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

by Mazo de La Roche

  They took a turn on the little deck before they went to bed. It was a starless night and dark sky and dark sea were one.

  “The second part of our voyage,” he said.

  “Yes. How different from the first part! This is so dark and quiet.” Her words implied not only the exterior darkness and quiet but that of her spirit.

  Finch answered cheerfully, — “The Irish Sea can be very choppy.”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  Still more cheerfully he continued, — “This is a new boat, you know. They’ve got some sort of contraption on her that keeps her steady.”

  “Yes. So the steward told me.”

  There was silence between them for a space, then she asked, — “Uncle Finch, was your wife your first love?”

  “Good Lord, no. I’d half a dozen of them. It is really the best way. You get something out of your system.”

  “Did it get something out of your system?”

  “To tell the truth, no. I can’t even remember their names.”

  “Then — you married your first real love?”

  “Yes.”

  “How lucky you were!”

  “Lucky —” he broke out — “lucky! If I had known what that marriage was to bring me I’d have run to the ends of the earth to avoid it.”

  He could just make out the pale disc of her face, but he saw the widening darkness of her eyes.

  “How terrible for you!” she breathed.

  “Yes, it was rather.”

  “Were you happy for long?”

  “No. Not for long.”

  “But I don’t see,” the words seemed to come painfully from her, “how that could be. Not if you really loved.”

  “We did, but she had a way of distorting love — hers and mine — that made a new picture. Something I wasn’t prepared for.”

  “Was it as hard for her, do you think, as for you?”

  “I don’t think it was. She never was a defenceless sort of person. If things didn’t go right one way, she’d try another. She was as complete as a —” He stopped.

  “As a what?”

  “I can’t use that word about Sarah.”

  “If I guess right will you tell me?”

  “No.”

  “Just the same, I don’t think that you and Sarah ever loved each other as Mait and I do.”

  “People in love always feel that way.”

  “I never expected you to be cynical, Uncle Finch. You’ve been so understanding. If it hadn’t been for you I couldn’t have borne — all this.” She looked back toward the land. “Isn’t it strange,” she said, “how a curtain seems to have fallen? It’s like the end of a play. No — just the end of the first act.”

  Later she lay in her berth, feeling the movement of the ship beneath her, the throb of its engine like the beating of a lonely heart. She wondered at herself that she was able to lie there so quietly while each beat of the engine took her farther away from Maitland. She pictured him in the house with his mother and Sylvia. Was he lying awake thinking of her? Or was he sleeping with that aloof, tranquil air that made him unapproachable? She fell asleep and, as he receded from her, his face became clearer and his presence more actual, till she awoke, feeling herself in his arms. From then on she slept fitfully till early morning, but was in deep sleep when the steward knocked on her door.

  What a contrast that same steward was, when he came to get her bags, to the spruce young man of the night before. Now his jacket hung open above his crumpled shirt. His hair stood on end. “Picture him, if you can,” said Finch, “on a British ship.”

  At Fishguard, into the train and the long hours’ journey through Wales, past the farms, the red fields, the woods, into England. Finch buried himself in a book. Adeline stared out of window, observed the other passengers in the railway carriage. Would this day of joggling on the train never end?

  But end it did at Paddington and among the first of those waiting on the platform they espied Wakefield, tall, slim, his dark face eager.

  XXIII

  LONDON

  Wakefield Whiteoak was, for once in his life, early for an appointment. Or was the train late? He fidgeted along the platform, stopping at a bookstall to pick up a book, open it, and lay it down without even noticing its title. Turning away he almost collided with a stout woman carrying two cups of tea. As it was, the start made her slop some of it and she gave him an angry look. “Thenks,” she said sarcastically. “Thenks very much indeed.”

  Wakefield raised his hat. Speaking with a foreign accent, he replied, — “Madame, a thousand pardons. I am in a state of excitement. I wait to meet the Contessa di Piccadillo and I thought you were she. The resemblance is remarkable.”

  “Well,” she said, softened, “anything I can do to ’elp.…”

  “You are too kind. Ah, there is the Contessa at last,” he exclaimed, as he saw Georgina Lennox, an actress and a friend of his, coming toward him. He hastened to meet her. Affectionately they embraced.

  The stout woman looked after him with a pleased smile.

  “whatever has brought you here, Georgie?” he asked.

  “I’ve been seeing off my aunt and uncle and their two Pekes. What a time I had finding a carriage to suit them all! My aunt wanted one where she could smoke. My uncle wanted no smoking and the Pekes wanted no outsiders in it.”

  “And did you get them settled?”

  “Of course I did. And what about you? why are you here?”

  “To meet my older brother and my niece.”

  “where from?”

  “Ireland. Will you come into the restaurant and have a glass of sherry?”

  “Is there time?”

  “There’s always time to spare — or none at all.”

  “Well, this time there’s none at all, for here comes the train.”

  “Wait with me and meet them, won’t you, Georgie?”

  “I’d love to.”

  They moved along the platform toward Finch and Adeline. Before they saw him Wakefield had a good look at them. Finch was just the same, he thought; perhaps more tired, but with that look of being puzzled by life, confused by its strangeness, which he had worn as a boy. As for Adeline, she had grown up — and what a walk! He had seen the struggles of young actresses to achieve such a walk, and here she was doing it unconsciously along the platform at Paddington. If she had been plain as a pipe-stem that walk would have distinguished her.

  He kissed her and clasped Finch by the hand.

  “Wonderful to see you here,” he said. “I never really believed you’d come.”

  “why not?” said Adeline. “Don’t I always do what I say I will?”

  He possessively took her by the arm, then introduced her and Finch to Georgina Lennox. Soon the four were packed into a taxi on their way to the hotel. Adeline relapsed into childhood and made no attempt to take part in the conversation. She was fascinated by what she saw through the window of the cab. She was suspended midway between exhilaration at the prospect of what lay ahead and the pain of the parting with Fitzturgis.

  “I have no right to be at this family reunion,” said Georgina Lennox. “Let me out at Hyde Park Corner, Wakefield.”

  “No. You’re to come and have tea with us.”

  “I’ve had tea.”

  She sank back, with a smile at Finch. He smiled back at her, his large grey-blue eyes blinking a little behind his glasses, for he was tired. Their knees touched and he sought to move his long legs out of the way.

  “Don’t move,” she said. “I’ve plenty of room.”

  “Georgie’s a most adaptable person,” said Wakefield.

  Georgina Lennox (her real surname was Panks) was the daughter of a prosperous Midland manufacturer of stockings. He had given her a good education at an expensive school, and when she had shown a desire for stage life he had sent her to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. She had an allowance sufficient for an attractive little apartment in town and had known nothing of the hand-to-mouth existence of most
struggling young actresses. She had some experience of the screen and had taken a minor but striking part in a successful film.

  During the drive from Paddington to the hotel she talked with animation to the men, with an occasional question to Adeline, this with the air of one who encourages a shy child. (“what does she think I am?” wondered Adeline. “I’m taller than she. I have feelings she has never known, for she’s shallow — too full of her own importance.”) Adeline sat aloof, in her corner, taking no part in the conversation.

  Finch said to Wakefield, — “I’m told you have written a play.”

  Wakefield made a grimace of despair. “I have written a play. That is the easy part. The hard part is to get hold of a man who’s willing to risk a loss on it.”

  “It’s a lovely play,” exclaimed Georgina Lennox, “and I’m dying to play the leading part.”

  “You’d look it certainly,” he said.

  “You think I couldn’t act it?”

  “I simply don’t know.”

  The two began eagerly to discuss the part, as though it were not possible for them to keep their minds for long from the fascination of their profession. As Finch listened, he remembered how he once had had leanings toward the theatre. What would his life have been, he wondered, had he followed that bent. He did not envy actors the bickerings, the jealousies of their profession. What he did envy them was the warmth of companionship, the friendships they formed. In comparison his life was isolated, lonely.

  Miss Lennox alighted at Hyde Park Corner, after expressing eager hopes of again meeting Finch and Adeline very soon.

  “I’m glad she’s gone,” Adeline exclaimed.

  “Don’t you like her?” asked Wakefield, surprised.

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s flat. May I ask why?”

  “I can’t explain. I just — don’t.”

  Wakefield turned to Finch. “She has rather a striking face, don’t you agree?”

  “I scarcely noticed it,” returned Finch.

  “Wonderful.” Wakefield hugged himself. “This is almost like being at home.”

  “We didn’t mean to be snooty,” said Adeline. “We just wanted a private reunion.”

  “We shall have one, from now on,” he returned, putting his arm about her. “And, speaking of faces, you have a sweet one of your own.”

  Finch was staring out of the window. As they passed through the streets he was conscious of that peculiar feeling of excitement which no city but London could give him. It reached out to him from the very pavements, from the crowds, from the sober, massive buildings. Perhaps it came from the remembrance of his first visit there when he was twenty-one and had brought his two old uncles with him. What a time they had had together and how terribly young and vulnerable he had been, even for twenty-one!

  At Brown’s Hotel the three mounted the red-carpeted stairs, following the porter to Adeline’s room. She looked admiringly at the Victorian mahogany furniture. “I like this,” she said. She passed through the french window on to the balcony, with its boxes of red geraniums. Lights were coming out in the surrounding buildings. She was conscious of the vastness and majesty of London. She heard Finch and Wakefield talking of Georgina Lennox and turned back into the room to say, — “I suppose she’s been married half-a-dozen times.”

  “No,” answered Wakefield. “Only once.”

  “I pity him,” she said. “who is he?”

  “They’re divorced.”

  “They would be! who was he?”

  “An Irishman. They married during the war. I believe he was a bad-tempered fellow. The poor girl had an unhappy time.”

  “An Irishman,” repeated Adeline. “I like Irishmen. What was his name?”

  Wakefield knitted his brow. “It was Fitz-something …”

  Finch interrupted, — “Come along to my room, Wake. It’s time for Adeline to dress.”

  Adeline looked Wakefield square in the eyes. “Fitz?” she repeated, toying with the syllable. “Can’t you remember?”

  “Not possibly. It was an unholy sort of name.”

  “Turgis?” suggested Adeline.

  “That’s it! Have you heard of him?”

  “Yes. We met him.” The hot colour surged into her face.

  “You did? And what did you think of him?”

  “We — liked him.” She threw Finch a look of desperate warning.

  “Yes,” Finch agreed. “We sort of liked him.”

  “Now I call this an extraordinary coincidence,” exclaimed Wakefield. “Georgie is the first person you meet in London and she was once married to a man you met in Ireland.”

  “That’s nothing,” said Finch, his eyes on Adeline. “In San Francisco I met a fellow who had lived half a mile from Jalna most of his life and we’d never met in all those years.”

  Wakefield was too much occupied by his own affairs and by the pleasure of having Finch and Adeline with him to be interested in an unknown Irishman. Finch led him off to his own room but after a little returned to Adeline.

  She opened the door to his knock and, inside the room, they stood staring at each other.

  “I came back,” he said, “to tell you that I shan’t mention — anything to Wake — about you and Fitzturgis.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Finch,” she murmured. “Do you believe that he really was married to that woman?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “It couldn’t be. He’d have told me.”

  “Men don’t always tell everything in their past, you know.”

  “But he would have told me. I’m sure of that.”

  “why?”

  “Because he loves me.”

  “Probably the very reason why he didn’t.”

  “Oh!” Adeline pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead. “I’m tired,” she said, “and a little hungry.”

  Finch remembered that she had eaten little on the journey. Lost her good appetite, he thought, because of that fellow she’d left behind.

  “Of course you’re hungry,” he exclaimed. “And I am too.”

  “what shall I put on?” she asked. “A dinner dress?”

  “No. Just something fresh. And wouldn’t you like a hot bath?”

  She nodded. She could not speak. Desperately she wanted to be alone. When he had gone she closed and locked the door. Apprehension, anger, hurt, and resentment surged up in her. But she must not give way. She must appear steady and unhurt, not let Finch realize the turmoil within her. She dug her fingernails into her palms and set her teeth. Forcibly she pressed down the welling tears. What had come over her — she who scorned a girl who cried — who, many a time, had felt superior to Roma’s emotionalism?… but this — this was so cruel — so unexpected! The intent face of Fitzturgis rose before her — clearer than life. If only she could meet him face to face, find out all the truth about him so that there should be left no surprises, none at all.

  The days passed. Finch gave himself up to the pleasure of being in London again. There were old friends of the family to look up; pleasant acquaintances, though he never thought of them as friends, in musical circles. There was Adeline to be taken about. He and she went together to see the comedy in which Wakefield was acting. It was playing to fair houses, and Wakefield’s part, though not one of the most important, seemed so to Adeline. She was full of pride in him and wished everyone in the audience could know he was her near relation. For the time being, he was financially secure.

  Finch, regarding her laughing face at the play, and seeing her apparent pleasure in their sightseeing, thought she had taken the revelation of Fitzturgis’ marriage with admirable fortitude. If she was full of pride in Wakefield, Finch was even more filled with pride in her. He cherished the shadowy hope that her attachment to Fitzturgis was less deep than he had feared.

  He could not know of the passionate letter she had written, demanding that Fitzturgis should explain his lack of candour. On the very day, when her letter reached Fitzturgis, a letter b
earing the Irish stamp was indeed handed to her. But it was from Pat Crawshay, a letter telling her how much he missed her and even touching the fringe of an expression of love. At the first she was too disappointed to do more than impatiently scan it, but later in the day she read it, with a sense of comfort, and the image of his ingenuous, eager face blurred for a moment the picture of Fitzturgis.

  In Ireland Fitzturgis had read her letter, at first with momentary consternation, and then with bitter resignation. This was no worse than he deserved, he reflected. He had not told Adeline anything of his past, not of the past that most affected her. Now she had learned it, with what embellishments he could only guess, and she was cut to the heart by what she must think of as his calculated deception. His nature, the circumstances of his life, had made it hard for him to be open and frank. For years he had lived among people who knew little of him. He had no desire to open his heart to them. He was sensitive, and inclined to melancholy.

  He had not spent many hours with Adeline before his passionate and sensual emotions were aroused by her. He longed, as he had never before longed for anything, to offer her marriage. Yet he had nothing to offer her but a restricted, a poverty-stricken life, which he could not remedy because of his bondage to his sister and mother. What use was there, he had thought, in confiding to her the fact that he had made an unfortunate marriage? Of that, at least, he was free, and he wanted to put it out of his mind.

  He had met Georgina Lennox during the war, when he was on leave. It had been at a house-party in the house of the backer of the play in which she was then appearing. She was the same age as himself but years older in experience. She was greatly attracted by the young Irish officer and he was elated by her flattery and captivated by her sophistication. During the weekend they spent all the time possible in each other’s company. Before his leave was over she had given herself to him. After his return to the front a continual flow of passionate letters passed between them. On his next leave they were married.