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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “I find plenty to do. You know I have cottages and land to look after. I have a congenial neighbour — Pat Crawshay. We go fishing and sailing together.”

  “what a life! And you really want me to go and visit you?”

  “I most certainly do.”

  “Nothing shall stop me,” Christian exclaimed. “I’ll paint Irish scenery — fall in love with an Irish girl and settle down at your gate. It’s just what I’ve been waiting for.”

  “And on my part I’d like nothing better…. I say, Nook, have you anything to drink in the studio? I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight, but I’m dry as hell. Do you think we might have a drink?”

  Christian gave him a puzzled look. “But —” he began, then got to his feet. “I don’t keep anything to drink here,” he said. “I’ll fetch something from the house.”

  “Never mind, never mind,” Maurice hastened to say. “It doesn’t matter. It’s only that I have this damned thirst.” But he objected no more as his brother left the studio and went into the darkness.

  The lights in the house were out, but a rising moon gleamed against one window in the room where little Mary slept. Christian heard a step and made out the figure of Philip in the hall. He had left off the jacket of his pyjamas and his naked torso showed palely against the dark staircase.

  “Gosh, isn’t it hot!” he exclaimed, then lowered his voice. “I went to bed but couldn’t sleep. What are you and Maurice doing?”

  Christian sensed envy in the boy’s voice. Here was the younger brother left out of things. To reassure him he said, “We shall be coming up soon. Maurice is tired, but he’s sort of restless. He wants a drink.”

  “Oh … I guess I’ll come out too. I feel restless and shouldn’t mind a drink.”

  “I’m not having any,” Christian said curtly. “Nor you either.”

  Philip stroked his smooth diaphragm. “I don’t really want anything,” he said. He followed Christian into the dining room and the light was turned on. “Dad will notice if you take more than a little.”

  Christian held up the decanter. “Not a great deal in it,” he said. “Maurice is used to having as much as he wants when he wants it. He’s his own rd.”

  Philip came close and watched with absorption the doling out of half a glass of whisky.

  “I guess it will look pretty mean to Maurice not to take out the decanter,” he said.

  “This is enough,” said Christian curtly.

  “But we don’t want to look mean, do we?” insisted Philip.

  “Damn.” Christian poured back the whisky from the glass, returned the stopper to the decanter and grasped it by the neck. “You’re right,” he said. “We mustn’t look mean, but — it strikes me …”

  “what strikes you”

  “Nothing.”

  “But you were going to say something.”

  “Only that you’d better go to bed.”

  “I was going to the studio with you.”

  “No, no, Philip. Maurice is tired. He will be coming to bed directly.”

  There was an elder-brotherly tone in Christian’s voice that offended Philip. They had been pals. Was Maurice coming between them?

  “OK,” he said gruffly, and went back into the hall and up the stairs, two steps at a time, in silent barefoot strides.

  Maurice was holding the picture Chritian had given him where the light fell on it when Christian re-entered with the decanter.

  “I do like this,” Maurice exclaimed. “It is mighty good of you to give it to me. I shall be proud to take it back to Ireland.”

  “Oh, it’s not bad.”

  “The cloud and the shadow of the cloud on the meadow! I like it immensely.” He appeared rapt by the picture, and when Christian set the decanter in front of him gave it a look of faint surprise. “Oh yes,” he said. “Something more to drink, eh? A good idea.”

  He poured himself a drink. A breeze, with the promise of freshness in it, blew through the door. The bats, in their furtive flitting, drew nearer.

  “I can’t tell you,” Maurice said, “how strange it is to me to picture Fitzturgis at Jalna, under the same roof with Adeline.”

  “I suppose it does seem strange.”

  “Strange — and utterly hateful.”

  The last word was startling to Christian. He asked, a little embarrassed, “Do you dislike him so much?”

  “Not in his own place. He’s all right — possibly — where he belongs. But it’s not here…. You know, Nook —” He sipped his whisky and water and exclaimed, “Aren’t you having any? Lord, I don’t want to be a pig.”

  “Thanks, I don’t want any.” Christian’s eyes were on what remained in the bottle, hoping that Piers would not notice how much had been drunk.

  “I’m afraid I drink a good deal,” Maurice said seriously. “But I intend to cut it out — now.”

  “We don’t have much of it about. Dad is the only one who takes anything stronger than coffee….”

  “Uncle Nicholas and Uncle Renny used to like good wine.”

  “They still do. Brandy helps to keep Uncle Nick alive.”

  “I’m sure it does,” Maurice agreed heartily. “I’ve been thinking, Nook, that I might buy a little supply of spirits that we could keep in the studio here. It would be convenient if one wanted a drink at the odd time. What about that cupboard? Does it lock? Have you a key?”

  “Yes, it locks. We could do that, Maurice.”

  Christian had a feeling of relief. If Maurice wanted an occasional drink, how much better to have a supply here in the studio than to be dependent on what their father so carefully guarded. He said, “I’ll see to it tomorrow. What would you like? A bottle of Scotch?”

  Maurice gave a little carefree laugh. “Don’t let us be stingy with ourselves,” he said. “Get three bottles of Scotch, one of vermouth, and one of gin. We might like an occasional cocktail.”

  “why, yes,” Christian said doubtfully. “The only thing is, I shall have to borrow Dad’s permit. In this country it’s necessary, you know. He might think it rather a lot.”

  “I’ll get a permit for myself. That will settle it. We’ll keep our little secret to ourselves, Nook.”

  Steps were heard outside, then low voices. The brothers turned towards the doorway to see Adeline and Fitzturgis emerge from the night. She was in a pale yellow dress. She brought the radiance of her content into the studio. Her world was going well with her.

  “I couldn’t wait till tomorrow to see you, Mooey,” she cried. “I made Mait come across the fields. It’s a divine night.” She ran to Maurice and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I did not need any persuasion,” said Fitzturgis. He spoke as though with calculated warmth and shook Maurice by the hand.

  They gave each other appraising looks, while Christian regarded them both with a detached interest in his clear hazel eyes. He saw Fitzturgis glance at the decanter and offered him a drink. It was accepted. He brought a glass from the cupboard.

  “Say when,” he said as he poured the spirits.

  “Just a little,” said Fitzturgis, noting the amount in the decanter.

  Maurice remarked to him jocularly, “That’s not the way we do things in Ireland, is it?”

  “And it’s not the way we do things here,” cried Adeline. She turned to Christian. “Can’t you get something from the house?” she asked, her eyes commanding him.

  “Nothing more for me,” said Fitzturgis.

  “Nor me either,” added Maurice cheerfully. He strolled to the door, glass in hand, and looked out into the darkness.

  “It’s getting a bit cooler,” he said, then, turning to Fitzturgis, asked, “How do you think you’ll endure this climate?”

  Adeline answered for him. “He enjoys being warm for a change — don’t you, Mait?”

  “I enjoy everything,” he said, with a possessive look at her.

  She went on, “I can’t remember being really warm all the while I was staying in Ireland. That huge old house
of yours was always cold, Maurice.”

  “I know, I know. Everything was wrong.”

  “Mooey, how can you say that? I had a wonderful time.”

  “I’ll wager you had.” He spoke in a tone so low that only she could hear. “Once you and Fitzturgis were together again.”

  She was amused. She could not help being a little gratified. “You are an old silly,” she said and put her arm about his shoulders.

  A car stopped on the road. Two people alighted from it. They were Roma and her fiancé. She said, “Oh, hullo, everybody. We were passing and saw the light in the studio. We guessed you were having a party. Come on, Norman, and meet Mr. Fitzturgis.” She pronounced the Irishman’s name with a kind of teasing pomposity, as though there were something ridiculous about his being there.

  There were introductions. Maurice said, “It’s not much of a party. We have nothing to offer you to drink.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Christian. “There’s nothing.”

  “I can soon fix that up,” said Norman. “I have several bottles in the car. I bought them for a party I’m giving for a bridegroom-to-be. I’ll bring one in.” He strode purposefully toward the door.

  Half-heartedly the others (with the exception of Roma) sought to dissuade him. He strode off determinedly, his black, too-well-groomed hair gleaming like lacquer. Roma examined the picture on an easel. She avoided Adeline. Her round childish face wore an expression of complete absorption in the painted landscape.

  Fitzturgis came to her side. “I want you to tell me,” he said, “why you think I’m funny.”

  “Me?” she said, making wide eyes at him. “I never said so.”

  “You implied it.” He spoke with mock severity.

  “I didn’t know. I thought I said things straight out.”

  “what girl does!”

  “Adeline…. What I was thinking was, it seemed funny to see her engaged.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “Well … it’s always been her father … Uncle Renny…. She thinks he’s perfect.”

  Fitzturgis looked thoughtful. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve noticed that.”

  “I daresay it’s natural,” she went on in her sensible little voice. “All the family sort of look up to him. Not me.”

  Fitzturgis searched her face with curiosity. “Not you, eh? I wonder why.”

  She gave him her candid look. She said, “He’s too overbearing. I won’t stand it. I like to go my own way — and let other people go theirs.”

  “That’s a very nice trait,” he said warmly.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just the way I feel.” Her eyes turned admiringly to Adeline. “Adeline is a strong character,” she said. “She’s like great-grandmother — the one in the portrait.”

  “A remarkable likeness,” he agreed.

  Roma gave a smile that somehow conveyed disparagement. “It’s to be hoped,” she said, “that Adeline doesn’t grow into what that old woman was.”

  He gave her a questioning, puzzled look.

  “A regular old tyrant … I never like the thought of her…. For goodness’ sake don’t tell that I said that or they’d all be after me.”

  “Afteryou?” He was still more puzzled. “Well, I’m a sort of outsider. They all hang together. I don’t think it’s a good idea for a family to hang together too closely, do you?”

  “I do not.”

  Norman now returned with a bottle of rye. Maurice asked Christian about more glasses and he obediently went to the house for three. He moved very quietly, for fear of disturbing the sleepers upstairs, but in taking the glasses from a pantry shelf he dropped one, and the small tray on which he had placed others tilted. They fell splintering to the floor.

  They made but a small crash, yet while Christian was still regarding the broken glass in dismay (for he had chosen the best ones) Pheasant appeared in her nightdress.

  “See what I’ve done!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, Nooky, why did you have to take the best ones? whom have you got in the studio?”

  He was trying to gather up the fragments in his hands. “Adeline and Fitzturgis. Roma and Norman. They wanted a drink. Norman brought it.”

  Pheasant found a dustpan and brush. She said, “I hope you won’t take more than one drink. And Maurice too. He must be tired. He ought to be in his bed, poor darling.”

  Possibly it was the solicitude in the last words that made Christian remark, “Oh, Maurice will drink plenty.”

  From her kneeling position she raised startled eyes to his. “what do you mean?”

  He hastened to say, “Nothing — except that he feels the heat and he’s thirsty.”

  “He ought to be in his bed,” she repeated a little crossly. She stood up, the broken glass collected.

  “I hope you’re not saying that about me.” Maurice spoke from the doorway.

  “I broke the glasses,” was Christian’s needless explanation.

  “Tea cups will do. Anything will do.” Maurice put his arm about Pheasant and dropped a kiss on her hair. “Come on out and join us, Mummy. You look sweet in your nightdress.”

  She looked from one loved face to the other. “All I ask is that you boys will not take much to drink. You know what your father thinks about that.”

  They chimed in to reassure her and, supplied with fresh glasses, returned to the studio. On the way Maurice said, “Norman seems a decent chap.”

  “Well, he’s always ready to supply drinks. I don’t look on him as an interesting addition to the family. However, he is as interesting as Roma is.”

  “We thought you two had decided to go to bed,” Adeline exclaimed when they appeared.

  “I’ll bet their precious elders were after them,” said Roma. She was sharing a drink from Norman’s glass, sitting beside him on a bench.

  Fitzturgis said, “This is an excellent concoction. Is the formula a secret?”

  Norman, with almost religious fervour, named the ingredients and the manner of mixing. He went on to talk of various drinks he had savoured in various night clubs. It was plain that he set great store on his experience of night life, which in truth, because of his youth and lack of opportunity, was very limited. Fitzturgis listened to him with tranquil amusement. Ever and again his deep-set eyes rested on Roma, who sat relaxed and silent, with the exception of an occasional interjected remark so banal, so without originality, that he wondered if she spoke seriously. Christian listened with a kind of hypnotized boredom as Norman continued to hold forth. He had taken on the attitude of host and was generous in the continual offering of drink. Of those present Maurice was most ready to have his glass refilled. His heavy eyes regarded Fitzturgis with slumbering jealousy and Adeline with melancholy desire. Adeline’s spirits soared to wildness. She wanted to dance, to laugh, to sing.

  She went to a small radio in a far corner of the studio and turned it on. At the first brutal blare of a band playing an American version of native African music Christian sprang up and ran to her. “Are you mad, Adeline?” he demanded and lowered the tone.

  “I believe I am — a little,” she laughed. “why not? We’re all of us together again, aren’t we?”

  “We shall have Dad down here.”

  “who cares? I don’t.” And she called out: “Do you, Maurice?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Do you care if Uncle Piers comes?”

  “I care for nobody but you, Adeline.”

  “Come and dance then!”

  He rose a little uncertainly.

  “It’s too warm for dancing,” said Christian.

  “You’re afraid Uncle Piers will be disturbed. You know you are,” Adeline scoffed.

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Christian in exasperation. “If you are willing to dance in this heat — go ahead! But not with the radio at full blast.”

  Norman said, “The night is still young. Have another drink.”

  “Will no one dance with me?” cried Adeline, executing a few steps
of a rumba.

  “The girl is suffering from frustration,” said Roma. “Somebody dance with her.”

  Maurice, glass in hand, stood uncertainly, the light from the unshaded electric bulb throwing shadows as of illness on his pale face. He stammered, “I will dance with you … will dance with you … my angel.”

  “No, no,” repeated Christian. “It’s too hot.”

  “who says it’s hot?” exclaimed Roma. She sprang to her feet with a sudden energy, startling after her seeming languor.

  The two girls faced each other. They threw their mobile bodies with abandon into the South American dance now played by an orchestra. Norman clapped his palms sharply together in the rhythm of the dance. A somewhat macabre beauty descended on the scene, the four young men appearing as under a spell cast by dancing nymphs.

  This continued till the music was broken in on by the voice of the announcer.

  Adeline went and sat beside Fitzturgis, who laid an arm lightly about her waist. His air was possessive as he said, “That was beautifully done. You made me forget the heat.”

  “Not me,” said Christian. “I feel ready to drop from just watching them.”

  Norman handed another drink to Roma, who accepted it with cool unconcern. He now filled a glass and carried it to Adeline. “This is the last,” he said.

  “Are you telling me we’ve drunk all that?”

  “We have. Don’t worry. There’s more where it came from.”

  “She shouldn’t have any more,” said Maurice. “I shall drink it for her.” He appropriated the glass and sat down at her other side. “You might make a little more room,” he complained.

  “Move over, Mait.” She gave Fitzturgis a little push.

  “There is no place here for anyone but us,” he said truculently.

  “Do you hear that, Mooey?” she said with a reckless laugh.

  There seemed to Maurice something insulting in the stress she put on the old pet name. He gave her a look of mingled reproach and anger. He pressed close to her on the bench, so that her body was wedged between him and Fitzturgis. A scowl darkened the face of the latter and he resolutely stiffened himself.

  Maurice tossed off his drink. He leant across Adeline to say, “Move along, you blackguard.”