“You are a darling,” he said gently, “and I love you with all my heart, but we cannot have people saying —”
“what people?”
“Your people.”
“Saying what?”
“That I took an unfair advantage of your generosity — that I tried to trap you.”
“They couldn’t say that. I wouldn’t let them.”
“You’re very brave,” he said, “and very young. You cannot stop people from saying or doing things. You’ll find that out.”
“Well, I can do what I — know is right.”
“It is not right and it can’t be thought of.”
“You mean that you don’t want me to?” Her quick colour rose. “You don’t want me to come here and help to nurse Sylvia and make her better?”
He demanded abruptly, — “Would you like to live here for years as a sort of nurse to Sylvia?”
“It might happen quite soon. Her getting better, I mean.”
“It may never happen. Think what you’d be giving up. All the life you love.”
“You’d be here.”
“My darling, you’d hate me — hate all three of us — before six months had passed.” He broke a tough twig from the tree beneath which they stood and sniffed it as though it were a flower. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “if Sylvia recovers — if I have prospects — I’ll come to Canada and ask you what your feelings are then — I’ll lay what I have to offer at your feet.”
He spoke almost lightly and it was a mistake. She drew back from him in hurt. She did not notice that the hand which held the twig shook.
“I hear a motor horn. It’s Mooey,” she said.
He caught her arm and drew her to him. “One kiss before you go,” he said.
She struggled away. “No,” she cried, “I’ll not kiss you,” and ran through the long wet grass.
Finch and Maurice were standing beside a station wagon. Mrs. Fitzturgis had come out of the house to greet them. She was effusive in expressing pleasure in having Adeline spend the night with her. Finch smiled but threw an anxious glance toward the two coming out of the grove, at Adeline’s flushed cheeks and wet shoes. He shook hands with Fitzturgis, whose cheekbones seemed to have become higher, his eyes more deeply set in the past quarter-hour. Maurice bowed, with only a faint pretence of friendliness. He asked of Adeline:
“where is the car?”
Fitzturgis answered, — “In the garage. I’ll bring it round.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Finch, as though to escape from something.
They went together.
Maurice said to Mrs. Fitzturgis, — “It was very kind of you to take my cousin in.”
“Ah, but we were only too delighted to have her. We have so little company nowadays. My daughter’s health has not been good, you know. I do hope that, now the ice is broken, we shall see quite a lot of her and of you too. You can’t imagine how dull we find living in Ireland. I wonder that a young man like you — though to be sure, youth is never dull. I well remember how gay I used to be, though now I come to think of it I always wanted to have some excitement — not exactly excitement, you know, but just to be aware of the fact that one was living, which is more than one is, here, though you’d be surprised at the things that do happen. For instance —”
The car was moving toward them along the drive.
Mrs. Fitzturgis begged the three Whiteoaks to stay for lunch, or if not for lunch, at least for a glass of sherry. When the invitation was declined with grave politeness by Maurice, with an obvious desire to be gone by Finch, and with desperate submissiveness by Adeline, she exclaimed, — “How very sorry my daughter will be to miss you! But surely you will come again! Dear me, who is Sylvia? I mean — Where is Sylvia? I do get so easily confused in these days, which is something quite new to me for I used to have an abnormally good memory — in fact my husband used to say that I never could forget anything, though that remark was not made in the sense to which I refer. Maitland, do you know where your sister is?”
Sylvia, at that moment, came out of the house, to the obvious surprise of her mother and brother. They exchanged a glance, as though to say — “whatever will she do next?” But the girl herself looked both cool and friendly. She chatted so naturally to Maurice and Finch that Adeline wondered for an instant if last night’s experience had been a dream. But no, it had not been a dream. Maitland’s expression, as his eyes rested on his sister, showed that. His lips wore the strained smile of one who is watchful and uncertain.
In spite of Mrs. Fitzturgis’ loving clinging to the visitors the goodbyes were at last said. Adeline wanted to make the return journey with Finch and whispered her wish to him, but Maurice pressed forward and jumped into the station wagon beside her. Finch followed in the car.
Adeline glanced at Maurice’s profile as they sped along the road in silence. She held her two hands tightly together, harbouring in her right palm the clasp of Maitland’s hand. She knew she had been wrong in going off by herself as she had, but she felt resentment that Maurice should so express his resentment. She said, when she could no longer bear the silence:
“You look like all the killjoys in the world rolled into one.”
“Thanks,” he returned, his lips scarcely moving, “it’s nice to know what you think of me.”
“I only think what the way you behave makes me think.”
“How clearly you put it!”
“Is all this because I took your car without asking?”
He turned to look at her.
“Be careful,” she cried, “you nearly ran over that hen.” The hen flew squawking to safety.
“Are you so callous, Adeline,” he said, speaking each word very clearly, “so callous that you can’t see how you have hurt me?”
“You have no right to use such a word about what I did.”
“what about calling me a killjoy? But I suppose it’s true and you were having a joyous time.”
“I was not! I was having —” She could not go on. Her voice died in a sob.
Maurice broke out, — “what do you suppose I felt when we came back yesterday and found you gone and hours passed before we had news of you, then that fellow cool as a cucumber — saying you were there? I’d been telephoning the police — the hospital — to find out if there’d been an accident. I was nearly crazy, I tell you.”
She could not bring herself to say she was sorry but sat frowning, with underlip thrust forward.
“Then I’m informed,” he continued, “that you’d gone in search of Fitzturgis. Do you realize what that looks like? what do you think your father would say?”
“Well — he’d have a right to say it.”
“And I haven’t!”
“No.”
He drove on in silence, his body drooping over the wheel. Their familiarity since infancy which made every expression of the face, every gesture, of the one, something instantly recognizable to the other, now was disrupted. They drew back from each other as from strangers whom they suspected and feared.
They passed on through the rising and falling-away of the barren hills, some of which were pale in sunlight, others dim beneath the clouds. Adeline’s mind flew back to Fitzturgis and she relived the scene in the grove. In imagination she fitted it with different endings, one of which curved her lips in the smile of one who dreams, and another which filled her eyes with stinging tears. Maurice spoke twice before his voice came to her.
Then, — “what did you say?” she asked.
“I said I should like to know what you are going to do.”
“I don’t know,” she answered simply.
“Are you engaged to this man?”
“That’s my own affair.”
“It won’t be yours alone — for long.”
“Does that mean you will write home and tell?”
“You have a low opinion of me.”
“Well — you could scarcely have acted meaner to me than you have since I came here.”
“How dare you say that to me, Adeline?” he cried.“You know that for years I’ve looked forward to this time more than to anything on earth.”
“Yes! And why? You wanted me to come and see all your grand belongings. You wanted to show off in front of me. You wanted me to do just what you chose. And because I refuse to say how wonderful you are and how proud I am to have your attentions you behave as though —”
He interrupted, — “I love you, Adeline.”
“You have a strange way of showing it.”
“what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t care what you do.”
“I’d better get some lessons in love-making from that brute …”
“If you mean Mait, he could show you a thing or two.”
They glared at each other with blazing eyes. The engine throbbed. Behind them Finch sounded his horn.
“I’m going back with Uncle Finch,” said Adeline. She began to open the door.
Maurice put his arm across her and held the handle fast.
“Let me go,” she cried. “I will not be stopped.”
“You will listen to me.”
With her closed fist she beat his forearm.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “Go. To the devil if you like.”
In a moment she was in the road. In another she was sitting beside Finch and the two cars again in movement.
Finch said, — “There’s no use in getting upset.”
She bit her lip to keep back the sobs. “Oh, Uncle Finch, I wish I hadn’t come in the car with Mooey!”
“Did you quarrel?”
“The last thing he said was to tell me to go to the devil.”
“That’s nothing.”
“It may be nothing to you but I’m not used to it.”
“I meant he’s just letting off steam.”
Adeline moved closer to Finch. She said, in a trembling voice: “I realize I did wrong and I’m terribly sorry, but if you knew what my feelings have been these past days —”
“Don’t worry,” Finch said comfortingly. “Maurice will get over this —”
“Do you mean he’ll get over wanting me?”
“I don’t know about that, but he’ll get over this affair of Fitzturgis.”
“He may, but I shan’t!” she cried.
Finch said soothingly, — “Well, well, we’ll see. You gave us a fright, you know.”
“I had no idea how long it would take me to find Mait’s house.”
“Adeline, what was your object in going there?”
She turned her candid eyes on him. “I wanted to find out if he still loved me and why he hadn’t come.”
“And did you?”
“Oh, he loves me with all his heart, but—”
“But what?” Finch encouraged gently.
That was enough. Like a stream in springtime flood Adeline poured out the incoherent story of her stay in that house. Every picturesque and passionate word she had garnered in her short life she now flung at Finch in a vehement desire to convince him of the reality of her love for Fitzturgis and of his for her.
Finch was so satisfactory to confide in. He neither blamed nor offered a solution of the problem, but she was sure he understood; sympathy emanated from him. Now and again he would take his hand from the wheel and give her a pat or he would murmur, — “It’ll all come right —” just as though he knew from experience that it would.
At Glengorman Maurice made a great effort to be friendly, to behave as though nothing had happened, but his unhappiness was so palpable, his attitude toward Adeline so silently accusatory that, after two days of this atmosphere, Finch suggested that he and Adeline should set out on the tour of Ireland he had already planned. At first she drew back from this. In her absence a letter might come from Fitzturgis. Yet she longed to put miles between her and Maurice. It ended by her writing this note, in her surprisingly firm and well formed handwriting:
My dear Maitland,—
(In my heart I begin this letter with the word darling but as you have not written to me I shall not use it.) This is to tell you that I am going away for a while with Uncle Finch who is the dearest uncle a girl ever had. When I come back I shall hope to see you — that is if you want to see me.
Again I say I am like my great-grandmother. She was a woman who was true to one love in her life — and so shall be I.
Adeline.
The next day she and Finch set out.
XVII
MOUNTING ANGER AND LOVE
It was almost what Noah Binns had prophesied months ago. Backward spring had burst into sudden summer, not actually “roastin’ bilin’” hot, as Binns had foretold, but hot enough for discomfort. Because of lack of rain the foliage of the trees began to take on the look of August before July was well on the way. The grass crops suffered from drought, the small dry kernels of wheat and oats rasped faintly together in the hot dry wind. A man might stamp on the ground with his heavy boot and leave no impression. The pasture became so poor that the udders of the cows no longer bulged with milk, while about the eyes and nostrils of the poor beasts a horde of buzzing flies tormented.
The only ones who enjoyed the extreme heat were Noah Binns who rejoiced in the fulfilment of his prophecy, and the two old uncles, Nicholas and Ernest, whose spirits flowered in the heat as the dry flowers of the everlasting. The prolonging of winter had been very hard on them, but now they felt stronger than they had in a long while. It did them good to feel their flesh warmed through and through, their dry old palms moist with heat. They chaffed each other and laughed in a way that did Renny’s heart good.
All the happenings of the farm or stables he related to them to keep their interest alive, nor did he spare them the unpleasant things, such as the doings of Eugene Clapperton. In truth Alayne sometimes wondered if it were good for them to be worked up into such rages. “Rascally old interloper!” Nicholas would growl, thumping his fist on the arm of his chair. “Despicable old rascal!” Ernest would sneer. Seldom did they anathematize him without reference to his age, though he was at least thirty-five years younger than they.
All pretence of friendliness between the two houses had vanished. There was instead open antagonism. In all this Alayne could feel only a reflected warmth of anger. She would have wished above all to hear no more of their hateful neighbour’s doings. The very name of Clapperton bored and almost sickened her. It was a shame, she thought, that the last years of the two old men should be poisoned by the hate and fear of Clapperton. At the same time she was aware that, in a sense, they were revitalized by the irritation. There was always this subject for animated speculation. Now it was certain that a factory was to be built on the land bought from the Blacks. The deal would be completed within a fortnight, it was said, and in a matter of months a hideous structure would rise within a stone’s throw of Jalna.
For some reason it seemed to outrage Renny’s feelings less than the bungalows just beyond his stables. The factory would be hidden from them by woods, but the sight of them insulted him in all his activities, for they all led sooner or later in the direction of the stables. Two more had been added in as many months. It seemed impossible that they could be well built, yet Eugene Clapperton insisted that this was so. Every day he inspected the progress of the building, made friends with the families of those that were already occupied, enjoyed the smell of the clean planks that were piled on the ground, the wholesome sound of saw and hammer. In the stir of these schemes he found outlet for his energy which was still abundant, and he felt something amounting to glee in completely overcoming the opposition of Renny Whiteoak. Renny had worked hard to rouse the feelings of property owners of the neighbourhood, had originated petitions with their signatures and presented them to the authorities without avail. “The time is coming,” he told himself “when we shall be driven to sell Jalna, but — not while I live and have fight in me.”
One noonday, when the temperature was well
past ninety degrees, he came out of the comparative coolness of the stables into the blazing light of the sun and walked, as he had a habit of doing, to a point where he had a clear view of the bungalows. He was alone, for, when he had left the house, his sheepdog, peering out of its woolly coat, had told him as plain as words could speak that this was a day unfit for venturing forth and had thrown itself with a thud on the floor of the hall. The bulldog and the Cairn terrier had followed him, side by side, halfway to a field where Piers was cutting hay, then the little Cairn, after giving Renny a long reproachful look, had turned and resolutely trotted back to the house. The bulldog had sturdily jogged on, had stood slavering while the brothers had talked, and then panting heavily had returned with Renny. When they reached the branching of the path he had halted and looked with yearning eyes toward the house, but he would not return without permission, yet was ashamed of asking for it.
Renny gave him a pat. “Go back, old boy,” he said. “I agree that it’s as hot as hell.”
The bulldog nuzzled his hand in gratitude, then lumbered back. He could not get into the house but he found a shady spot in the garden where among the geraniums he dug himself into the cool earth, leaving broken stalks and scattered blooms for Alayne to discover.
“I don’t remember a time,” thought Renny, “when all those three deserted me. It really must be hot.”
He himself was one of those men who never seem to look either very hot or very cold. His high-coloured, weathered complexion remained the same, his dark red hair, which in this bright sunshine showed a light sprinkling of white, never lay limp with sweat but covered his hard-sculptured head crisply. He walked to a point in the paddock behind the stables where he could look down on the five bungalows built on the edge of the hollow in which Vaughanlands lay. This was a form of self-torture in which he indulged at least once a day. In resentment he had watched their claptrap progress from foundations till the day when washing fluttered on the clothesline in the little yard. He pictured them spreading like a rash of ugly pimples over a well-known face, till the face of Vaughanlands was changed, and at the thought he made a grimace expressing helpless anger and chagrin at his helplessness.
Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna Page 65