“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 bearing 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.
Early in their acquaintance he had introduced her to his sister and her husband. They too had been charmed by the actress, and the four had spent many pleasurable hours together, either in Sylvia’s flat or dancing after the theatre in the feverish nights of bombing.
When the war was ended Fitzturgis returned to England to find his sister a tragic widow, her mind precariously near the point of breakdown. She had been placed in a mental home. With his tendency to idealize women, he had cherished a conception of Georgina which did not exist, never had existed. Soon he was irritated by her egotism, by her vanity which nothing could subdue. He discovered that she had not been faithful to him, but was the mistress of a man who had influence in moving-pictures and had, through his influence, secured her first part on the screen. Violent scenes took place between them, as she strove to justify her defection and passionately reiterated her undying love for him. Half beside himself from the troubles heaped upon him, he threatened to kill her. Their brief married life had ended in divorce. He had removed his sister from the mental home and taken her and his mother to Ireland.
Adeline’s letter came as a shock to him. Then he asked himself what could have been more reasonable than that Wakefield Whiteoak, hearing his name, should connect it with that of Georgina Lennox, and inform Adeline of his marriage and divorce. He cursed himself for having deceived her. Yet he looked on her as so young, so innocent, that the recital of what he regarded as a sordid story would have been almost impossible to him. Now he wanted, above all things, to justify himself in her eyes. He longed, with an almost despairing fervency, to see her once again before she sailed for home. The brief moments when he had held her in his arms were relived, dwelt upon, prolonged, in the wakeful hours of the night. In the morning he went to his mother.
“Mother,” he said, “I’m going to London. Something has happened that makes it necessary.”
She was running a carpet-sweeper over an old Turkish rug with a worn spot in the middle. She heard him but pretended she had not. She was always impressing on him how hard she had to work. Now, panting with every stroke of the carpet-sweeper, she drove it up and down the rug, avoiding the worn spot. But the sweeper, already too full of dust, began to spit it out again, in grey clots, as though in protest. Fitzturgis stood watching her for a moment without again speaking. He was seething with mingled exasperation and pity. Why did she have to be so inefficient? why did she wrap her head in that ridiculous scarf, with her long earrings dangling beneath? How hot and tired she looked! She pretended that she had just discovered his presence, and ceased the sweeping.
“Oh, good morning, darling,” she said. “You’re late this morning.”
“Yes, I couldn’t sleep and then — I slept. Listen, Mother —”
“I understand. I’m just the same. Lie awake and lie awake, thinking of all the queer things that have happened, and then — just when it’s time to get up — fall into a heavy sleep. And dream! What do you suppose I dreamed last night? Well, I dreamed that you were a little boy again and were in this very room which was odd because we were never here when you were a little boy, and, as I say, we were in this very room, only it wasn’t the same because where that sofa stands —”
He interrupted, — “I’m sorry, Mother — I can’t wait to hear now —”
Her feelings hurt, she answered, a little sharply, — “Really, Maitland, you have an abrupt way of speaking. And after staying so late in bed I think another minute wasted wouldn’t much matter. Though, to tell the truth, it would take me a good half-hour to tell all the intricacies of that dream. It was so muddled and yet so clear. I saw you, as clear as I see you now, only with a much sweeter expression, for as a child you had a very sweet face and so had Sylvia, yet now —”
“I know,” he said, between his teeth, “I know —”
She stared at him hard, out of her clear blue eyes, and he noticed that her head kept moving a little.
“I’m going to fly to London today,” he repeated.
“Fly,” she cried. “why, that costs a lot more.”
“I know, but I must go.”
“Is it to see Adeline Whiteoak?”
“No —” but he could not lie to her — “yes. Don’t ask me, Mother.”
“Your shirts!” she mourned. “I didn’t get those buttons sewn on.”
“Never mind. I must go.”
“You must do what you think best, but — always remember there’s Sylvia to be thought of.”
“I’m not likely to forget,” he answered harshly.
“It’s very hard on you, having us two always on your mind.” She drew a deep sigh.
He put both arms about her. “Mother dear, I won’t have you talk like that.” He bent with his cheek to hers, and her earring pressed into his flesh.
The Irish servant had cooked his bacon and eggs for him an hour ago and was keeping them hot in the oven. They were hard and unpalatable. He quickly despatched them, then sought Sylvia whom he found in a corner of the chill living room. She was sitting with bent head, her hands dangling between her knees, her eyes fixed on the floor.
“I’m off to London,” he said. “I’ve booked my seat in the plane by telephone.” He spoke in a cheerful matter-of-fact tone, as though all was well in that house.”
“I never want to see London again,” she returned, without looking up.
“No. Of course not. I shouldn’t go, but — it’s important.”
“There is nothing important in my life.”
He ignored this. He had so often heard it. The sight of her sitting there, the remembrance of his mother with the carpet-sweeper, shook him into a moment of impatience. “There’d be something in your life,” he said, “if you’d give Mother a hand with the work. You know what an inconvenient house this is. It’s too much for her.”
“She doesn’t want my help. It only bothers her.”
“Very well,” he said. “Sit here and mope, if you must. But — don’t forget that other people have had tragedies —” He broke off and came to her side and touched her fair curling hair with a caressing hand. “It makes me so anxious for you,” he went on, “to go away and leave you looking forlorn. I don’t need to tell you, do I, how much you mean to me?”
She caught his hand, kept it a moment, then pushed it roughly from her. “You’re a fool, Mait,” she said, “to trouble your head about me. Just leave me to mope. It’s what I like now.”
“I can’t, and you know it. I want you to promise me that you’ll make an effort — not just a little one but a big one — to keep Mother cheerful while I’m away.”
Sylvia laughed. “She doesn’t need me to keep her cheerful. Cheeriness is a part of her and a damned irritating part at times.”
“You wouldn’t think so if you’d been with her just now.”
“She likes to work on your feelings.”
“Nothing can make me believe,” he said sternly, “that you are as callous as you pretend.”
She turned on him fiercely. “For Christ’s sake, get out,” she stormed, “and let me be. Go and meet your darling and I hope you’ll have better luck with her than you had with your last.”
He flushed, glared at her in anger, then controlled himself. This was to be one of Sylvia’s bad days. He knew he should not go away and leave his mother alone with her. But he could not help it. He must see Adeline. Whatever happened he must see Adeline.
“Very well,” he said, “I’ll go.”
The desire to leave that house, to breathe the air of freedom, moved him to a kind of feverish haste in his preparations. He flung his belongings into a suitcase, said a hurried goodbye to his mother and sister, and flung himself into his car by the side of the odd-job man who was to drive it.
XXIV
MEETING
Adeline did not go out with Finch that afternoon. She told him she had shopping to do, and, though he did not believe her, as he believed she had little need or money for buying, he left her to herself. He was always willing to be free and alone in London. It was a hot, bright morning. The shining river cut through the shadows of the stone walls, moved beneath its bridges, where people leant over the parapet to watch it, played with its barges, its tugs, its ships, in a gay youthful mood.
Adeline went down the short flights of red-carpeted stairs to the lounge which at this hour was almost deserted, and found a seat from where she could see the door. Through it, at this hour, the postman would appear and conceivably bring her a letter from Fitzturgis. If she had counted the hours, she would have realized that this was not possible, yet so intense was her desire to hear from him that it swept aside the limitations of time and space.
She sat, hands folded in lap, watching the entrance. Near it was the porter’s desk where there was a constant coming and going of guests, enquiring about trains, buses, mail, leaving their keys, getting their keys. Close by stood two small pages, pink-cheeked, in their little liveries and pillbox caps. At the entrance another page opened and closed the swing door. His white-gloved hands looked too large for him. His expression varied between mild interest as he swung the door to admit someone, and mild expectancy if a guest were departing. Beyond the hall Adeline had a glimpse into the dining room, with its vista of white-clothed tables and dark-panelled walls. A single waiter moved about among them. The only other occupants of the lounge were a handsome woman with arthritical hands, and her husband. They looked at Adeline as though they wondered why she should have chosen a chair in such proximity to them and as though afraid she might speak to them. At the far end of the room a clergyman was doing the crossword puzzle in The Times.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 467
