“But how can he be so wicked?”
“He’s scarcely human,” returned Swift. “He’s almost disembodied cruelty, delighting in suffering.” He could not keep his thoughts from Adeline. As the play went on, he imagined he saw her emerging from childhood to womanhood before his eyes. He pictured her as a flower bud forced open by the fierce passions of the play. Did she understand the half of its implications? he wondered. Maurice’s cheeks burned. He wished with all his heart he had not brought her. She was the only child in the audience. In the intermission people were staring at her. He felt angry at Swift for letting him bring her. He threw him an accusing look as they were smoking a cigarette in the foyer. They had left Adeline in her seat.
“If I’d had any idea —” Maurice said grimly.
“Idea of what?”
“You know what I mean.”
“If you mean that some of the expressions used aren’t fit for a nice young girl to hear, you can stop worrying. Adeline is too excited about the play to notice them and wouldn’t understand if she did.”
“I hope not.”
When they were back in their seats, Maurice asked Adeline if she were still enjoying the play.
“Oh, yes, even more. But I don’t understand how Othello can be so cruel to Desdemona. He’s so splendid and he really loves her.”
“I suppose jealousy made him brutal.”
The curtain rose. Adeline gave her passionate attention to the players. As the climax in its horror drew near, Swift was aware that Adeline’s body was rigid. It strained upward, as though she would rise and fly to the stage and take part in the scene. When the massive Moor in his sumptuous robe drew near the bed on which Desdemona slept, and he said:
I’ll not shed her blood,
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow
And smooth as monumental alabaster,
Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light.
Swift groped for Adeline’s hand in the dark, found it and held it close. Again his mind was on her rather than on the play and he felt a cruel pleasure in her pain. Yet he longed to comfort her — to kiss her — hold her in his arms.
When the final curtain fell she seemed too dazed to realize that all was over. Maurice had to find her hat which had fallen to the floor. Even the cool night air did not change her. They went to a restaurant and ordered sandwiches and coffee. Adeline shaded her eyes with her hand. She could not eat but drank the coffee. Now and again Swift glanced at her. He and Maurice discussed the play in low tones. On the homeward journey in the train she sat silent, looking out into the night, seeing there the tragedy re-enacted. The young men were silent too. Maurice was troubled by seeing how deeply Adeline had been stirred. Swift was sensually savouring his own emotion, thinking that never before had he felt like this towards a girl.
At the gate of Jalna, Swift said, “If you’d like to get on, Maurice, I’ll take Adeline to the door and then take the path through the ravine, home.”
“Is that all right, Adeline?” asked Maurice.
“I don’t need anyone to take me.”
“Yes, you do,” said Swift. “It’s very dark.”
They got out of the car and watched Maurice drive away. The countryside was deeply quiet. The moon, past its prime, had risen but still was hidden behind the trees. The great hemlocks and balsams that bordered the drive, made it a black tunnel. Swift took Adeline’s hand and led her into it.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, trying to appear natural.
Her fingers clung to his but she said, “I couldn’t possibly get lost here. I know it like I know the palm of my hand.”
“I’ve been looking at your hands tonight and I think they’re the loveliest I’ve ever seen.”
She was pleased. “I got them from my great-grandmother. She lived to be a hundred and one.”
“I hope you don’t do that.” There was a tremor in his voice. “I can’t bear the thought of age in connection with you. I want you to live to your perfect maturity — then no more.”
“That’s a funny wish.”
They were halfway along the drive. “Shall we stop here for a bit and talk? It seems a shame to go indoors after such an evening. You did enjoy it, didn’t you, Adeline?”
She drew her hand from his and laid it against the trunk of a hemlock. She said, “I’ll never feel the same again. Everything will seem different.”
“You really saw tonight,” he said, “how glorious and how terrible love can be. Have you thought much about love?”
“No. I’m too young.”
He gave a little laugh. “Well, I’m not so young, but it seems to me I’ve never really thought about it till tonight.”
“But you’d seen that play before!”
“It wasn’t the play.”
There was a silence, vibrant with the mysterious sounds of the night.
“I wish I could explain you to yourself,” he said, “and explain the effect you have on me.” He thought a moment then he went on, “I can imagine a time when the soul wandered through every part of the human body and every part expressed the feeling of the soul. But now that time has disappeared and it’s only the rare person who shows obedience to the soul — even to the fingertips — like a kind of rhythm running through every movement. You are one of those people. Do you understand what I mean?”
“A little.”
“The faces of most young girls and most women are empty. If you looked behind them you’d find nothing. But yours is different. I can’t find out what’s there. Not yet. Is this queer sort of talk? But, oh, Adeline, I want to find out! I want to be the first to show you love.”
He took her in his arms and pressed his lips to her cheek. He put his hand on the back of her head and forced her face toward his. Now his passionate kisses were on her lips. For a moment she was too confused, too astonished to struggle. Then a sickening consciousness of the difference between this embrace and any that ever had been given her by the family, galvanized her. She became a fury of resistance. Swift was startled, enraged by her strength. She was like a strong boy. In the darkness he felt blind anger and desire. They wrestled, clasped together, like some nocturnal animal moving beneath the trees.
Freeing her lips she cried out, “Don’t! Don’t!”
He exclaimed, “Don’t you be a little fool!”
Renny, who had been unwilling to go to bed till Adeline was safely home, had wandered some distance from the house. Hearing the engine of the car he had hastened back to meet her. The padding of his steps across the lawn was unheard by the two. He pushed through the heavy boughs of the evergreens and was upon them, all his being alight with fury for the protection of his child.
He caught Swift by the collar and jerked him away from Adeline.
“Take this,” he said, almost quietly, and began to strike Swift repeatedly.
“Oh, Daddy!” gasped Adeline. “Oh, Daddy!” She did not know whether she cried out in relief at his coming or terror that he would kill Swift. It was so dark she could see nothing, but could just hear the thud of blows and Swift’s exclamations of rage and pain. He was helpless in Renny’s hands.
As Renny pushed him between the evergreens to the lawn, the moon rose above the tree tops and sent a flood of silver light over house and lawn. It showed Swift standing with distorted face, one side of it covered with blood. Renny stood nearby him, his attitude still threatening. In a strangled voice Swift got out:
“You God-damned brute! I’ll get even with you for this!”
“what?” exclaimed Renny, advancing a step. “what? Get even with me? If I broke every bone in your body, it would be no more than you deserve. Now, get out!”
Swift turned and crossed the lawn toward the road. He took out his handkerchief and mopped the blood from his face. He kept muttering in helpless rage as he went.
Adeline, in terrified fascination, had followed the men to the lawn. Renny turned to he
r:
“Come,” he said.
She moved toward him as though she would cast herself into his arms but he held her off.
“I want to talk to you,” he said. “Come into the house.”
He saw that she had dropped her little evening bag and he picked it up. Alayne had given it to her on her last birthday. It was the first thing of the sort she had possessed and she had cherished it. But now seeing it lying on the ground she felt nothing and would have gone into the house and left it there.
She followed Renny meekly, feeling dazed. They went quietly into the hall where the light still burned. The rest of the house slept in darkness. He led the way to the grandmother’s room, which Adeline now occupied, and turned on the light there. It looked strange to the child. Even her father’s face seemed the face of a stranger as he looked searchingly into her eyes and said:
“It’s lucky for you that you struggled against that man.”
She stared up at him speechless.
Anger against her flared into his eyes. “why don’t you say something?” he demanded. “what did you do to encourage him? Men don’t behave like that without some encouragement. Did you let him make love to you? what were you talking about? what did he say to you?”
Her eyes looked large and tragic against her white face. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do! what had he been saying to you?”
“He’d — been talking about —”
“Yes? Go on.”
“About my soul.”
“Your soul! Good God! what else?”
“About the play and about how terribly Othello loved Desdemona … I think … I’m not sure.”
“Othello! That man took you to see Othello?”
She had forgotten the deception, the lie. She hung her head. “Yes.”
He sprang forward and took her by the shoulders. “You said you were going to a moving picture, and all the while you knew it was to be Othello?”
“Yes.”
“Was Maurice there?”
“Yes.”
“You lied to your mother and to me. You went to a play you knew we’d not let you see. You spooned with that fellow in the dark —”
“No!” she shouted hoarsely. “I didn’t do that!”
He looked wildly about the room. His grandmother’s gold-headed ebony stick stood in a corner. Adeline had liked to see it there. Renny strode to it, grasped it and returned to her.
“No, no, Daddy!” she cried, in terror.
Three times he brought down the stick on her back. The door was thrown open and Alayne stood there in her nightdress. She threw herself on him. She thought: “He has gone out of his mind! Perhaps he will kill us.” who would come to her help? There were the two old men on the floor above and, far away on the top floor, Finch. Below in the basement there was Wragge. And Renny was so strong. With all her power she clung to him.
But he stood quietly now. He said, in a calm voice:
“You don’t understand, Alayne.”
“what is wrong?” she asked piteously.
“It’s this girl — our daughter,” he answered harshly. “She’s lied to us tonight. She did not go to a moving picture as she said she was. But went with Swift to see Othello. Othello, mind you! I waited up for her. I came on them in the darkness — in the black darkness of the drive — struggling together. It is well for her, I told her, that she was resisting him.”
An immense wave of relief swept over Alayne. His manner, his look, showed that he was sane. Nothing else seemed to matter. She took the ebony stick from his hand and replaced it in its corner. He stood quiet, his eyes fixed on Adeline. She had a white, stricken look.
Alayne spoke with authority. “Go to your room, Adeline. It’s very late for you. I’ll come up in a few minutes.”
Adeline raised her eyes to Renny’s face.
“Go up to bed,” he said.
She left the room, closing the door behind her.
Scarcely was the door shut when Alayne broke out: “Oh, how could you, Renny? How could you?”
“I had to,” he muttered. “I’ll make her more careful in the future.”
“But what were they doing?”
“It was dark, I tell you, and she was saying, ‘Don’t — don’t!’ How can I tell what led up to that?”
“Do you know how long they had been there?”
“Perhaps a quarter of an hour. I heard the car. I was down on the bridge. I came up and heard their voices.”
“Did she seem frightened?”
“Yes.”
“But why are you so angry with her?”
He said violently, “Do you expect me to pat my daughter on the back when she has lied about where she spent the evening? How do I know what encouragement she gave that man? You have seen Othello. You saw it with me — as a married woman. What do you think of the lines — of the scenes — for a young girl’s entertainment? She saw a negro in the part! what do you think of that?”
“I think Adeline is an innocent child. I’m as sorry as you are that —”
“As sorry as I am!” he broke in. “If you were nearly as sorry as I am, you wouldn’t stand there — as cool as a cucumber. I tell you, I’ll take a stick to her back every time she steps off the bee-line I shall lay down for her!”
“We can’t have scenes like this. I have faith in Adeline. She has a strong nature.”
“what do you know of the life of today?”
“I know something of human nature,” she answered steadily. “I’ve been married to two Whiteoaks and lived in your family for twenty years.”
“That has nothing to do with this case,” he said. He laid his hands on the footboard of the bed and stared at the head with its painted flowers and fruit.
A sudden picture of his grandmother lying in the bed came before him. A smile crossed his face.
Alayne looked down at his hands. She exclaimed in horror, “what is that on your hand?”
He looked at his left hand.
“No! The other one!”
He spread it out. “That! It’s blood.”
She had been pale but now every vestige of colour left her face. She did not speak but just looked at him in horror.
“That swine Swift’s blood. I’ll wager he’ll keep away from here in future.”
“Oh!” Her breath escaped in a sharp exhalation.
He turned toward her. “what did you think? That it was Adeline’s blood?”
“I don’t know what I thought,” she answered, controlling herself, “but I want you to go this instant and wash it off.”
“Very well.”
“Do you know what we did?” she exclaimed. “We forgot that Adeline sleeps in this room now and sent her upstairs to bed! I scarcely knew what I was saying.”
“It is small wonder if our minds are confused,” he said. “where do you suppose she has gone?”
“I’ll find her and bring her back to her room.”
“No petting, mind. She’s in disgrace.”
Alayne ignored this and left the room. He also left, going down the basement stairs as though it were noonday and not the middle of the night.
Alayne saw Adeline sitting on the top step of the stairs, her forehead against her knees. Alayne laid her hand on the newel post. She felt weak and shaken. She called softly:
“Adeline, come down. When your father and I sent you upstairs we forgot that you sleep in Grandmother’s room. You must come back and go to bed.”
Adeline rose obediently and descended the stairs. When her face was on a level with her mother’s, Alayne looked into it with a pang. It was so pale, so frightened. Poor child, she had had a shock. Alayne laid her hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“You see what a night you have brought on us all,” she said.
Adeline’s face was contorted as though she were about to cry but she did not dare to begin to cry. She was afraid of what she might do.
“Adeline, promise me that never — never in your life, wi
ll you do such a thing again.”
“I promise.” Stifling a sob she pushed past Alayne and ran into her room, shutting the door behind her.
Alayne thought, “If only she had thrown herself into my arms! But never shall we be near each other.” Her thoughts flew back to herself at Adeline’s age, the well-ordered life of an only child with her loving parents, the confidence between herself and her mother, the long talks, the complete understanding, the gentleness of her father. Now, in this house, she had given birth to children she could not understand. She loved a man whose nature was as mysterious to her as a storm-swept cavern by the sea. She climbed the stairs slowly and went to her room.
In the little washroom in the basement, Renny turned the rasping taps on and off. As he dried his hands on the rough towel he exclaimed aloud, “By God, I wish I’d given him more! I let him off too easy. I’ve a mind to go over to Vaughanlands and pull him out of bed and thrash him again.”
A scuffling step sounded on the brick floor of the passage. Rags appeared in the doorway in his pyjamas. Through a rent in the jacket his thin shoulder protruded.
“Was you wanting anything, sir?” he enquired, with an inquisitive look.
Renny let the water run from the basin and threw the towel into it. “No. Did I wake you?”
“Well, I’m not sure, sir. But it ain’t usual for you to be washing down ’ere at this hour.”
“Don’t ever have a daughter, Rags.”
“Trust me, sir.”
“Boys are all right, but girls —”
“There isn’t a finer little lidy in the countryside than Miss Adeline, sir. I ’ope she ’asn’t been doing anythink to annoy you, sir.”
“Oh, not especially, but I hate to see her growing up at this particular time.”
“It’s a lousy world, sir, and no mistake.”
“Well, go back to bed, Rags. The night’s well on.”
“Couldn’t I get you a drink of something?”
“No, no, go to bed.”
Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna Page 27