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

by Mazo de La Roche

  Finch stood, biting his thumb. “what the dickens …” he muttered; and repeated, “what the dickens …”

  “Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Renny. “I’ll lend you the table, as I lent it to Meg, and say no more about it. The table remains here.”

  “Thanks,” murmured Finch.

  There was nothing more to be said. He followed Renny and Sylvia to the car, and when Renny’s back was turned he raised her hand to his lips.

  In the car, during the brief drive, she resolutely talked of music — a subject which, she guessed, was subduing to the master of Jalna.

  X

  Brother and Sister

  SYLVIA AND RENNY parted in the hall, he descending to the basement for some obscure reason, she mounting the stairs. The door of Renny’s room stood open, an unshaded light was burning and she glimpsed the shape of a dog stretched on the foot of the bed.

  A deep rumbling snore came from the room of the old uncle. The clock struck four.

  A pencil of light showed beneath Fitzturgis’s door. She went straight to it and softly tapped with the tips of her fingers. Almost instantly the door was flung open and he stood there, in shirt and trousers, a look of something approaching apprehension on his face.

  “I knew it was you,” he said.

  “And were afraid?” She came into the room. “Poor Maitland! I’ve put you through too much.” She softly closed the door.

  He scanned her pale face. “I was not afraid,” he said, “but — there’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  The thoughts of both flew back to nights in Ireland, when, in the illness of her mind, she had struggled with him, been forcibly restrained by him.

  “So much is wrong,” she said, “that I think I shall have to go.” She sank to the side of the bed and covered her face with her hands.

  He sat down beside her and put his arm about her. “Oh, help me, help me,” she sobbed against his shoulder. “Oh, what have I done?”

  “Now,” he said, in his tone of command, “let’s have no more of this lamenting. Tell me what has happened.”

  “Finch Whiteoak,” she managed to get out, “is in love with me.”

  If he had not known her so well, seen her in the extremity of despair, he might have laughed. Instead he pressed his arm about her and said, “That doesn’t sound very terrible to me. It’s rather sudden, but why should you feel it a calamity?”

  “Because — oh, Mait, it’s so ghastly — he’s asked me to marry him and — I want to.”

  “Very well then — do.”

  “But I can’t — not after that affair with Galbraith.”

  “My dear child, he need not be told anything of that. It’s past and done with.”

  “I should hate myself if I deceived Finch. I haven’t been an admirable person, but I have been above board. I’ve got my own idea of myself and I must live up to it — to the end.”

  “Tell him then.”

  “I can’t.” She gripped her hands between her knees. A shudder passed through her.

  He took a cigarette from the bedside table, lighted it and put it between her lips. “You’ll make yourself ill again,” he said, “if you go on like this.”

  Still shuddering, she puffed at the cigarette. Then — “Oh, why did I meet Galbraith!” she cried.

  “Keep your voice down,” he said, and added, with a certain hardness of tone, “You appeared to think a lot of him. You were scarcely ever apart on board ship. And afterwards, in New York.”

  “I know. But now the thought of him is distasteful.”

  “Perhaps Finch would become distasteful — if you lived with him.”

  “Never.” She spoke with passion. “It’s utterly different — my feeling for him. I never loved Galbraith.”

  “He certainly was — and still is — mad about you.”

  “He had the power to give me a feeling of something like — I won’t say the word love — even a spurious kind — in connection with him — but a feeling of being enamoured. I told you at the time I was afraid to marry him. Oh, God, how I wish I’d never done it!”

  “You were swept away.”

  “No, no,” she denied. “I did it in cold blood. I thought I was being sensible.”

  “And so you were,” he said. “You made an experiment. You are free. You have met a man you want to marry. You are a fool if you don’t.”

  “I will not deceive him. Not in any way.”

  “You and I,” Fitzturgis said almost tenderly, “have known trouble. I believe we have a right to reach out and grasp good luck wherever we find it. If it happens to be in the shape of someone who loves us — so much the better.”

  “I wish,” said Sylvia, “I had told him tonight, but for a moment I was so happy I forgot, and, when I remembered, I couldn’t.”

  “You must forget.”

  “I will not deceive Finch,” she repeated. “There is something so good in him — so pure.…” She scanned her brother’s face, fearing a smile of derision, the chill of cynicism, but his eyes reflected her earnestness.

  “I know,” he said.

  “I have spoilt everything,” she said.

  He had so often seen her despairing. He braced himself to endure this.

  “Go to bed,” she said, “and forget me.” She turned as though to leave. “As for me, I shall not close my eyes tonight.”

  He made a dramatic gesture toward the window. “Indeed you will not,” he said, “for the night is gone.”

  She looked and saw a paleness in the east. A small bird began to sing.

  “You are so well again,” he said, “it’s a shame that you should work yourself up over this.”

  “Work myself up,” she repeated. “My God!”

  “Sylvia,” he said suddenly, “would you be willing for me to explain to Finch Whiteoak?” In a peculiar way Fitzturgis felt himself better able to grapple with her problems than with his own.

  She turned her face, wan in the increasing light, to his. “Oh, Mait, I should bless you for it. Then — if need be, I could leave without seeing him again.”

  “You have some sleeping pills,” he said. “Take one. Try to get some rest.”

  She cried in a ferment, “Adeline has arranged a picnic for today. A picnic!”

  “She would,” he said grimly. “Well, lie down and relax if you can. Is Finch to be at the picnic?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll have a talk with him first…. That will be picnic enough for him.”

  “IfI thought you were joking,” she said, “I should hate you.”

  “I have seldom felt less like joking.” He laid his hand on her arm and steered her back to her own room, with something of the air of a surgeon steering a patient toward an operating room.

  Five hours later, with the picnic in the offing, Fitzturgis walked through the morning freshness of the ravine to Finch’s house. His expression was resolute. His very walk gave the impression that he was eager to have this meeting over and done with. If Sylvia were determined to make a sacrifice of herself he would help her out with it; but beneath his hardy exterior he concealed considerable foreboding as to what the effect of this interview might have on her nerves if Finch should turn his back on her.

  He found him just finishing his breakfast and refused his invitation to drink a cup of coffee. Finch, never very good at concealing his feelings, looked surprised by this morning call. They went to the paved terrace and stood smoking and remarking the luxuriant growth of the season. Then Fitzturgis said:

  “I’ve come to see you because of what happened last night between my sister and you.”

  “Yes?” Finch stared at him, trying to guess what was coming.

  “Sylvia, as you must know, had a bad nervous breakdown after the war. She saw her husband killed in a London raid. She should have been taken care of after that, but she went right on working — till she went to pieces. She had a bad time of it — for a long while.”

  Hot colour flooded Finch’s face. He
knew what was coming! He knew! This thick-set, insensate brute was going to tell him that Sylvia must not marry — that her mental balance was too precarious — that he, as her brother, must forbid it…. But Fitzturgis went on:

  “There is nothing I should like so much as a happy marriage for Sylvia. Her health is good. There is nothingwrong with her.”

  “Yes?” Once more the bewildered monosyllable from Finch.

  “There’s no man,” said Fitzturgis warmly, “I had rather see her marry than you.”

  “Then what’s the trouble?” asked Finch.

  “Nothing, I hope.” He spoke with calmness, but he bit his thumbnail, examined it, bit it again.

  Finch demanded, “Does Sylvia know you’re here?”

  “Yes. She wanted me to come.”

  “To tell me What? Out with it, for God’s sake.”

  “There was an incident,” said Fitzturgis, “in Sylvia’s life — a quite recent affair — that she thinks you should be told of. I don’t agree, but she insists.”

  “why shouldn’t she tell me of it herself?”

  “She is too sensitive or — she thinks you have too much moral sensibility — to hear it from her…. Oh, I don’t know…. What does a woman really think? Have you discovered?”

  “Will you be good enough to tell me,” Finch said calmly, “what all this is about?”

  “It’s about a chap named Galbraith — a newspaper man whom we met on shipboard. He fell in love with Sylvia. He asked her to marry him, as soon as he got his divorce which was pending. Very well. Sylvia liked Galbraith. Very much indeed. She saw him every day after we arrived in New York. As I said, she liked him. They were congenial. My older sister and my brother-in-law urged her to accept him…. She did accept him. But not in marriage…. She was afraid of marriage — till she could be absolutely certain of her feelings. And there was another thing. Since her illness Sylvia has never taken life for granted. All she has taken for granted is that there will be suffering. But she will get over that, I’m positive. Give her the right man — the right marriage — and she’ll be as sound as ever.”

  “And — this Galbraith — he wasn’t the right man.”

  Finch, the flush still reddening his forehead, spoke in a cool, detached tone.

  “He was not.”

  “You are telling me, I suppose, that she lived with him. How long did she live with him?”

  “Oh, it was just a matter of a few weeks. Possibly less. Actually I don’t know. There is one thing I want you to understand. Sylvia is a moral woman. I am her brother. I can truthfully say I’ve never met a more virtuous one.”

  “what do you mean by saying she takes suffering for granted?”

  “Well, she’d been through a hell of a time. Her nerves had gone to pieces. She was afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid of marriage. She had to find out how her nerves would behave before she settled down. She wanted to make sure that she wasn’t going to saddle Galbraith with a wife who was liable to breakdowns … I know I’ve put this badly. I wish to God Sylvia could have told you herself.”

  “It seems to me you’ve put it very well,” said Finch thoughtfully. Then he asked, “And how did the experiment turn out?”

  “There was no emotional upset. Sylvia simply discovered that she did not care enough for Galbraith to marry him.”

  “And now she is ready to experiment with me,” said Finch.

  “If you can call marriage an experiment — yes.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I am not willing.” As Finch spoke the colour receded first from his forehead, then from his long, lean cheeks, lastly from his lips, giving them a drained look.

  “You don’t want to go on with this?” asked Fitzturgis.

  “No.”

  Fitzturgis felt as though he had made a considerable journey by the time he had returned to Jalna. His steps lagged as he mounted the stairs. He could hear Archer talking in a haughty voice to someone and wondered if it were Adeline. He was deeply disappointed in the outcome of the interview with Finch. He was very sure that had he been in Finch’s place such a disclosure would have made little difference to him. He dreaded the effect of what he must tell her, on Sylvia. It had been arranged she should wait for him in her room.

  Now he tapped on the door.

  She opened it at once, saying, “I saw you coming. What did he say?”

  There was no need for him to speak. His face told the tale. He said, however, “I’m surprised and disappointed. I could not have believed he was so narrow-minded, so intolerant. I think perhaps if you had gone to him yourself it would have been better. I’m sure it was a mistake — my going. In the first place he doesn’t like me. It was harder to take from me.”

  She stood twisting her fingers together. Her face was undefended before him. It had no conscious expression for its defence. He scanned it, feature by feature. Even more than pity he was feeling anxiety for her power of self-control.

  She eased that by saying, “It is no more than I expected. Don’t worry. I shall get over this.”

  “what about the picnic?”

  “I’ll be there,” she answered with a faint smile.

  “You’re a good girl,” he said, and stepped inside the door and kissed her.

  Downstairs Adeline was waiting for him. She caught him round the waist and whirled him in an impromptu dance. Rather she tried to whirl him and then stood stock still staring at him.

  “what is the matter?” she demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “No work for anyone today and a lovely picnic! Aren’t you pleased?”

  “I’m delighted.”

  “But you look positively glum.”

  “It’s the heat.”

  “Surely you don’t call this hot! No — something is wrong.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “Sylvia is a bit upset. She had bad news. I can’t tell you, but please be especially nice to her, will you?”

  “Of course I shall…. But we are one family now. I think we should share our troubles.”

  “This is something she cannot share.”

  “Except with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps the day will come when I shall be as close to her as you are.”

  To Adeline he appeared to draw back. “That could hardly be possible,” he said.

  Alayne, coming up from the basement kitchen, now joined them. She said, “The hampers are ready. Whose idea was it to have a picnic right on top of a dinner party?”

  “Mine,” said Adeline.

  XI

  Again That Night

  WHEN, AFTER DINNER, Maurice and Adeline had returned from their stroll along the drive she had joined Roma and Fitzturgis but he had returned to the house. He entered at the front door and could see groups on either side, in the drawing-room and in the library. The folding doors between library and dining room were closed. The dining room was empty. The table had been cleared, but there were decanters and clean glasses on the sideboard. Maurice stood gazing, as though in admiration or perhaps indecision, at the imprisoned sparkle in the amber depths of a particular decanter. He always had admired the graceful bell-like shape and he regretted that the stopper had apparently been broken and replaced by one that did not quite match.

  He picked it up and poured himself a drink. He took but one sip and then stood, with eyes raised reflectively to the portrait of his great-grandfather hanging above the sideboard. It was a tranquil face, he thought, the face of a man who knew what was the decent thing to do — his duty he would have called it — and did it with determination and zest. His expression was one of good-humoured boldness. He had not lived to be old and weak but had died quite suddenly from the kick of a horse — died in that room just across the hall where Adeline now slept, where Fitzturgis looked forward to sleeping with her. Again Maurice took a sip of the Scotch.

  What would great-grandfather have thought of Fitzturgis, he wondered. He probably would ha
ve had a low opinion of him. Any man who was Adeline’s kin, who had her welfare at heart, would have a low opinion of him. Whether or not Captain Whiteoak would have had a high opinion of himself Maurice did not consider. He drank his glass of Scotch and poured himself another, feeling deeply in accord with that pictured officer in the uniform of a Hussar.

  Rags came in with a tray of clean glasses to put in the cabinet. He looked weary and gave a noticeable sigh as he remarked, “Everything went off nicely, I ’ope, sir.”

  “Very nicely,” said Maurice amiably.

  “There’s nothing like a nice family party, I always s’y.” One never knew whether or not Rags was being a little sarcastic. There was a mocking note in his voice, yet his face wore an expression of sincerity.

  “You ought to know,” Maurice said. “You have had plenty of experience.”

  “I have that, sir. More than thirty years I’ve worked in this ’ouse.”

  “That’s a long while to stick in one job.”

  “You’re right, sir. It is a long while. When I came ’ere the old lady was alive and none of you young ones was born. I didn’t know nothing about domestic service, but I thought a lot of Mr. Whiteoak, and I still think a lot of him…. I’ll be sorry to leave.”

  “Surely you are not leaving, Rags.”

  “Not permanent, I ’ope. But my missus and me, we’re taking a year off. We’re going to London.”

  “If you spend a year there you’ll never come back,” exclaimed Maurice in consternation. He could not picture Jalna without the Wragges.

  “We ’ave saved a bit. We may start a small pub on our own.”

  “You’ll never come back,” reiterated Maurice.

  “That’s as may be, sir,” said Rags with a lofty air.

  “Does my uncle know this?”

  “I told ’im this morning. I am not aware if ’e ’as broke the news to the mistress.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Quite philosophic. ‘You’ll be back,’ ’e says. ‘You couldn’t stay away from me,’ ’e says. ‘Besides,’ ’e says, ‘your wife ’as become pure Ontario. She talks Ontario. She thinks Ontario. You’ll come back.’” He gave Maurice a searching look. “If you ’ad your choice, sir, would you live over there in the Old Land or over ’ere in the New?”