The man, who was young, became aware that he was watched. Still squatting beside the basket he raised his face and looked up at her. They stared motionless, taking each other in, appraising each other; she, moved to admire the tweed-clad figure bent, with that air of solicitude, above the basket; he, startled to pleasurable surprise by the windblown figure of the girl, a dog on her either side … why, he thought, those are the dogs from Glengorman! And the girl must be Maurice’s cousin, Adeline Whiteoak. So — Maurice had arrived.
He slapped the lid on the basket, and, with it and the rod in his hands, began to clamber over the rocks and come toward Adeline. She waited, amused. It had not taken much to cause him to give up his sport. Just the sudden appearance of a strange girl. But perhaps she was no longer on Mooey’s land. Perhaps the man was coming to order her off for trespassing. That was the reason, she decided, and awaited him, with more than a little truculence in her air.
He came steadily upward, with the certainty in his movements of one who knows every inch of the way. The dogs, after one perfunctory bark, ran to meet him with tails waving.
“Hullo, Bridget,” he said. “Hullo, Bruce!” Then to Adeline, — “I think you must be Miss Whiteoak. I’m Maurice’s friend —”
“Don’t tell me!” she interrupted. “Let me guess.”
He stood smiling, his sanguine fair face flushed, waiting to be named.
She would have said, — “You’re Pat Crawshay,” but he had been so ceremonious with his Miss Whiteoak, that she said with dignity, — “I guess you are Sir Patrick Crawshay.”
“Do you really remember me?” he exclaimed, pleased.
“I know you are Maurice’s neighbour.”
“But you don’t remember me?”
“Yes, I do. I met you at the Hunt when I was over here as a child.”
“Good. I shall never forget you — and our parting after the Hunt. Do you remember our parting?”
She did indeed. He had asked her to kiss him goodbye and she had tried to prove her strength by the hug she gave him. She laughed at the recollection. They both laughed.
“How long are you staying?” he asked.
“All the summer.”
“Splendid. There’ll be no hunting for you but there’ll be other things.”
“May I see your fish?” she asked.
He opened the basket and she saw the firm shapes, the iridescent scales, the last quick tumble of life in that small space.
“Oh, lovely!” she breathed, in admiration.
“Do you like fishing?”
“I don’t know. I’ve not had much opportunity. I’d like to cast, the way you do.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“Thanks, but not now. They’ll be wondering what has become of me.”
“I’ll walk back with you, if you’ll let me.”
She watched him as they walked together and thought how different he was from all the boys she knew. She tried to think what the difference was. First, but least important, there was his complexion, ruddy against white, as though sun had never tanned him or dry hot winds sucked the moisture from his skin. Then there was that look of innocent careless strength about him, as though he had never been disciplined, never been tried. He was like an innocent healthy young animal. He looked, she thought, as though he’d always had just what he wanted, and what he wanted had never been wrong.
As they walked she kept turning over in her mind how she might bring the conversation round to Fitzturgis. He was never out of her thoughts. But, try as she would, it could not be manoeuvred. At last she asked out plain:
“Have you ever heard of a man named Maitland Fitzturgis?”
“Maitland Fitzturgis,” he repeated, in his liquid Irish voice. “No, I haven’t.”
“Never heard of him?” It seemed impossible.
“Does he live nearby?”
“I — don’t know. At least — I guess it’s quite a long way off. I met him on shipboard.”
“Oh, I see … what was he like? A young man?”
“Quite a lot older than you. He was in the war.”
“He would be that. An Irishman, you say.”
“With that name, of course.”
“Names get mixed up between the two countries.”
“His mother was English.”
“Ah, I see.”
“I suppose you wondered why an Irishman would go to the war.”
“They did — lots of them — Montgomery for one.”
They were nearing the house. She halted and faced him. She said, with her colour rising, — “I’d rather — please —” She could not get the words out.
“Yes?” he encouraged.
“Please don’t say that I asked about Maitland Fitzturgis … Maurice didn’t like him.”
She felt that she had given herself away. She was swept by shame and, to hide it, she stalked proudly and coldly into the hall where Maurice and Finch were waiting.
“It’s about time,” exclaimed Maurice. “We were just organizing a search party —” Then, seeing young Crawshay, he ran to greet him. “Hullo, Pat! This explains it all. How splendid! Uncle Finch, this is my friend Pat Crawshay.”
He stayed to lunch. Finch watched Maurice with pleasure, seeing him expand in giving hospitality, seeing a new and confident Maurice. Piers had been bad for him, no doubt of that. And what a pity Pheasant was not here to see her boy!
They were a gay laughing party at lunch. Afterward Finch and Adeline went to write letters, leaving the two youths alone. It was not long before Maurice asked:
“Is there a fellow named Fitzturgis anywhere in the neighbourhood?”
“Dozens of them — for all I know.”
“This fellow was on board ship with us. He’d heard of you.”
“what was he like?”
Maurice gave a little shrug. “I didn’t take to him.”
“Did your cousin?”
“Adeline? Oh, she liked him well enough.”
“why are you interested in him?”
“I’m not particularly. It’s just that — well, there’s something a bit odd about him.”
“Did he tell you what village he’s near?”
“No.”
“what does he do? Has he money?”
“He does a little farming. I think he has a small income. I believe he has a pension. He was badly wounded in the East.”
“Good-looking?”
Maurice laughed. “what a question from you, Pat! As though you’d care!”
“Somebody else might.”
“who?”
“Your cousin.”
“Has she asked you about him?” Maurice demanded, with an edge to his voice.
“Well, now — as though she would! why, I’ve barely met her.”
“She did! She did — the little fool!”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t let her know you caught me out.”
“You couldn’t lie to me, Pat.” The friends sat close together on a deep window seat. They lighted fresh cigarettes.
“It’s splendid having you back,” exclaimed Pat Crawshay. “I’ve had no other friend to take your place. But I wager you made lots of friends over there.”
“Not one. Pleasant acquaintances. Not one friend.”
They smoked in silence for a space, then Maurice demanded abruptly, — “How did she come to ask you about him?”
“I don’t remember. I think just out of the blue.”
“Good Lord!”
“But it’s nothing. Any girl …”
“Adeline isn’t just any girl. She’s never shown any preference —”
“She’s got to begin sometime. Let her begin on him.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I think I understand that you’re pretty fond of her yourself, Maurice.”
“It doesn’t matter what my feelings are,” said Maurice bitterly. “what matters is that she must be kept away from this fellow.”
“I’ll find out about h
im.”
“Do, Pat, like a good friend, but don’t mention him to her.”
“You did like him at the first, didn’t you?”
“Very much.”
“Then it is just jealousy,” thought Pat Crawshay. He himself felt a twinge of jealousy toward the unknown Fitzturgis.
Three days passed before he had news of him for Maurice. In the meantime he had spent many hours at Glengorman and the three Whiteoaks had dined with him and his mother. On this afternoon he drew Maurice into a chill little room off the hall, where stood a desk, with the telephone on it, and the walls were lined with old books.
“I’ve heard something about the villain,” he said lightly, as though it were a matter of small import to either of them.
Maurice, trying to smile also, asked, — “Well, what about him?”
“His father was Irish, his mother English. He went to school in England and to Oxford University. From there into the Army and went through the Burma campaign. After the war he and his mother came to Ireland and bought the small place where they live. He and I both live with our mothers. There the resemblance ends. My mother is a dear but I gather that his is not. He has a married sister in America — that was the reason for his trip over. I’m told they keep strictly to themselves. There is something wrong about them — I mean they have made no friends.”
Maurice drummed with his fingers on the windowsill. “Thanks,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess we’ve seen the last of him.” Then he added, — “Mind you, I have nothing against the fellow. I liked him, till I found he’d been making up to Adeline on the sly. It was a shame because she’s only a kid and I’m supposed to look after her.”
Pat chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re a failure as a babysitter, Maurice.”
“I’m not worrying,” said Maurice, his young forehead tied into knots. “ They won’t meet again. I’ll see to that.
When the morning post came it was handed to him and almost tremblingly he watched for a letter bearing an Irish stamp and addressed to Adeline. He did not ask himself what he would do with it if one came, but he had confused imaginings of throwing it in the fire — of striding to her with an accusing scowl and demanding that she should open it and read the contents to him — of carrying it to Finch and asking his advice. Never did he attribute his anger to jealousy. No, he was righteously angry because Adeline, before the ship had even reached the shores of Ireland, had given her first love to a stranger. He did not quite look on Fitzturgis as a villain but as next door to one. When her guardians, her uncle and her cousin, had barely turned their backs, he had made love to a foolish young girl.
Adeline herself watched eagerly for a letter, though in those first days she was too full of the happiness of her love for Fitzturgis to feel more than a moment’s disappointment that a letter did not come. The days passed in dreamlike happiness. Over and over again she relived those moments on the dim deck, the night before they reached Cobh.
Then suddenly her mood changed. A night of wind whipped the sea into wildness. The cold rain slanted in stinging darts out of the black sky. It hissed against the pine and she could not sleep. Always she had been a poor sleeper. As a small child this wakefulness of hers had been a torment to Alayne. The child’s cot had been in her room. Adeline’s chatter, her singing and laughter, as though it had been noonday, instead of late at night, had been an almost unbearable trial.
Now, in those night hours at Glengorman, her love for Fitzturgis had drawn sleep from her pillow. She lay awake recalling his every feature, recalling all they had said to each other, having imaginary conversations with him, saying things so witty to him that she laughed aloud at the thought of them; he saying such beautiful things to her that they brought tears to her eyes.
But this night of storm had changed her mood. She tossed on the bed in a sudden panic of misgiving. Why did he not write to her? Oh, why did he not write?
Then she remembered his telling her that he was no good at letter writing. Once he started he could do it, but the hard thing was to start. A great sense of relief flooded her mind. That explained everything. He did not want to write. Nothing would satisfy him but to see her. And there had been so much for him to do, after an absence. He would come tomorrow. When the rain had ceased they two would walk together by the sea.
She was quiet for a while, then she thought, — “If he really loved me, nothing would keep him away. Nothing. He would throw aside everything to come to me. He does not love me!” She threw herself to the other side of the bed. She put out one foot from under the bedclothes to feel the cool air on it. She threw aside her pillows and lay with her burning cheek against the sheet. But she could not endure any position for long. At last she rose and walked about the room. She went to the open window and let the wet wind flutter her nightdress. She could hear the roaring of the sea, and the voices of the land where branches strained as though they would be torn from the tree and the wind whistled through the crevices, rattled shutters and shook the garden gate.
“Oh, where are you sleeping, my dear love?” she said aloud, and then pictured him not asleep but standing by a window, looking out into the blackness, as she was. That comforted her and she put out her hands, felt for the bedpost, crept back between the sheets shivering. Yet it was long before she slept.
The next day was aglitter with sunshine. The stones and roof of the house shone as though polished. So did the leaves of the laurels, and petals of rhododendrons lay scattered everywhere. The succulent stems of the bluebells could not stand up under the weight of the flowers but let them droop to the grass. The wind had fallen and the air was warm.
Patrick Crawshay had bought a new sailing boat and Finch and Maurice went to inspect it. Adeline had said she wanted to explore the shore. They left without her. She had made up her mind to find Fitzturgis. She could not face another such night as the last. She told Patsy she was going to take out the car.
“Wisha, young lady,” he said, “ye’ll be into the ditch as sure as fate. Ye know we drive different in this country.”
“I know, and I can do it. Don’t worry about me. If my cousin comes home before me, tell him I shall be back by evening.”
Prophesying disaster the old man brought round the car. He gave Adeline a flood of directions which she did not understand and stood mournfully shaking his head as she drove off. She was glad the road was so quiet, for in truth the car had a different gear from that she was used to. However, she met no one in the first miles but a boy with a load of gravel drawn by a thin horse, and a woman with a cartful of children drawn by a shaggy donkey. Adeline felt proud with purpose, pleased with herself. Why had she not thought of doing this before! Still, even if she had thought of it, there had always been Finch and Maurice about. Today was her first chance and she was making good use of it.
She passed through a village where all the shop windows looked dingy but the one where spirits were sold, and that shone invitingly. She came to a small town and enquired there for the hamlet of which Fitzturgis had spoken. Carefully she was directed, so carefully, with so many ins and outs, and ups and downs, that it was all she could do to keep the half of it in her head. She set out again, feeling suddenly hungry, wishing she had bought a chocolate bar in the shop. There had been a mistake in the supposed distance. She had already driven twenty miles. She took a wrong turning and found herself in the squelching ruts of a lane, face to face with a team of horses dragging a great oak whose trunk was wreathed in ivy. The labourers came to the car giving her directions that she could not follow because she did not understand half of what they said.
A little discouraged she backed out of the lane. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter to four. She was on the road again. She would find him. She would. Her thoughts reached out like hands drawing him to her.
“Oh, Mait, tell me where you are — please tell me where you are,” she kept saying over and over.
Along the road a little way she overtook a Protestant clergyman riding a bicycle. She sto
pped the car and spoke to him. He put his feet to the ground and looked at her out of guileless eyes in a ruddy face.
“Fitzturgis,” he repeated. “Maitland Fitzturgis. Yes — I’ve heard the name. Let me think. Yes, I remember. He bought Mr. Brady’s house, some time ago. His grandfather used to own quite a large property, but in his father’s time it passed into other hands.”
“He lives alone with his mother,” Adeline said, eager to show that they were not strangers to her.
“His mother, yes. And I think there’s a sister.”
“But she’s in New York.”
“Oh, is she?” He looked doubtful, then he brightened. “Well, now, I’ll tell you how to find his house. Take the third turning to the left, then straight on, over a humpbacked bridge, then the second turn to the left — still to the left, mind you — and you’ll come to the ruin of a small church. If you have the time it’d be well worth your while to go in and have a look at it, for it has some finely moulded trefoil-headed windows and some very interesting carved tombs.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t time today. Could you tell me where I go after I pass the church?”
“Well, let me see. You pass the church and take the second turn to the right and down in a meadow you’ll see the ruin of an ancient castle. If you had the time to spare it would be well worth your while —”
“I’m terribly sorry,” interrupted Adeline in desperation, glancing surreptitiously at her watch, “but I have no time to spare. I must hurry on. When I have passed the ruins of the castle, which way shall I turn?”
“what a pity you are in a hurry! Perhaps another time you will return.”
“Oh, I hope I shall.”
With his hands indolently holding the handlebars of his bicycle he continued, — “Now about this road — to tell the truth, I am afraid I can’t direct you clearly after you reach the castle, but you’ll surely meet someone who can. I’m so sorry …”
Adeline thanked him and drove on. She saw that the afternoon was past its prime and she had not yet found the humpbacked bridge. But she had made up her mind. Nothing would hinder her, not if she searched till nightfall. It would be impossible, she told herself, to turn back.
Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna Page 61