“Tired?” Finch asked of Wakefield with solicitude, for he had a responsible feeling for him.
“Not in the least.” Wakefield straightened his shoulders. “Just excited. It’s such an adventure — after all those months of resting — and being bored.”
“You must choose your room,” said Sylvia, “and lie down for a bit. I’ll bring you some milk.”
“Milk be damned!” shouted Wakefield. “I hate it.” And he ran into the house and out the other side.
“If he’s going to behave like that,” said Adeline, “we shall wish we hadn’t brought him.” She looked after his agile figure with severity.
“Don’t worry,” said Finch. “I’ll attend to him. Fetch his milk, Adeline, and I’ll see that he takes it.”
Finch stared about him at the expensively furnished summer residence and remembered his boyhood pal, George Fennel, tousle-headed George who seldom had two coins to rub together in his pocket. He had married a rich widow and was growing bald, but still was just as tranquil.
Along a grass path, bordered by frost-nipped flowers, down steep wooden steps to the lake’s sandy edge Finch followed Wakefield. The lake spread itself before them — a small lake, as compared to the great lake to which they were accustomed; on a clear day its opposite shore might easily be seen. It was not blue beneath the blue sky but rather of a changeful greenish colour. It had islands on which tall trees rose stately from the rocks and cast their shadows on the lake. To Wakefield, long confined to the woodland about Fiddler’s Hut, it appeared gloriously free. His first thought was, “Oh, that Molly were here!” but he was too proud to give voice to it. Instead, he remarked in a matter-of-fact tone:
“If this weather holds, we shall have a week to remember. You can’t imagine what it is to me. It’s like a new lease of life.”
“I can well imagine,” said Finch, whose too active imagination found little impossible. “But you must come indoors and choose your room and rest awhile.”
When they went in, the girls already had chosen a room for Wakefield, a single room that overlooked the lake. Stripped of his outer clothes and wrapped in a dressing gown he tumbled into bed, drank a glass of milk, exclaimed at the luxurious comfort of the mattress, and slept like a log for two hours, in spite of the only half-muffled noises of the others settling in.
Of these other six, Finch and Sylvia took possession of the “rd bedroom,” as George Fennel called it, which he and his wife occupied when in residence. Adeline took for herself a pretty single room that, like Wakefield’s, overlooked the lake. Maurice and Christian shared a room; while Patrick Crawshay was given one that opened on to a vine-embowered veranda. All were on the ground floor, which gave a carefree familiarity to the party. All seven were eager to make the most of this Indian summer outing — expense-free in another man’s house.
Two discoveries brought added pleasure. One was that, moored a short distance from the shore, was a large sailboat. Finch had known there were canoes but this was a delightful surprise. The other discovery was a piano in the living room. Finch recalled, with amusement and some tenderness the George Fennel of their youth, when George could make shift to play on any sort of instrument, when he and Finch had got together a small orchestra, in the hope of making a little money.
“How splendid,” said Adeline. “Now we shall have music in the evenings.”
But in the evenings they were mostly content to sit about the fire and talk. When the sun sank it was fall indeed; but during the sun-drenched days it was summer. They wore thin clothes, and taking their lunch with them, explored the lake in the sailboat. The lake that throughout the summer was the playground for small craft of all sorts but principally the noisy outboard motors, was now deserted. It appeared as remote as when Champlain discovered it.
Wakefield, Finch, and Sylvia left the handling of the boat to the others. Although a dreamy Indian summer haze hung over the lake there was usually enough breeze to fill the sails. Once they were for several hours becalmed, and twice the wind strengthened till they fairly flew across the wavelets. Maurice, who had felt in command of himself and that his love for Adeline was something to be remembered with resignation and even detachment, found that when they two sat in the bow together, the breeze blowing back the hair from her face, her eager forward-looking profile turned toward him, he wished with passionate longing that they might be the only occupants of the lively craft. He no longer sought to draw her and Pat Crawshay into dangerous intimacy.
Yet effortlessly those two came together, first in the mere physical pleasure of sailing the boat, then in long walks along the deserted beach or on the quiet country road. It made them happy to be together. They delighted in the same things, needing no more than an exclamation or a look exchanged to express their pleasure. A rhythm marched in unison through their bodies, coming miraculously to rest in their faces or even their hands, so that, for a brief while their hands seemed to be the real home of the spirit. They felt themselves to be part of the dreamy Indian summer landscape even as were the trees. Adeline, in these days, gave no more than a passing thought to her coming marriage. Since Philip’s return to college she had had no letter from him, nothing but a bright-coloured postcard of a steamer on which he had spent a weekend on the St. Lawrence. He did not even say — “I wish you were here.” Neither had she written to him. She accepted their engagement as something seemly, worthwhile, to which they were willingly bound, but her friendship with Patrick Crawshay came to her as an excursion into real and mysterious regions.
In these days the others of the party found something oddly magnetic in Adeline. They liked, for one reason or another, to touch her. And in its simplicity and vitality her nature responded. When Finch would play the piano in the evening she would sit with folded hands listening, in complete uncritical absorption. She did not tan or sunburn, as the others, but retained a healthy flower-like pallor, against which her dark eyes were luminous. Though she greatly enjoyed Finch’s playing, she still more enjoyed the times when they sang in chorus to his accompaniment. It was impossible for her unaided to keep on the tune, but singing in chorus she was safe, and let out her voice in pure enjoyment. Of all the seven, the best voice belonged to Pat Crawshay, and she would listen with delight when sometimes he sang old Irish songs.
Their constant cry was, “Oh, if only this weather will hold!” — and, day after day, the beauty of Indian summer was repeated, as though the earth had learned one song and was bent on its repetition. The air became even warmer. The sun was almost hidden in a lustrous mist. On the air there came a faint smell of distant wood smoke from forest fires in the north. All along the shore the colours became more startling. Vivid scarlet predominated and was reflected in the lake with the rich green of cedars.
Sometimes out of the misty radiance that enveloped the water, a sudden breeze would spring and send their boat scudding across the small bright waves. Then the crew of seven would shout and sing for joy. The lake seemed to be their playfellow; but, on the last morning but one it showed itself in a different mood. They had extended their stay by two days and this was the eighth day.
That morning the mist had cleared away and a steady wind blew from the northwest. It was a glorious day for a sail, they agreed. The girls made a larger lunch than usual and they prepared to make a day of it. The wind, growing stronger, swelled the sails. Patrick, who knew how to handle a boat, was at the tiller. There seemed no limit for the excursion but the farthest shore of the lake. They ate their lunch in the calm of a little bay, in the shelter of an island. It was on the way back that they encountered the squall.
Suddenly the wind took on a new note, screaming against the sails, blowing foam from the long curling waves that hurled themselves on the boat, that leaped over the gunwale, as she came about, and drenched those aboard. The lake turned to grey. The sun was gone and rain came down in a torrent. The distance they had covered, flying before the light wind, in two hours, was a struggle of four hours in the squall and its afterm
ath of uncertain gusts and choppy waves. Only Adeline, who had before stayed by this lake, was aware of its possibilities of fury. The straining and rattling of the rigging tranquillized rather than excited her. On her, it had the effect of riding a difficult horse at a show. But Sylvia felt alarmed and could not conceal it. She gripped Finch’s hand and looked into his face for assurance. Because of her condition he was afraid for her; he found a small bucket and began to bail out the cockpit. Once when they came about and scrambled to the other side of the boat Sylvia fell. Wakefield shouted, “We’re over!” and laughed in sheer wild excitement. He was soaked to the skin. Even in his excitement he wondered what Molly would think if she saw him now. What a lot he would have to tell her!
For a time the rain had ceased, but now the sky was blackening for another deluge. They were thankful when their own little bay came in sight. They had gone up the lake before the wind. Now coming back they had to tack and luff continually. Suddenly as they were bringing the boat about the boom swung over violently and, before she could crouch down, Sylvia was knocked off her feet and into the lake. She was not hurt but screamed in terror. Finch sprang in after her, and when they had been helped into the boat, she clung to him weeping. Maurice and Patrick were vigorously quarreling as to whose carelessness was the cause of the accident. Rain fell in torrents.
But at last all were safely indoors and the doors fastened against the storm. It raged and battered against the walls, sent streams of rain down the windowpanes, and bent the trees as though it would uproot them. A huge fire was built in the stone fireplace, and steaming wet garments hung about it. The party shouted and laughed in hilarity, as though they had had a miraculous escape. They had changed into woolen pullovers and slacks, for they were shivering with cold. Sylvia had recovered her courage, and she and Adeline had the kettle boiling for coffee. Tins of soup were heated. Patrick Crawshay broiled what seemed a great number of lamb chops, but these all were devoured with gusto. In the happy abandon of warmth and safety they stood or squatted about the fire, on which they had thrown pine boughs and cones which crackled in resinous flames about the birch logs. When they had drunk their coffee, Maurice produced a bottle of cognac that he had saved, he said, for this last evening. He, like the others, had been very temperate during those eight days, but now, flushed with drink, his eyes glowing in charmed devotion to Adeline, he sat beside her, a little apart from the others.
“Adeline,” he said, his voice hesitating and thickened, “you never have looked as you look tonight.”
“How do I look?” she asked.
“As though you could love me — a little.”
“I love everybody tonight,” she said.
He took her hand in his. “I wish I had drowned in that storm,” he said.
“It would have spoiled everything.”
“I don’t care about myself,” he exclaimed, “but you are all the world to me, and — to think that you are engaged to that young lout, Philip! Don’t do it, dearest. He isn’t worthy of you. Let’s celebrate tonight by breaking off your engagement to him. If you won’t have me — there is Pat. Look at him. What a man! He has no need to speak, because inner and outer are the one man. His body and soul cannot be divided.”
Patrick Crawshay asked, “what are you saying about me?”
“Maurice is tight,” said his brother. “He ought to go to bed.”
Maurice rose and stood up very straight, resting his hands on the back of a tall chair. He said, with great gravity:
“I publish the banns of marriage between Sir Patrick Crawshay and Adeline Whiteoak, spinster, of this parish.”
“For God’s sake, go to bed,” said his brother.
“I refuse to go to bed till I have performed this duty for two people very dear to me.” He swayed a little, and the chair tilted. Adeline sprang up from the floor and seated herself on the chair, raising her face to his, as he stood behind it. He went and kissed her forehead. “Farewell,” he said, “and, if forever, still forever, fare thee well.”
“He’s always like this when he’s tight,” said Christian.
“Somebody take him to bed,” said Wakefield.
Pat Crawshay gently led Maurice away, who could be heard complaining of the lack of affection shown him by his family.
After this the company was a little subdued. For one thing, they were tired and there was so much to do before they left on the following day. Through all the house that had been elegantly tidy on their arrival, there was now supreme disorder. So early had been the morning start that not a bed was made. The kitchen and dining room were a riot of dirty dishes. Wet clothing still hung about the fire in the living room. The storm had passed, but the lake tumbled wildly against the beach, striving to uproot trees — eager, it seemed, to attack the very house.
Finch was anxious about both Sylvia and Wake. Though they had come triumphantly through the ordeal, he felt apprehensive about its effect on them. When he had them tucked safely in bed, he found Christian absorbed in preparing for travel the sketches he had made. He said, with a nod toward the kitchen — “We’re not needed there.”
Finch found Adeline and Pat Crawshay washing the dishes. It was two o’clock in the morning.
At dawn, a flock of wild geese flew overhead going southward. Their disturbing cries sounded above the roar of the waves.
XVIII
Back to Fiddler’s Hut
The wind blew bitterly cold from the north on this morning. It blew the leaves from the trees, almost to the last one, so that the trees stood naked; their lovely shapes, which had been veiled by the foliage, now spread themselves in intermingling limbs against the stormy sky. The seven who had so eagerly arrived were just as eager to turn homeward. To place Sylvia and Wakefield safe and sound at home again was Finch’s concern. To return to his studio and finish the sketches he had made was Christian’s. Maurice, in a mood of melancholy, wandered alone by the lake. Only Adeline and Pat Crawshay were concerned to leave the house in order. In her there was a fastidiousness that refused to leave confusion behind her. In him there was the desire to help her in whatever she did. He sought to make himself as much like the others as possible, yet so strong was his individuality that it could not be done. He could sail a boat, shout, sing, be half-drowned or half-drunk, but always was the product of a serene life.
Finch drove his car to the opening of the path that led to Fiddler’s Hut. There Wakefield alighted.
“Your things will come in the other car,” Finch said to him. “Are you all right? Shall I go with you?”
“I’m fine,” said Wakefield. “I’ll go alone and surprise Molly.”
Sylvia was so tired that, wrapped in a rug, she was half-asleep in her corner of the car. Wakefield closed the door as quietly as he could, murmured a goodbye, and went off along the path. The golden leaves lay thick on it. Wakefield experienced a thrill as of childhood in scuffing through them. He moved leisurely along the path, scuffing the leaves, his face already alight for Molly’s welcome.
The door of the Hut was closed and it pleased him to knock on it softly rather than to walk straight in. Molly must have been expecting him the day before. She would be anxious when he told her of all he had been through.
He knocked a second time but there was no answer.
“Are you there, Molly?” He called out and opened the door and went in.
How tidy the room was! Tidy and empty and silent as was all the Hut. He saw the letter lying on the table and snatched it up and tore it open. He read:
My very dear Wake,
Do not think badly of me because I am going to leave you now. I am sure it is the very best thing to do. We have had wonderfully happy times together, but I feel that now we must separate and go our own ways. I do not feel guilty in doing this. I have known for some time that it must happen — for both our sakes. Thinking it over in this lonely place, it all seems clear. I shall go back to the life that means most to me — more even than you mean to me. You will go to your family for
a time — then back to your work.
I’m too excited to write more now. Goodbye, dear Wake — I shall always love you.
Molly
Wakefield stared wildly about the little room, so neat, so sunny. A pottery vase of pale blue Michaelmas daisies stood by the letter. Why had she put flowers there? Surely to mock him.… But she could not have gone like that — left him, as though theirs had been no more than a passing affair. It was too heartless. He went into the two tiny bedrooms, into the kitchen that looked so scrubbed, so tidy. Everywhere there was ghastly neatness, mocking emptiness. He could not believe in it. He could not face it. He felt dazed, giddy. He dropped into a chair by the table and buried his face in his hands. He gave a harsh sob which in that loneliness was exaggerated to a cry of anguish. I am alone — deserted — he thought. There is no one to care whether I live or die. He sat quiet there, feeling very tired. The ordeal of the day before had taken toll of his new-gained strength. He felt strangely excited yet unutterably tired.
After a time he raised his head and looked about him in the leaf-stirring, bird-twittering silence. He found that his eyes were wet. He felt as though he were acting a part in a strange play, and he tried, for a moment, to think of a play with a part in it such as this — a part in which a man who had given his loyal devotion to a woman was deserted by her just when he most needed her.
He went to the chest of drawers that stood by his bed and found the small thermometer, with which he took his temperature. He was shocked when he found what it now was. His temperature stood out to him as terribly important, as frightening. Now the Hut became unbearable to him in its isolation. He must find Renny, tell him of this frightening rise in his temperature, of Molly’s desertion. His heart was thumping against his ribs. He felt dizzy as he ran along the path, where the thick carpet of fallen leaves now felt heavy to his feet. He tripped on the root of a tree and fell sprawling. He lay there sobbing among the wet cold leaves for some minutes before he gathered himself together and went on toward the house, moving slowly and irregularly.
Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna Page 129