Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna
Page 58
“It’s too far.”
“No, no, I’d love to. I can’t sit still for very long. Just a minute!” Before he could answer she was gone.
He lay on his back on the deck, watching from narrowed eyes the black streamer of smoke that spread, at first dense, from the funnel, then wavered and was lost in the blue.
Considering the flights of steps she must have descended and mounted she was back in an incredibly short time. Her breath came quickly. A brightness, as of the morning at sea, shone from her. She proudly put the photograph in his hands. Now he was standing beside her.
“what a fine-looking man,” he exclaimed, “and what a lovely horse!”
“Isn’t she? Don’t you think I’m like my father?”
It was plain that she wanted to be told that she was the image of this hard-featured, bony, weather-beaten parent. She — so lovely and with such a tender curve to her cheek! But, if she wanted it, she must have it.
“I see a striking resemblance,” said Fitzturgis.
She smiled happily. “Oh, yes, it’s there. And the funny thing is that he is the image of his grandmother. He and she and I all have red hair. His has never turned grey and I hope it never will.”
“Have you ever cared for any person outside your family?” he asked abruptly.
She gave this serious thought and then answered, — “No, I don’t think I have. There were school friends, of course, but I forgot them as soon as I was away from them. I don’t exchange reams of letters with other girls.”
“Your mother,” he said, as they leant against the rail, looking down at the tumbling jade-green waves, “tell me about your mother.”
“She is beautiful and clever. I can’t compare with her in either way.”
“And you’re an only child?”
“I have a small brother. He’s thirteen and he is clever too, but — well, I can’t explain Archer. You’d have to know him to believe in him. He’s cold and hard and yet he is sort of clinging. Now tell me about you. Are you an only child?”
At once he withdrew behind the barrier of the years between them. He could not pour out descriptions of his family as she did. In fact he shrank from talking of himself. All he could say was:
“I have a sister, married and living in America. I’ve just been over for a short visit. Three weeks. I hadn’t seen her since before the war.”
“All those years,” she said, “and you stayed only three weeks!”
“It is impossible for me to be away for long,” he said, a little stiffly.
“I suppose it is the livestock,” she said sympathetically.
“Yes. The livestock.”
That set her to talking about the livestock at Jalna, the horses in particular. Never before had she met anyone in whom she had wanted to confide, for, as the days of the voyage went on and they saw more of each other, she told him of her thoughts, of her unsophisticated ideas about life, in conversations that were absorbing to them both; to her because of this new experience of having a man friend — a man, not just a boy like Maurice; to Fitzturgis because of the pleasure, half-tender, half-sensual, of watching her vivid face, of glimpsing the woman who was coming into being. There was something in the Irishman’s intense face that captivated Adeline’s fancy. When she was alone in her cabin, his face would come before her, when she woke in the night to the sound of the waves, she saw him — now looking at her with those intent eyes — now gazing tranquilly out to sea.
Finch and Maurice liked him too. They invited him to share their table. The four played deck tennis together, sat together at the horse races; Maurice and Adeline danced together, for the other two did not dance. Dancing with her, Maurice remarked:
“You’ve got very friendly with Mait, haven’t you?”
By now they called him by this abbreviation of his Christian name. There was a note of jealousy in his voice.
“Well, haven’t you? You were the first to call him Mait.”
“One has to call him something and his name is rather a jawbreaker.”
“But you do like him, don’t you, Mooey?”
“Yes. But you’re usually standoffish with men. Humphrey Bell feels it, I know.”
“He makes me shy, he’s so shy himself.”
Maurice steered her among a group of Irish-Americans bouncing through the dance. “Remember,” he said, “that you’re in my charge.”
“The dickens I am! Uncle Finch is looking after me.”
“I’m the one your doings most concern, Adeline.”
“I don’t need anyone to look after me,” she laughed.
Into the minds of both there came simultaneously the memory of a summer’s night three years before, when Adeline was no more than a child. Maurice had taken her to the theatre to see Othello and with them had gone a man named Swift who was at that time tutoring Maurice for his matriculation examinations. Swift had volunteered to take Adeline up the long driveway of Jalna to the house, while Maurice went on to his home. In the darkness of the hemlocks Swift had suddenly made amorous advances to the young girl, taking her in his arms and violently kissing her. She had fought herself free and Renny, waiting for his daughter, had come upon them and knocked Swift down. Maurice had got into trouble with Renny and with his own father, for he had taken her to the play without permission. It had been a humiliating remembrance to him and now he wondered if Adeline ever gave it a thought. He doubted it, for he looked on her as much less sensitive than himself.
It had, in truth, made a wound on her spirit that was still not perfectly healed. The scar was there and the scar was tender. Even the most tentative advance by a man had caused her to withdraw. In dancing she did not abandon herself to the music as it was in her nature to do. She was guarded in her acquaintance, even with boys of her own age. She had felt both curiosity and fear toward older men.
But with Fitzturgis it was different. She was conscious of a guardedness in him. Though he watched her so intently, listened to her so eagerly, sought her out at every opportunity, there was always a reticence on his side that gave her a feeling of safety. There was exhilaration in his companionship. It made her happy just to stand beside him looking at the sea. She was glad to think he lived not far from Maurice.
“And do you live all alone?” she asked, toward the end of the voyage.
He hesitated and then answered, — “Sometimes my mother comes to stay with me. She’s there now.”
“And she looks after things while you are away?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to meet her.
“You must,” he answered without enthusiasm.
A feeling of sadness came to her. He does not mind if he never sees me again, she thought. She could not contain her sadness at this thought and her eyes filled with tears.
The shadow of a gull passed across the sunny deck. “Look,” exclaimed Fitzturgis, as though in relief, “a message from the land!” But she stood gazing at the place where the gull’s shadow had passed. Her eyes were clouded; the feeling of confidence she had had in this new and exciting friendship was shaken. She became conscious of the difference in their ages and of the accumulation of experiences he had passed through and — she had known so little of life!
But when night came it was different. It was the last night aboard for those who were disembarking at Cobh. They were a mixed lot — Irish-Americans of the peasant class returning for their first visit to the Old Land since the war, a group of nuns, a few priests, an Irish countess, an Englishman who owned land in Ireland, the three Canadians and Fitzturgis. He and Adeline sat in deckchairs in a sheltered corner. They were wrapped in rugs, for the night was cold. There was a gentle movement to the ship, as though she swayed to the sound of the music from within. A few dark figures could be made out standing by the rail in the bow, as though to get the feel of Ireland before it came into sight. Adeline, snug inside her wrapping, felt the excitement a butterfly might feel, still folded in its cocoon, but intending the very next morning to go forth into
the world. Little ripples of excitement ran, now and again, through her nerves, but sometimes she lay just expectant, giving herself up to the pleasure of the gentle movement of the ship, the muted sound of the music. She wore her travelling jacket and skirt.
She wondered if Fitzturgis was feeling the same or comparably the same sensations as she. She put out her hand and just touched him.
“what were you thinking?” she asked.
His voice came muffled, as though his hand were against his mouth. “Of you, my darling.”
The word darling was not bandied among the Whiteoaks. When they said it they meant it. Now Adeline could scarcely believe her ears. She thought she must have misheard.
“Did you mean that, Mait?” she whispered.
Now his hand came through the folds of the rug. He caught hers and held it.
“Yes,” he said low.
She gave a little laugh of ravishment. “Oh, I’m glad,” she breathed. “I was thinking of you too — darling.”
She was so inexperienced, knew so little what to say, that the best she could do was to repeat what he had said. But though it was imitation it went through him like fire.
“I think of nothing but of you,” he said to the pale disc that was her face.
“I’m just the same — I think of nothing but you.”
He threw back the rug and put both arms about her.
“Oh, Adeline,” he cried, “if you knew how I’m longing to pour out my love to you.”
“You don’t need to,” she whispered. “I can feel it through your arms.”
His arms tightened on her. He gave a deep sigh which the waves caught and magnified, drew out till it was almost a moan.
She laid her head against his. “Oh, Mait, I’m so happy. I knew this was going to be a wonderful voyage but I never dreamed it would be as wonderful as this.”
“Adeline — I loved you the moment I saw you.”
“Tell me all about your feelings and then I’ll tell you all about mine.”
He threw apart his rug and emerged from its cocoon, not as a butterfly but as a moth in the dark salt air.
“I can’t talk about it,” he said. “I can’t.”
“We don’t need words,” she acquiesced. “I know what you are thinking.”
“what am I thinking?” he demanded.
“Of me … and of all the lovely times that lie ahead of us.”
“Adeline,” he said, almost roughly, “you can have no idea what is in my mind.”
She reached out and caught his hand and laid her cheek on it. “Darling Mait,” she whispered against it.
A figure detached itself from the darkness and came to them. It was Maurice and he said in an icy voice, — “I’m going to turn in. You had better too, Adeline.”
She felt angry. Why should Mooey come barging in like that? She felt like telling him to run off to bed if he wanted to, but to leave her and the man she loved alone. But the habit of obedience was still on her. She wished Maitland would say that they two loved each other. She would stand up there beside him and look Maurice in the eyes — tell him she would stay on deck all night if she wished.
The deck steward had folded and stacked away all the chairs but theirs. He lingered ostentatiously in the near distance. Now he came closer and picked up the rug Fitzturgis had dropped and began to fold it even as he asked, — “Finished with this, sir?”
Maurice, with an air of cold proprietorship, unwrapped Adeline and tossed her rug on the chair’s end.
“Goodnight, Fitzturgis,” he said, though he had been calling him “Mait” for three days.
Adeline stood irresolute, not knowing what to do. Fitzturgis went to the rail and looked down on the seething milk-white foam. The deck steward was briskly dragging away the chairs, as though his life depended on getting them stacked within the minute.
Adeline went to Fitzturgis’ side. “Goodnight,” she said. “See you in the morning, Mait.” He turned to her.
His answer was inaudible, though his lips moved. The look in his eyes was an embrace. With a happy step she went down the deck with Maurice, through the heavy door and along the narrow passage to her cabin.
There, with her hand on the door, she turned and faced him.
“whatever is the matter with you?” she asked. “why did you come glowering at me the way you did?”
“Glowering!” he repeated, angrily. “Glowering!”
“Yes. You came down the deck like a thundercloud.”
“what were you doing?” he demanded.
“Well, what was I doing?”
“Snuggling up to that fellow!”
“why not — if I want to?”
“Adeline — what’s come over you?”
“You sound like an outraged parent.”
Maurice went pale. Then he asked quietly, — “Do you imagine you love this Fitzturgis?”
“I don’t imagine it. I know it.”
With a sob in his throat he broke out, — “You know how much I’ve cared for you, Adeline.”
“That isn’t what I call love.”
“Not on your part, perhaps,” he retorted hotly. “On mine it is.”
She gave a little laugh. “Oh, Mooey, you don’t know what love is. You’re just a boy.”
As though he had been struck he drew back. He wheeled and left her, almost running into the stewardess carrying a tray. “Sorry,” he muttered, and hurried on to the cabin he shared with Finch.
Finch was propped up in bed reading a crime novel. His mousy-fair hair hung untidy over his forehead.
“Got all your packing done?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you find Adeline?”
“Yes.”
“what’s the matter?” Finch put down his book and stared at Maurice.
“I found her with Fitzturgis. His arms were about her and she was snuggling up to him. She tells me she loves him.”
No one was more satisfactory than Finch for the receiving of shocking news. Shock struck him through and through.
“My God!” he said loudly. “Her father will blame me for this!”
“We both were supposed to look after her but she’s been too much for us.”
“what did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything.”
“where is she?”
“In her cabin.”
Finch looked at his watch. “It’s too late for me to go to her.” Relief came to his distraught expression. “Well, we shall land in the morning and that will put an end to it. She may never see him again.”
Maurice said grimly:
“Fitzturgis lives less than fifty miles from Glengorman.”
“Probably it’s just a shipboard affair,” Finch said hopefully.
“Adeline isn’t like that. If you’d seen her face you’d realize she is earnest. You know, Finch” (of late Maurice had dropped the “Uncle”) “you know, I’ve always thought a great deal of Adeline. I’ve made plans. All the family has liked the idea. This is pretty hard on me.”
“I know it is, Mooey, and I’m terribly sorry.”
Maurice took off his jacket and hung it up so that he might turn his back to Finch.
Finch went on in a high complaining voice, — “This affair is just plain ridiculous. The girl can’t be in love with him. She just imagines she is.”
“I tell you she’s in earnest. I’ve never known anyone who knows their own mind better than Adeline. Besides — he’s a very attractive fellow.”
“He’s years older than she is.”
“That’s one thing that attracts her. She looks on me as a boy — and despises me for it.”
“Nonsense. It simply is that the affair has the glamour of shipboard. She’ll soon forget it.”
“I wish I thought so.”
“Has Fitzturgis talked of himself to you, Mooey? Is he well off?”
“He’s talked of his Army life. Not much about his private doings. I gather that he’s not very well off.”
“He ought to understand her — she’s enough like him.” The lights turned out, they lay in silence with the moonlight coming in at the portholes, and the ship gently rising and falling on the dark waves. Each lay occupied with his own thoughts — Maurice jealous and hurt — Finch recalling the coming of his love for Sarah and wishing he might protect Adeline from that emotion.
XII
BACK AT VAUGHNLANDS
Raikes stood at the end of the kitchen table, his knuckles resting on it, a melancholy droop to his mouth. Facing him were Eugene Clapperton, his wife, and his sister-in-law, their three pairs of eyes fixed on the plaster that was crossed over the bridge of Raikes’ nose. He was saying:
“I know I done wrong to take out the Cadillac but this was the way of it; I’d gone to the club on me bicycle as usual, and when I was nearly home I remembered I’d left me wallet in the room where I’d been playin’ Bingo. I thought how much quicker I could fetch it if I took the car, but I’d been told not to, so I rode all the way back at top speed and it’s lucky I was to find the wallet in a dark corner, safe and sound. I was on the way back home when a truck come of a sudden out o’ the dark and knocked me clean into a ditch. The driver gave me no heed at all, but went on his way, leavin’ me for dead. That’s the way me nose was broke.”
“Oh,” gasped Gem Clapperton, “the brute!”
Raikes turned his eyes gently on her. “He was that,” he agreed.
“Was your bicycle smashed?” asked Althea.
“No, miss. It’s a quare thing but the bicycle was not hurt. Just the bridge of me nose broke.”
“what next?” demanded Eugene Clapperton, his eyes boring into Raikes.
“Well, sir, I didn’t feel able for the bicycle ride to the doctor’s, the way I was bleeding. Me head was hurt and me back.”
“You should have called me.”
“Ah, I didn’t like to wake you out of a sleep and me the sight I was. So” — Raikes’ long hack curved in apology — “I took the Cadillac and drove to the doctor and he fixed me up. Then, coming back, as I told you, a thruck ran into the car and smashed her. I had a word with the driver and he was drunk if ever a man was.”