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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Such as what?”

  “Falling in love with you. Giving you a wrong idea of myself. Following you here.”

  She considered these three aspects of him — the lover — the deceiver — the follower. Then she said, — “You did all these of your own accord.”

  He sat up. “I did not. I swear I was helpless.”

  “I can’t imagine your being helpless, Mait. What is a face for, if it doesn’t show the character?”

  He said between his teeth, — “If my face showed my character I hate to think what a face it would be.”

  “Talk like that,” she returned, in her great-uncle Ernest’s manner, “doesn’t do any good. I want your explanation.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of why you married Georgina what’s-her-name.”

  “I thought I loved her.”

  “Really loved her?”

  “Well — I thought so.”

  “Did you feel the same about her as you now think you feel about me?”

  “It was entirely different.”

  “why?”

  “Because she is entirely different.”

  “You mean she is experienced?”

  “It was partly that. Partly that the times were different. Men on leave were reckless. They thought their time on earth might be short. They snatched at pleasures.”

  “And Georgina was one of yours?”

  “Not for long … I can tell you this, my darling, and I want you to believe me — any feeling I had for Georgina was …” he made a quick gesture, from the wrist only, and narrowed his eyes, frowning. He did not finish the sentence. In the proud, fitful imagination of first love Adeline magnified everything he said, or did not say, into something momentous. She leant toward him, with parted lips, to receive his words or thoughts half-way.

  “Yes? Yes?” she encouraged.

  He continued, his hand gently touching her shoe, — “Comparisons are silly. Isn’t it enough that I love you with all that’s in me? Georgina was in my past.”

  Adeline broke out, — “Oh, I wish I were older! Eighteen is so stupid to be. I have no past. I can’t understand.”

  “where you are concerned I have no past either. It’s all present. It’s all you.”

  “Have we no future?”

  “You have.”

  “Not without you.” Her lips quivered and she steadied herself with difficulty.

  At some distance she saw another couple on the grass. They had escaped from some office or shop and come to the park to be together. The man lay flat on his back; the girl sat beside him. Fascinated, Adeline watched her wooing of him, her fondling of his sandy hair, caressing of his cheeks, tickling of his neck; his supine acceptance of these attentions. Adeline said, — “Let’s walk along.”

  “Don’t you like it here?”

  “Those people …”

  He sat up and looked without interest. “Very well,” he said, “but we shall scarcely find a quieter spot.”

  They moved among the trees, the thrush’s song following them. The sun was now lowering into a greater brightness rather than toward a sunset. The upper branches of the trees were enmeshed in a golden web. The noise of traffic came subdued. Again they dropped to the grass, this time side by side, their backs against a tree.

  Adeline repeated, as though there had been no interruption:

  “I have no future without you.”

  He replied, almost violently, — “If I were wiped off the face of the earth at this instant your life would go on. In a few years from now — with me in Ireland, you in Canada —”

  She interrupted, — “You say how much you love me, yet you talk to me like this!”

  “I want to make you realize that I am only an incident.”

  “why did you come here?”

  “To explain.”

  “You have explained nothing. I love you. You love me. I’m willing to wait for you. Isn’t that clear?”

  He looked at her as though he did not see her. “Terribly clear,” he said. “You’re offering up your youth as a sacrifice.”

  “Bother my youth,” she exclaimed. “I’m sick of hearing of it. May not we have some pleasure out of it?”

  He frowned at her. “what do you want to do?”

  “I want to be somewhere alone with you. I’d like to drink wine and to pretend that it would go on forever.”

  He took her hand and they sat so linked for a time, without speaking. The song-thrush, out of some waywardness of his own, had chosen to follow them, alight on the topmost twig of their tree and there carry on his song. This topmost twig and he were the last objects burnished by the sunlight. Far below, Adeline and Fitzturgis sat in deep shade. It was becoming cool.

  He told her of his first meeting with Georgina Lennox, of their almost immediate and passionate attraction for each other, of their rushing into marriage. “There was no friendship,” he said. “I simply wanted the excitement of it. I wanted something exciting enough to make me forget the war.”

  A pang of jealousy went through her. “And did you forget the war?” she asked.

  “In a sort of way — as though someone blowing on a tin whistle in your ear might make you forget the blast of a trumpet outside your room.”

  Adeline laughed. “Compare me to something,” she said.

  “what shall I compare you to! The harp that once through Tara’s halls? That’s it … that’s the thing! Or perhaps a sword that’s run me through.”

  “Oh, Mait — my great-grandmother would have loved you!”

  “Would she now? That’s interesting. How do you know?”

  “I know because — in a strange sort of way — she lives in me … But I’m different too. I’ve had a different sort of bringing up. I’ve had more gentleness.”

  He drew her on to talk of herself, of which he never tired. He lay, resting on his elbow, looking up into her face, seeing her eyes darken in the twilight, her hair darken to brown, and her skin take on a camellia-like pallor.

  She would have remained there unmindful of time, had not Fitzturgis glanced at his watch and said, — “It’s past seven o’clock. What about your uncles? Will they be expecting you?”

  She answered tranquilly, — “Wake will be at the theatre. Uncle Finch — he’ll be wondering.”

  “what do you want to do?”

  “whatever you say.”

  “I’d like to take you to dinner somewhere. Do you like Claridge’s? No. I’m not dressed for it.”

  “Besides it costs too much. Mait, let’s go to a restaurant I know in Soho. We can telephone to Uncle Finch that we’re there.”

  Fitzturgis frowned at the thought of telephoning such a message to Finch. “Hadn’t we better present ourselves at Brown’s and ask him?”

  “No! He might refuse. I want to go straight to Soho.”

  As they crossed the park beneath the dark trees they saw the mild light of evening showing through the leaves and the crowds moving quietly along the pavement.

  Fitzturgis became matter-of-fact. He looked Adeline over and said, — “You’re not very tidy. There’s a bit of bark in your hair.” He picked it off. He brushed blades of grass from her jacket, she standing straight and docile to have it done. A couple passed close beside them hand in hand. They walked on and came to the pair they had seen earlier. These two were in the same positions, only the girl more amorous, the man more flattened out.

  Along Piccadilly a fresh evening breeze swept. In the distance was the sound of a band. Fitzturgis hailed a taxicab and they climbed in, as into a secret refuge. The back of the driver was as a shield, the four walls of the cab close about them, the traffic pouring past the windows, the smell of leather and cigarette smoke.

  “I’m not going to mind about anything,” Adeline exclaimed, out of her dark corner. “I mean I’m glad you’re here, even though I don’t like what brought you.”

  He put his arm about her. “I’m glad too. It’s another hour snatched before parting.”

 
“Don’t talk of parting.”

  “No. We’ll talk of being together always.”

  “Together always,” she repeated. “Wonderful words. They’re like wings you can fly away with, where nothing can hurt you.”

  “I found an old book,” he said, “in the bookshelves at home and it gave the meanings of names. Adeline means ‘noble maiden.’”

  “How lovely! I do like that.”

  “And it has a second meaning.”

  “what?”

  “‘Noble serpent.’”

  She drew back from him staring. “No!”

  “Yes. ‘Noble serpent.’ The serpent that tempts me.”

  “Oh, I like that too.” She gave a low, happy laugh and laid herself against his side.

  Fitzturgis put both arms about her. He held her fiercely, as though he would defy temptation, and all that followed surrender to it, to harm them. His lips, in the moving light of the street lamps, sought hers, and he kissed her as he had not before. No more than broken phrases were exchanged between them till the cab stopped in front of the Italian restaurant and the head of the driver turned on his drooping shoulders.

  Inside the restaurant it was so crowded that at first it seemed no table could be found for them. The black-coated, black-haired waiters, hastening among the white tablecloths, seemed a multitude in themselves. Two of them, carrying loaded trays, were climbing the stairs to the restaurant on the floor above. The head waiter, with eyes still interested, in spite of the flow of patrons, found at last a small table just vacated. With an heroic smile of discovery he led them to it. All the sounds, the lighting, the faces, seemed foreign and delightful to Adeline. She put her hands up to the little hat she had bought in New York and placed it, as she thought, at a better angle. Fitzturgis, calm and detached, studied the menu.

  “Please order for me,” she begged. “I never understand these things.”

  She listened admiringly while he ordered the meal. No wonder, she thought, that the waiter listens to him so attentively. No wonder that a second waiter stands in readiness … There sat Fitzturgis in his best suit, an impecunious Irishman, behaving with the assurance of a capitalist. When the hors d’oeuvre was set in front of them he smiled across the table at her. She threw aside all her newly-acquired troubles and smiled back. She was hungry and ate the Italian dishes with relish. She sipped her wine, as though discussing its flavour. It exhilarated her. She joined her voice and laughter to the rising note of that about her.

  But as they sat over their coffee Adeline became pensive. She could think of nothing to say. Excepting that they were lovers they were strangers to each other. They had no past in common. They never had been about together. There were no remembered incidents, no remembered little jokes to recall. Fitzturgis was one of those who did not trouble to talk unless it pleased him. Now he felt the shadow of their parting stretch forward to envelop them. His eyes rested on the Benedictine in his glass, his fingers turned the glass’s stem. He almost broke it at a sudden exclamation from Adeline.

  “Oh,” she said, on a note of dismay. “Oh, Mait, you forgot to telephone to Uncle Finch!”

  Her consternation was reflected in his face.

  “By the Lord, I did,” he said. “It went right out of my head. I’ll go straight and do it.”

  She gave a little laugh. “Now,” she said, “my name will be mud.”

  “It’s all my fault. But will Finch be very angry or alarmed?”

  Her wide-opened eyes rebuked him. “Well, wouldn’t you be? If you’d brought your niece to London and she didn’t show up for dinner or send any word, what would you feel?”

  “I don’t think I’d mind.”

  “Mait, I sometimes wonder if you have any natural affection in you.”

  “So do I.”

  “Does that mean you feel cold and hard inside?”

  “Often I do — except toward you.”

  “Oh, Mait darling.” She leant toward him smiling.

  With his love hot in his eyes he said, — “Supposing we don’t go back.”

  “Not go back — ever?”

  “I don’t say never.”

  “But you mean run away and get married?”

  The talk in the room became a deafening sound in her ears. She saw that his lips moved, that his face was pale, but she could not hear his words. She repeated her question. He stood up straight, looking down into her upturned face.

  “I’m going to telephone,” he said, and moved among the tables toward the door.

  Adeline saw two people enter immediately after he went out. They came straight toward her, then were given a table at a little distance. As the theatres opened at seven, people were, at this hour, appearing after the play.

  Adeline heard a voice say, — “There’s Georgina Lennox.”

  She saw the actress, and with her Wakefield. She should have considered the possibility of meeting them here, for it was Wakefield who had introduced her to this restaurant, which was a favourite of his.

  She all but cried out for Fitzturgis to come and protect her. But a wilder impulse came. The impulse to follow him, and so escape. She sat shielding her face with her hand, her knees trembling, too weak to support her. Her elbow drew the cloth askew, slopping the liqueur from Fitzturgis’ glass. From nowhere a waiter appeared, straightened the cloth and spread a clean napkin over the stain. Adeline still shielded her face with her hand.

  After a little Fitzturgis reappeared. He sat down with his back to Wakefield and Georgina.

  “Well?” asked Adeline, lowering her hand.

  “It was just as I expected — only more so. He’d been telephoning the hospitals.”

  “Goodness!”

  “He told me what he thought of me.”

  “Goodness!”

  “No. Badness.”

  “Mait?”

  “Well?”

  “Do you want me to run away with you?”

  “No.”

  “why?”

  “I shouldn’t know what to do with you.”

  “Do you mean there’s no room in your life for me?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “But look what you said a few minutes ago.”

  “I was out of my head.”

  “But you could take me home — to your home — for a little. Then I’d take you back with me to Jalna. Daddy would forgive us. You’d see.”

  “I have my honour,” he said calmly. “I have told you what I will do. When things are better with me — if ever they are — I’ll go to you and — if you want me —”

  “I shall always want you.”

  He took her hand across the table. “You make me ashamed,” he said.

  “But why?”

  “Your youth. What you are.”

  Adeline now saw that Wakefield and Georgina Lennox were looking at them.

  “That actress you were married to is at a table behind you, with Wake.”

  Turning his head he regarded Georgina’s back without surprise. “when did they come in?” he asked.

  “while you were out. I want to go over to their table and speak to them.”

  “In God’s name, why?”

  “I can’t explain … Yes, I want them to know that we …” She could find no words, but a compelling smile curved her lips. “I want them to know,” she repeated.

  “I can’t see that it matters. I can’t see that it would be anything but — painful.”

  “Have you finished your drink? Then let’s go over.”

  He rose with resignation and followed her to the other table. Wakefield was on his feet and, holding out a hand to Adeline, drew her to his side. “This is Maitland Fitzturgis,” she said, with dignity.

  “what a nice surprise!” said Wakefield.

  “Hello, Mait.” Georgina put out her hand toward Fitzturgis, in a gesture, half playful, half coaxing, as though to say, — “It’s all over, so let’s be friends.”

  He held the hand a moment, then returned it to her with a coolness whic
h mystified Adeline. What did he feel, she wondered. If it were pain, he concealed it. Georgina, on her part, looked exhilarated. Wakefield’s bright eyes moved from one face to another, in amused enquiry.

  “Won’t you sit down with us,” he asked, “and have another drink? We’ll have so much to talk about.” He did not ask how Fitzturgis happened to be in London.

  “We must go,” said Adeline. “We only wanted to speak to you. Mait flew over from Ireland to see me.

  Wakefield and Georgina exclaimed at this, as at something not exactly surprising, but quite interesting. Wakefield’s thoughts could not remain long from his own affairs.

  “I’ve had a letter from my New York agent,” he said. “He’s found a producer who is interested in my play.”

  “And now Wakefield’s real troubles begin,” added Georgina, showing off her eyelashes.

  “The play I’m in is folding up,” Wakefield went on. “I’ll go straight over to New York.”

  “How splendid!” said Adeline. “Then you’ll come to Jalna.”

  “Of course.”

  “Daddy will be glad to see you. You know you promised to read that play to me and you haven’t.”

  “I’ll read it to you tomorrow.” He turned to Fitzturgis. “Will you be in London tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’d like you two as an audience.”

  “It’s a lovely play,” breathed Georgina. “About frustrated love. It goes straight to your heart.”

  “what an achievement!” said Fitzturgis.

  “I’m not being funny.” Georgina pouted. “It really does.”

  “I’ll read it to you tonight,” exclaimed Wakefield, “if you will come to my lodgings.”

  “I’d love to,” said Adeline, “but I must go back to Brown’s. Uncle Finch will be worrying.”

  “For the love of Mike!” exclaimed Wakefield. “Don’t tell me that Finch has descended to the role of the poor old worrying uncle.”

  “Well, I’ve given him a good deal to worry about.” His lips set in a cold smile, Fitzturgis stood a little apart.

  “Truly, Mait,” said Georgina, “you’ll adore the play. I know your tastes so well.”

  “My tastes have changed.”

  “But you still love art where it is good.”

  “Ah, yes.”