging, steaming. Surely she would be boiled alive!
It was amazing to think that Renny should give her her bath. It was glorious to see the grimy lather on her hands. He bent over her, in shirt and trousers, lathering her well. He rubbed her down, whistling through his teeth as he did so, like a groom.
Oh, how she loved him! Naked she rolled in his arms, hugging him as though she would throttle him, laughing into his face, shrieking with joy when he tickled her.
He had a time of it to quiet her but at last she lay in bed with closed eyes looking remote and touchingly young and weak.
He rang for a maid, asked her to tidy the room and keep an eye on the child. He brushed his own moist hair, put on his coat and went down to dinner.
“I’d call it a day!” he said to himself.
XXIV
THE HOUSE ON THE HUDSON
IT SEEMED TO Alayne the longest winter she had ever known. When she had left Jalna she had pictured a new, active life, a life in which her true self which she felt had been hampered, warped, in the years in that house, might again expand. In the intellectual activity she would free herself from the chains of her life with Renny, heal herself from the galling remembrance of Clara Lebraux. She would mingle with the sort of people she had known before her first marriage, people who read the new books, saw the new plays and discussed them, people who took a broad and detached view of life.
Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course Page 104