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 which 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.”
Adeline exclaimed contritely, — “Your dinner is getting cold. Come, Maitland.”
They said goodnight.
Now they
were in a taxicab moving slowly through the press and glare of the streets. It had begun to rain, only a shower but enough to run down the windows of the cab. One drop would trickle half-way, hesitate, then would be joined by another. The two, accelerated, would hasten the rest of the way. The faces of the people on the “islands” were blurred. Some looked anxiously upward, but most looked quietly enduring. A crop of umbrellas suddenly appeared, like mushrooms in damp weather.
The rain made a wall of intimacy about the two in the cab. But he could not forgive her for having forced the meeting between him and Georgina Lennox. It rankled with him that she had overridden him, for he looked on her as tender and tractable. He remembered how she had sat beside him on the grass in the park, her body half-folded, with her back against a tree. There had been the smell of warm grass. Now — it was stuffy in the cab and he opened a window wide and let in the smell of the rain. He kept the side of his shoulder to her and his face averted.
Now she felt the stronger of the two. “Angry, Maitland?” she enquired, in a caressing tone.
“Yes,” he returned briefly, and he put out an angry hand and clasped hers.
“I couldn’t help it. I wanted her to see us together.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But you’re angry.”
“If you want the truth I think it was rather stupid.”
“Well — that’s forthright.”
She tried to withdraw her hand but he held it close.
“I want to forget the past,” he said.
“But — I’ve just heard about it.”
“Well,” he said, “you have seen me face to face with her. How do you feel?”
“I wonder what you ever found in her to love.”
“So do I.”
“Is she a good actress?”
“Very good — within her limits.”
The taxicab was held up in the traffic. People surged past. Umbrellas bobbed. The rain, no longer a shower, came down in a silent grey curtain.
“Oh, it’s lovely in here,” exclaimed Adeline. “I wish it might go on and on.”
“Shall I tell the man to drive round for a bit?”
“Just for a little while. But — do you want to?”
“Adeline, I don’t quite know what I want.” But he leant forward, tapped the glass and told the driver to go round the park.
They passed the Marble Arch and went along the Bayswater Road, under the blurred lights, the trees thick and dark on their left.
“Are you bored?” asked Adeline, he was so quiet.
“By my life — yes.”
“I never could be bored.”
“You are lucky.”
“But I can suffer. I can be unhappy. At this moment I’m happy and adventurous. Have you forgiven me for what I did?”
“No.”
“Have you an unforgiving nature?”
“I think I have.”
“Do you still wish we could go away somewhere together and not come back?”
“No.”
“Oh, Mait.” She sank back into her dark corner of the cab.
They were silent for a space. Pictures from his past stormed upon him. She had no past other than childhood. Never had they shared any experience. Never had they done anything together. A throng of figures crowded his mind — from his life in London, from his life in Malaya, from the war. In hers there were only the family.
But he began to talk in desultory fashion, of Georgina, of Sylvia and her dead husband. Some of the things he recalled were trifling but he had never talked of them before and it was a relief. Of some things, which were the important ones, he spoke only in broken sentences which he completed with an expressive gesture.
“Mait,” she once interrupted him to say, “you are a little Frenchified. It’s funny, but you are.”
“I had a French grandmother.”
“Do you remember her?”
“I do indeed.”
The cab moved on. The rain had ceased but the pavements were running with water. Out of the darkness came a glimpse of the shabby wooden fence sprung up during the war to take the place of wrought iron. Now the dark trees were so heavy with rain that, at each gust of wind, they produced little individual showers of their own. The taxi-driver’s back was a black hump of resignation. As Fitzturgis talked he became more tranquil. She stored away all he said, to ponder in the future which spread mysterious before her.
They passed over a little bridge, she saw the glint of water among the trees, they passed Hyde Park Corner, then went all the way round, for the third time. At last they were in Dover Street and he was paying the driver. They went along the quiet passage of the hotel and looked through the glass screen into the lounge. A few people were sitting there but not Finch.
“I think I should see him,” said Fitzturis, “and explain. Shall I ring up his room?”
“Yes.” She surrendered herself to his care.
While they waited, she asked — “You’ll stay in London for a few days, now you’re here, won’t you?”
He nodded, his eyes fixed on Finch coming toward them. He was pale and his hair looked as though he had run his hands through it. Without looking at Fitzturgis, he said, — “I’ve had a cable from Renny. Uncle Ernest died last night. We’re to be back for the funeral. I’ve been able to get passage on a plane for tomorrow.”
XXV
RETURN TO JALNA
Renny Whiteoak and his son Archer were waiting at the airport for the plane from Montreal. It was late and, as their eyes continually sought the sky for a sign of it, they moved restlessly across the grassy verge beyond the waiting room, unable to settle down stoically as the others did. Physically there was no resemblance between them, but in common they wore grey suits and on the left sleeve of each was a black band of crape. So unusual had this sign of mourning become that people turned to look at them, sometimes in curiosity, sometimes with a little amusement, as they would look at people who had not moved with the times.
Archer asked, — “May I break the news to Adeline?”
“Don’t be silly,” returned his father. “If she doesn’t know, why is she coming?”
“I thought Uncle Finch was just bringing her.”
“He’d have to tell her.”
“If I were going to a university abroad and Uncle Nicholas died, would you send for me?”
“I suppose so.”
“And if Auntie Meg died and Uncle Piers died and Auntie Pheasant died, would you keep right on sending for me?”
“I should probably be dead too.”
Archer considered this and, as he turned over in his mind the enthralling possibilities of these flights, the gleaming plane appeared in the pale blue sky.
“There it is,” he cried and ran forward.
Down the plane sank and reached the runway. From being a fabulous bird it became rather an undignified piece of mechanism as it trundled along, hesitated, stopped and disgorged. The passengers, from being helpless, strapped-in creatures, suddenly became active as ants, clutching their belongings, on the march, defensive. They did not cast a look behind but hastened forward to whatever pleasures or miseries awaited them.
Adeline caught Renny’s arm. “Oh, Daddy, how glad I am to see you!”
“Uncle Ernest is dead,” said Archer.
Adeline gave him a hug but he disengaged himself. He fixed his eyes on Finch. “The funeral,” he said, “is tomorrow.”
“So soon!” exclaimed Finch.
“It’s not soon. He’s been dead for days.”
Renny drew Finch aside. “This has been a blow,” he said, “on top of all that went before. I’m sorry I had to send for you, but — you understand.”
“Yes. How is Uncle Nick?”
Renny’s face lighted in pride. “He’s bearing up wonderfully. Far better than I could have hoped.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Finch heavily. “Tell me how it happened.”
“Well — he was determined to see the rui
n —”
“Ruin! What ruin?”
“Ruin of Vaughanlands. It was burned down.”
“Burned down!” almost shouted Finch.
“Yes. And Clapperton in it. Well, as I said, Uncle Ernest insisted —”
“But why didn’t you tell me in the cable?”
“I told you all that mattered.”
Finch looked about him, at the hurrying figures, at Archer stowing luggage in the car, as though at a picture too unreal for belief. He muttered, — “You were saying he was determined to go.”
“Yes. He insisted and it was too much for him. He died in his sleep.”
“That was merciful.”
As Archer stowed away the luggage with unnecessary precision, he was saying to Adeline in his high detached voice, “The roof is fallen in. Everything is as black as your boot, and Philip says Mr. Clapperton was too. In fact, I know he was, for I saw him myself.”
“How terrible!” For the moment, Uncle Ernest’s death was obliterated by this catastrophe.
“Yes,” improvised Archer, his body rigid, “and I took off my jacket and covered his face. It’s the proper thing to do, you know. I mean where his face had been.”
Renny, coming up to them at this moment, noticed Adeline’s extreme pallor. She looked as though she might faint. He took her arm and half lifted her into the car, then slid under the wheel beside her.
“Don’t feel so badly,” he said. “After all, he was pretty old and he went without pain.”
“Yes,” she breathed, and grasped his knee in her hand, as though for support.
During the drive to Jalna he spoke of the arrangements for the funeral, Finch leaning forward to hear, Archer, in his eagerness, listening as though he would tear the words from his father’s mouth. The evening was descending in gentle gold and green. The rain had repainted the greenness of the land. The sun moved in and out behind little gilded clouds, casting its light now here, now there, now touching a slope, now sending spears of brightness into a dark wood. When they reached Jalna, all the windows of the house were ablaze and, for an instant, the terror of fire shocked Adeline’s nerves. Now the gravel crunched beneath the wheels and the car stopped at the side entrance.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 469
