Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Go and dress, Alayne. I want to be alone with him for a bit.” He touched Ernest’s face. “It must have happened just a little while ago … I can’t believe it … no, I can’t believe it.”

  After a while he followed her to her room. She was nearly dressed. The house was deeply silent but the lively singing of birds came through the open windows. “You say you are cold,” he remarked, “yet you leave your windows open.”

  “I wanted the air.”

  He noticed that she had put on a black and white cotton dress with a narrow red belt. “Haven’t you a black belt?” he asked.

  “Oh, Renny — as though it mattered!”

  “It matters to me.”

  She took off the belt and found a black one.

  “Is that better?” she asked, with a faint smile.

  “Yes … I have telephoned Piers.”

  “At this hour!”

  “I have sent a cable to Finch.” She knew it comforted him to do these things.

  “They must come home,” he said.

  “They? who?”

  “Finch and Adeline.”

  She turned on him aghast, even angry.

  “Renny — how could you?”

  “They must be here.”

  “It is so unnecessary. To cross the ocean — in the middle of a holiday — at a moment’s notice — for a great-uncle’s funeral! It’s madness. Besides, they could not reach Jalna in time for the funeral.”

  “I told them to fly.”

  She sat down on the side of her bed, feeling weak from shock and nervous exasperation.

  “Uncle Ernest is no ordinary great-uncle,” he added. “He’s lived at Jalna as long as they can remember.”

  “Renny, he would not ask it of them, if he were here.”

  “He is here — till he’s taken to the churchyard.”

  She saw that Renny was not to be moved. The line between nostril and lip was sharply cut. He would have his own way. He said:

  “I shall go down to the kitchen and tell the Wragges. Uncle Nicholas must have his breakfast before you break the news to him.”

  Alayne drew down his head and kissed him between the brows. “I know how badly you feel about this,” she said.

  “I do indeed.”

  “But it was bound to happen soon.”

  He turned away and went to the basement. He knocked on the Wragges’ bedroom door. The snoring ceased and the little grey man appeared. His thin hair stood on end. His sharp-featured face was an interrogation mark.

  “It’s bad news,” Renny said. “My uncle has died in the night.”

  Rags opened and shut his mouth without uttering a sound.

  His wife called from the bed, — “which uncle, sir?”

  “My Uncle Ernest.”

  She gave a groan, clutched the sheet and rolled over.

  Rags got out, through shaking jaws, — “This will be ’ard on Mr. Nicholas, sir. They was that attached to one another, you can’t think of them separated.”

  “I’m going to get you a drink, Rags,” said Renny.

  “Thank you, sir. My nerves ain’t wot they used to be.”

  He had got into his clothes when Renny came back to him, with whisky in a glass. “Bring a pot of tea for me and coffee for Mrs. Whiteoak to the dining room,” he said. “when Mr. Nicholas rings take him his breakfast as though nothing had happened.”

  “I’ll try to look natural, sir, but it’ll be ’ard.”

  Renny went out through the kitchen door, as he heard Piers’ car on the drive. Piers was alighting from it. He came toward Renny saying:

  “Just one thing on top of another, eh?”

  “Yes. It’s hard to believe on a morning like this.” His eyes swept the blueness above, the rain-freshened greenness of the earth.

  “Has Uncle Nick been told?”

  “No. Alayne has promised to do that.”

  Archer stuck his head out of his high-up bedroom window. He called out:

  “Hullo! why are you up so early?”

  “Don’t make a noise. When you’re dressed, come straight to me.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be right down,” he cried, as though his presence would smooth all difficulties.

  When he was told the news his first remark was, — “I’d better break it to Uncle Nicholas.”

  “Go near his room,” said Renny, “and I’ll skin you alive.”

  “Then may I see Uncle Ernest? I didn’t see Mr. Clapperton. Philip did and he said —”

  Renny took him by the collar. “You will not,” he said, “go up those stairs without my leave.”

  Alayne joined them, walking swiftly across the grass. Her son ran to meet her. His arms tightly clasped about her waist, he raised his eyes to hers with an expression of exaggerated sympathy.

  “I want to help,” he pleaded.

  She laid her hand on his forehead. “Nothing will help us so much as —” she hesitated, anxious not to hurt his feelings.

  “Making yourself scarce,” supplied Piers.

  “Yes,” agreed Renny. “Go to Mrs. Wragge and ask her to give you breakfast. We want ours in peace.”

  Reluctantly Archer moved away. He went beneath Ernest’s window and gazed up at it, as though expecting some ghostly apparition there.

  Seated at the breakfast table, the three discussed what must be done. An ironic smile flickered across Piers’ face when Renny told him that he had sent for Finch and Adeline. Piers said:

  “From what I’m told, they’ve just arrived in London.”

  “That can’t be helped.” Renny turned sombre dark eyes on him. “They must be here for the funeral.”

  “A good thing,” said Piers, “it’s turned so cool.”

  Renny sat, elbow on table, the tips of his fingers pressed to his forehead. There was silence. Alayne could see Archer peering in at them through the window. How bad for him all this excitement was!

  “To think,” exclaimed Renny, “that we shall never again see Uncle Ernest sitting in his place at this table!” He made a tragic gesture toward Ernest’s chair.

  “It’s hard to believe,” said Piers. “But he had a good life.”

  “He wanted to live to be a hundred like Gran. He’d have done it too, if it hadn’t been for the fire. Now the shock of his death will be the end of Uncle Nick.”

  “You must not look on the black side of things,” said Alayne. “Uncle Nicholas will be brave.”

  “Today,” put in Piers, “is the day of Eugene Clapperton’s funeral.”

  Renny sprang up. “My God, I’d forgotten,” he exclaimed. “That brave man. Why, I have a thousand things to see to.” He walked in a circle round the room.

  Archer came into the room from the hall. He held in his hand a rather faded white geranium blossom which he presented to Alayne. “I thought this would cheer you up,” he said. “It was one of Uncle Ernest’s favourite flowers.”

  Nicholas rang for his breakfast early that morning, for he was conscious of disturbance in the house. An over-solicitous Rags brought it to him, his hands shaking as he placed the tray.

  “Has my brother rung yet?” asked Nicholas.

  “No, sir, ’e ’asn’t rung,” quavered Rags.

  “Good. He’s having a long sleep and he needs it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let me know when he rings.”

  “I will, sir.” His nerves unable to bear any more, Rags hastened out.

  XXII

  OFF TO LONDON

  For a month Finch and Adeline drifted in desultory fashion about Ireland. If, when they went to a place for a day, they liked it, a week might well pass before they moved on. They were congenial companions. The same sort of things elated or moved them to mirth. Both disliked crowds. Finch had not known such relaxation in years. He threw aside all plans for his future and gave himself up to the pleasure of living, as he thought Adeline did, in the moment. He could not believe that behind her h
appy youthful face there was a mind linked by thoughts of Fitzturgis to longing and sometimes almost despair. He asked her nothing and she kept these thoughts to herself. When Finch had been her age no effort of will had been strong enough to keep his emotions from showing in his sensitive face, but Adeline’s firmly modelled features, her clear-cut lips and brows, did her will and masked her when she chose.

  The truth was that Fitzturgis was seldom out of her thoughts. When she was at her happiest, she pictured him standing beside her making her pleasure entire. When she felt helpless and cut off from him forever, as she sometimes did, she drew on her strength and showed a front no less than composed. Never a mail but she looked for a letter from him. None came. When at last they turned southward she burned to be at Glengorman again with the chance of seeing him.

  Maurice greeted her with affection but still with distrust. He hoped with all his heart that she had got over her infatuation, as he called it. He took the first opportunity of finding himself alone with Finch to ask:

  “Is Adeline normal again, do you think?”

  “That’s a funny way of putting it,” laughed Finch.

  “It’s just what I mean.”

  “Is anyone ever normal?”

  “Adeline certainly was normal till she met that fellow.”

  Suddenly Finch felt defensive for Adeline. “Remember,” he said, “how much we both liked him at the first.”

  “Not for long. There’s something wrong in him. I feel that. I’m not the only one. Pat feels it too.”

  “Perhaps because you and Pat are both in love with Adeline.”

  Maurice stared. “Not Pat. He’s as heart-whole as a gannet.”

  “I daresay they are lovers in their season.”

  “Pat has only one idea in his head at the moment — his new sailing boat — and he’s often said to me his mother is sweetheart enough for him.”

  “How nice!” exclaimed Finch enviously. Always he had hungered for the love and companionship of a mother.

  Maurice went on, — “People who know the Fitzturgis family say there’s a taint in them. The grandfather died half mad. At the last he tried to give away all his possessions. His son drank himself to death after losing everything he’d inherited. Sylvia, Mait’s sister, is unbalanced.”

  “I saw nothing strange in her,” said Finch.

  “They say she’s been found wandering on the roads alone in the middle of the night.”

  “They say — they say! Don’t believe everything you hear, Maurice.”

  Maurice stared. “Then you are in sympathy with Adeline’s feeling for Mait?”

  “How you twist things, Mooey! You’re unreasonable. But I don’t think we need worry about Adeline. All the while we’ve been away together she’s appeared a happy girl.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Maurice moodily.

  Finch was sorry for the youth. The return to Ireland was so different from what he had looked forward to. Yet he was irritated by Maurice for continuing to wear the mien of disappointed lover. He was sure that was not the way to attract Adeline. She on her part had come back to Glengorman with the intention of playing the charming cousin to her young host, of taking up their old relationship once more. But it was impossible. What right had Mooey to look at her as he did, to criticize her silently for her behaviour, as though he held a microscope to her every act. She wanted to take long walks alone, when she might dwell with clinging thoughts on her recollections of Fitzturgis. She had known him so short a while that sometimes a fear would come to her that his image would grow less clear. At other times she felt that his face was clearer to her than the face of anyone she knew, except her father’s.

  Each time the clump of the postman’s boots was heard on the drive she ran without shame to the door and without shame she let the blankness come into her face when the letter was only from Roma. One morning there was a letter for her, addressed in a masculine hand and having an Irish stamp. Maurice appeared in the hall at the same moment. The postman had laid the letters on a small table by the door. Maurice was there first and picked them up — almost snatched them up.

  “That’s for me,” she cried, reaching to take her letter from him.

  He held it out of reach, but only for a moment; she was almost as tall as he.

  “Give it to me,” she demanded.

  “what urgency!” he exclaimed, in what she called his superior voice.

  She caught his wrist. They struggled together, their faces flushed with the anger they could not conceal. The letter was torn in half.

  “Beast!” she hissed between her clenched teeth.

  “Spitfire!” he returned, putting his half of the letter into her hand.

  As she ran up the stairs with it he called after her, — “Sorry. I didn’t know you’d take a little teasing that way.”

  She did not answer. In her room she stood motionless a moment, the mutilated letter pressed to her breast, her breath coming hard. Then she took the two halves from the torn envelope and looked at the first words. She read, —

  “Dear Miss Whiteoak,

  I wonder if you remember me. I am the boy from Chicago you danced with on the boat. I have never forgotten you and I’d certainly love to meet —”

  She crushed the letter in her hand.

  She walked up and down the room still crushing it between her two hands. She went to the window and laid her forehead against the cool pane. The garden lay below in the high bright tones of summer. Pigeons were perching on the damp stone walls. They made her think of home. For an instant the thought of home rose before her. But the day was only breaking there, the pigeons only fluttering down from their high night perches. She tried to think of home but the image was broken by the feel of the letter in her hand, by her disappointment that lay like a stone on her heart. Why had he not written to her? Sent no message?

  Her shame that she had so struggled for a worthless letter resolved itself into anger at Maurice. If he had not shown himself so unfriendly to Maitland, Maitland would have come to see her. All her being cried out for some reassurance from him — that, or a complete cutting away. She could bear the uncertainty no more.

  She saw Finch and Maurice mounting the steep stone steps beyond the garden, the two Labradors bounding ahead of them. She would run downstairs now and telephone to Mait. Why had she not thought of doing that before? She would hear his voice and ask him straight if he loved her.

  Down the stairs she ran and along the passage to where the telephone was. She found his name, the number of his telephone in the book. It was so easy. She pictured the tiny room where his telephone was, the unshaded bulb, the glossy calendar advertising whiskey on the wall. She asked for the number and after a little a voice came on the wire. It was a woman’s voice with a thick brogue. Adeline could not understand what she said.

  “Could I speak to Mr. Fitzturgis?” she repeated.

  “Misthress Fitzturgis,” came thickly over the wire, and more as though in a foreign language.

  “It’s Mister Fitzturgis I want,” she said, with desperate distinctness.

  “Och, the masther,” said the voice. Then silence.

  At last she heard steps. His voice, with a shock of reality, as though it were the only reality in the world, spoke to her.

  “Oh, Mait, is it you?” she exclaimed, in a low voice, tremulous with feeling.

  “Adeline!”

  “Yes. I had to speak to you.”

  “where are you?”

  “At Glengorman. Soon I shall be going to England.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t you care?”

  “You know what I feel.”

  “Yet you’ve never written — not one line. You didn’t even answer my letter.”

  “You know why.”

  “And we’re never to meet again?”

  “Oh, Adeline — you make it hard for me.”

  “But I want to see you. Is that clear?”

  “I’ll come.”

  “
when? Let it be soon.”

  “Today. I’ll be there at three. Where can we meet? No — it’s not to be secret. I’ll come straight to the house.”

  “Oh, Maitland — how shall I live till then?”

  She gave a laugh of happy anticipation, and it was echoed briefly by him, as though he too would be happy but dared not let himself.

  She chose one of her prettiest dresses for lunch that day. Finch surveyed her with a half-humorous admiration. He touched the ruffled elbow sleeve, ran his fingers along the delicately rounded arm, saying:

  “I hope this dressing-up is for me.”

  Taken aback, she found nothing to say.

  “who for, then?” he asked.

  “Do I look so dressed-up?” she hedged.

  “She’s expecting Mr. Fitzturgis,” put in Maurice.

  She turned her eyes full on him. “what if I am?”

  Neither Maurice nor Finch found anything but the defiance of words in this. Neither for a moment believed that Fitzturgis would be so openly prepared for, were he indeed expected. Under the luminous darkness of her gaze Maurice’s heart melted toward her. He smiled almost tenderly.

  “You look sweet, Adeline,” he said.

  Her friendliness always ready, she smiled and leant toward him. “Thanks, Mooey.”

  Finch said, — “You should have seen how people stared at us in the hotels. They thought we were on our honeymoon, and what an ill-assorted couple! whatever did she see in that old codger, they asked each other.”

  “Oh, it was fun,” cried Adeline, thankful to have the talk turned into a different channel. “But people didn’t think as Uncle Finch says. They thought, whatever did that distinguished-looking man see in that empty-headed girl? She’ll lead him a dance.”

  “And so you would,” said Maurice.

  The meal proceeded amiably. Not long before three o’clock the two men set out to inspect a cottage that had been newly thatched. Adeline was left alone.

  She paced the lime-shaded drive between gate and house. She thought of her situation as romantic. Who wouldn’t? A beautiful young woman — for, when alone, she acknowledged herself as beautiful — waiting in a mossy tunnel, with fuchsias and brier roses all about, for her lover. She wished the two handsome dogs were with her to complete the picture but they had followed the men. She tried not to look at her wrist-watch oftener than every five minutes. She would bend and hold communion with some small flower whose name she did not know, while all the time her ears were strained for the sound of his car. There were so few cars, his would be the one.