“No. That’s the worst of it. I simply don’t know how.”
“why don’t you confide in your father? He might help you.”
“Mercy!” said Archer. “He is the last person I’d confide in.”
Fitzturgis stood fondling the cluster of grapes and their leaves carved on the newel post at the foot of the stairs. “How smooth this is,” he said, “as though it has been much handled.”
“A French-Canadian woodcarver came all the way from Quebec to carve that a hundred years ago. Do you consider that our family has improved or degenerated?”
“Ask me that in ten years,” said Fitzturgis.
“We’ll scarcely both be here in ten years.”
“where are you thinking of going?” asked Fitzturgis.
Archer, slowly ascending the stairs, said over his shoulder, “Oh, I guess Ishall still be hanging around.”
He had barely disappeared when Dennis came sliding down the banister. Arriving at the bottom, he laid himself over the carven grapes. He gave a slanting look at Fitzturgis out of his greenish eyes. He said, “Your sister has been to see our new house — the house where I live with my father.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“My father,” said Dennis, “is a famous pianist. My mother played on the violin, but she got killed in a motor accident. I was there. Did you ever see anyone killed?” Now he sat upright, his hands on the bunch of grapes.
“Lots,” said Fitzturgis.
“where?” Dennis looked skeptical.
“In the war.”
“That’s nothing,” laughed Dennis. “That’s what they go to war for.”
“You’re an odd sort of boy,” said Fitzturgis.
“I resemble my father. He was an odd sort of boy. Auntie Meg says how proud they were of him. My father and I do everything together. When he’s on a tour he writes to me every week. He wrote and asked me to leave the summer camp early so he shouldn’t miss any of my company. He’s a widower. I’m his only child.”
He now slid off the banister, walked rather stiffly past Fitzturgis out on to the lawn. He lay flat on his back on the grass. He plucked handfuls of it and scattered it over his pale handsome little face. When Fitzturgis spoke to him he did not answer.
The Irishman went upstairs, and when he heard his sister come to her room he followed her. Casually they embraced, then she held him off, and with a smile half affectionate, half mocking, scanned his face.
“Good,” she said. “You are standing the racket pretty well.”
“Racket?” he frowned. “what do you mean, racket?”
“I mean the turbulence — the living between hawk and buzzard of your life here, the working with Renny and Piers Whiteoak. I’ve met them both this afternoon.”
“My past life,” he said, “has not been exactly tranquil.”
“No one will be better pleased than I,” she returned, “if you fit in here.”
“But you doubt it, eh? I hope you’re not doubtful of my love for Adeline.”
“Indeed I am not. Adeline has a face a man might die for, and I don’t doubt she’d give her life for you, but …”
“But what, for the love of God?”
“There are other places beside Jalna.”
“Are you suggesting escape? For me, Sylvia?”
“For you both.” She said this quietly and simply.
“Look here,” he exclaimed in exasperation. “You arrived just a few hours ago, yet you take for granted that you understand everything — understand us better than we understand ourselves.”
“Anyhow,” she said, “you can’t say that that’s just like me, for I have never interfered in your affairs.”
“No,” he returned with heat, “we have both been far too harassed by your affairs to think of mine.”
She put out her hand to touch his. Her eyes filled with tears. She said, “Don’t imagine I forget all you’ve been to me … all we’ve been through together.”
“Anything I have done for you,” he said, with a break in his voice, “I have done because I wanted to.
“I know…. You may not believe me, but sometimes I actually writheto think of what I’ve put you through because of my damned nerves.”
He dropped a kiss on top of her head. “You’re all right now, Sylvia. We’re beginning a new life.”
“That’s just it,” she exclaimed. “A new life — and I don’t want us to begin by making mistakes.”
“Well, you are making a mistake,” he said lightly, “if you think everything is not OK between Adeline and me.”
“I didn’t mean that. I know you love and trust each other…. But it’s this place. These people.”
“For God’s sake, don’t be so serious. That’s the trouble with you, Sylvia. You take things too seriously.”
“Very well.” She laid herself down on a hard little sofa in a corner of the room. “We’ll not speak of this again. Oh, how tired I am!”
“That’s right,” he said. “Rest yourself before you must dress.” He lingered a moment, looking down at her as she lay flat on her back, her chin pointing upward, then left the room.
Adeline was on the window seat where he had sat with Roma. He put an arm about her and asked, “where can we be alone
“Here,” she said, arid drew the long velour curtains in front of them.
He clasped her to him. “I adore you,” he whispered, “and always shall. No one else in the world matters.”
As they kissed, there was deep silence in the house, except for the croak the grandfather clock gave before it struck.
“Can you say the same?” he asked.
“A lot of people matter to me,” she said, “but you have the power to make me suffer.”
“May I be cursed,” he said, “if ever I make you suffer.” Now the clock struck, solemnly, benignly, as though it had them all under its watchful care.
IX
The Occasional Table
SEVERAL HAPPENINGS OF importance to those at Jalna took place within the two following days. Adeline and Renny conducted Sylvia on a tour of the estate. As in any well-conducted tour, they pointed out to her every object of interest in orchard, farm, and woodland. Here was the spot where a magnificent horse, Launceton, who was capable of winning the Grand National, had died (by treachery) in the snow. Here was the hut where a queer old character named Fiddling Jock had lived before Jalna was built. Here was the pine wood where stood the primeval trees, sheltered, secure from the axe. Here, overgrown by grass, was the “old orchard,” the saplings brought from England by Captain Whiteoak. Some of the trees were dead but were the support of a tangle of the wild grape, the wild cucumber, the wild rose. (“Look out, Sylvia — there’s poison ivy!”) But some trees, moss-trunked, half-reclining, still bore fruit. (“And what a flavour, Sylvia! None of the new varieties can equal them.”) This was a sanctuary for birds and bees. (“Look out, Sylvia — there’s a snake! Ah, it’s only a little garter snake — and it won’t harm you.”) And here was the orchard of today, kept in apple-pie order by Piers.
They led her beyond the borders of the estate to where a river flowed, and showed her the tiny house where had lived an Englishman named Wilmot who had come out on the sailing vessel with the Whiteoaks. He had been their dear friend and had lost his life in saving their small son Philip from drowning when he had come here to fish, though forbidden to do so. (“Daddy, I shall name one of my sons James Wilmot, in memory of him.”)
Father and daughter vied with each other in showing Sylvia the sights. Never had they had such an enthusiastic visitor. Joy in the place made her spirits feel on holiday. She felt careless and carefree. These two, with their red hair and dark eyes, had the power to make her forget the thoughts that dragged her down, to turn a fresh page in life. Not in years had she had such an appetite for her dinner; never had she seen so much fruit.
That same day Finch moved to his own house. He went alone, for Dennis’s room was not yet furnished. Meg and the two girls were to r
emain in her house till after the double wedding. Already preparation for this stirred the air. Two trousseaux were being made. Renny was to pay for Roma’s. Meg, an exquisite seamstress, was making pretty things for her. Alayne and Adeline visited the shops together.
The third happening was a family dinner party at Jalna for Fitzturgis and Sylvia. To this came all the clan. The dining table was extended to its greatest length. There was much polishing of silver by Wragge, much baking by Mrs. Wragge. Indeed, so enthusiastic was she in preparing food for the occasion that there was scarcely a spot in the kitchen which had not its sprinkling of flour. The higher Mrs. Wragge’s mood, the more she cast flour over her domain. The double wedding now in prospect raised her spirits to their loftiest pitch. In consequence, even the face of the kitchen clock had its smudge of flour. Mrs. Wragge would never forget her own wedding, the glory of her passage up the aisle of the church, leaning on Renny Whiteoak’s arm. The bridegroom, waiting at the chancel steps, signified little to her. Of course he had been necessary. The ceremony could not have taken place without him. But it was the fact that shewas the bride, that shewas given away by the master of Jalna, which had lent the day its wonder. Now as she scattered flour like flowers in honour of this pre-wedding party, her thoughts were all for the two girls. She had not a single one to spare for Norman or Fitzturgis. Dim figures they were — one with a sleek hair-creamed head, the other with a rough curly head; one with stylish well-pressed suits, the other in rather crumpled Irish tweeds — that was all. They had no faces. They had no voices. They were not even potential begetters of children.
It was a lovely evening, with that touch of tenderness in the air of a summer soon to leave. The French windows of the drawing-room stood open. The scent of the folded day-lilies stole into the room. The moon had not yet risen. The lawn and trees beyond it were only discovered by the lights from the house. The women, in pale flimsy dresses, with long full skirts and necklines low enough for the display of beauty, were drinking coffee. The men had remained a little longer in the dining room, with the exception of Archer, who wandered in and out through the French windows, finding himself unwanted by either party. Dennis, after dinner, had been sent to bed. Young Philip, at seventeen, remained with the men and none thought to question his doing so.
Fitzturgis remarked, as he had already done, the boy’s resemblance to the portrait of his great-grandfather.
“Let’s not speak of that,” said Philip, rising glass in hand and standing beneath the portrait.
“And why not?” asked Fitzturgis.
“Because it’s a sore point between Uncle Renny and me. Either his son should have been the spit of the portrait or I should have been his son — I’m not sure which.”
“One thing is certain,” said Nicholas, “my father lives again in Philip.”
“Time will change all that,” said Fitzturgis. “Your father, sir, could not live on in Philip, in the world of today. Where could you match that look of complete well-being and composure in any modern face?”
“Have I got it?” asked Philip.
Fitzturgis scrutinized his face and answered, “Yes.”
“Then I’ll keep it,” said Philip. “See if I don’t.”
Nicholas, his eyes on the portrait, remarked, “My father had many a fine run to hounds before he went to India. I remember his telling how he rode fifty miles in one day on the same horse. But the queerest thing he told me about fox-hunting was something he’d seen when a boy. He saw a huntsman and three hounds coming into a village street and a fox dead beat a few yards ahead. The huntsman was calling out, ‘Hoick!’ The fox lay down in the main street and the hounds, as exhausted as he was, quite powerless to tackle him, just lay down beside him.”
“Would you say those were the days, Uncle Nicholas?” asked Christian.
“All days are the days when you’re young,” answered Nicholas.
Nevertheless, as Renny took his arm to assist him when they rose to leave the room, it was remarkable how these two men, one very old, the other past middle age, overshadowed, in their essence, in the vitality of their very natures, the young ones, especially the very modern Norman.
When they reached the drawing-room Fitzturgis went straight to where Alayne sat and dropped to the sofa beside her. She had the coffee table in front of her and he sat in an attitude of readiness to carry the cups about. However, she said, “The boys will do that.” She handed a large cup of coffee to her son, explaining, “That is for Uncle Nicholas. He finds the little one quite uncontrollable.”
Fitzturgis sank back tranquilly beside her. He kept his eyes on his coffee as he stirred it. Alayne gave a swift glance to Renny and another to Adeline, to see if they had noticed. His coming to her seemed to her so pointed that she felt if she had been in the place of those two she would have been jealously conscious of it. Renny was indeed looking at them with a puzzled expression, but Adeline, being chaffed by Christian, apparently was not watchful of her lover. “And that is well,” thought Alayne. “Particularly as jealousy in this instance would be nothing short of ridiculous. Her own mother.… The child has too much sense.”
When she had finished with her duties of coffee-pouring she turned to Fitzturgis and said, “Now that you see all the clan together I hope you are not too much intimidated.”
“I have seldom felt more so,” he answered in his rather abrupt manner. “That’s why I come to you for protection.”
Alayne gave a gay little laugh. “You could not do worse,” she said, “for I have never been able to protect myself.” She felt exhilarated, there was no denying it.
“If you are not one of the clan after all these years,” he said, “can I ever hope to be?”
“I am sure you can.”
“And may I always come to you for understanding?”
“If you feel you need it.”
“I have never had it from any woman,” he answered.
“Nor I,” she said, with an almost provocative look, “from any man.”
His hand rested for an instant on hers, as it lay on a fold of her dress. “I shall make it my business,” he said, “to understand you.”
Renny’s voice, raised hilariously, as he recounted some ridiculous incident of the day’s doings, now dominated the rest of the room. The two on the sofa gave him a look more critical than sympathetic. Roma now appeared beside them, coffee cup in hand.
“May I have some more, Auntie Alayne?” she asked in a small voice.
Fitzturgis had risen, and now, as she made no move to return to her seat beside her fiancé, moved aside to offer his place on the sofa. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’ll just sit down here, if I may.” She dropped, with youthful ease, to the rug at their feet and added, “I’d like to hear some sensible conversation. They’re being absolutely crazy over there.”
Alayne looked down at her in surprise. She was usually the last person whose company was sought by Roma. Fitzturgis said, “Surely at your age you are not craving sensible conversation.”
She raised large eyes from the level of his knee. “why not?” she asked.
“Well, it’s your right to be wild — crazy, as you call it — before you settle down to life in earnest.”
“I must be prepared,” she said.
“Isn’t she absurd!” Fitzturgis said to Alayne, with an almost tender smile for the girl’s simplicity.
Alayne did not answer. She no longer felt at ease. Roma’s coming had shattered a moment of something more than charm, a moment of such sympathetic intercourse as she seldom enjoyed except with Finch, and his company lacked the almost dangerous appeal of the Irishman’s.
Meg now swam across their vision, dressed in voluminous white, like a vessel in full sail. She came to anchor beside the occasional table. She laid her plump hand on it. “This little table,” she said, “this little table that I’ve always adored — how, in the name of goodness, did it get here?”
With an effort Finch said, “Well, to tell the truth, Meggi
e, I brought it.”
“Then you don’t like it,” she cried, “not after my giving it to you for your new house!”
“But I do like it,” he protested, “very much indeed.”
She ignored this and went on, “You scorned all my furniture openly but this. You advised me to sell my furniture. I have been arranging to sell it — to come to you with only this little occasional table; and now — I find it here.”
“why,” put in Renny, “I didn’t notice that it had been returned.”
“Returned!” she cried. “I don’t know what you mean by returned. It’s been mine for years and years.”
“I don’t know how you make that out,” said Piers. “I’ve always understood that it was one of the pieces brought out from England by Grandfather.”
“You’re right,” said Nicholas. “It was.”
“Naturally,” said Meg, “I can’t pretend that I brought it out from England a hundred years ago, but I do know that Renny gave it —”
“Lent it,” he interrupted.
“That is perfectly ridiculous,” she said, her colour rising. “You gave it to me because I badly needed an occasional table and this one had been relegated to the attic or somewhere —”
Alayne now spoke in a consciously polite tone, “It was never out of this room,” she said.
“I beg your pardon,” Meg returned. “Humbly I beg your pardon. But if this occasional table could speak it would rise up on its hind legs and deny that.”
All eyes were on the table, as though none would be surprised if it rose (on whichever legs were its hindmost) and declared where it was on such and such a night.
“Meg is right,” said Nicholas, and he gave the table top a slap. “It was I, myself, who somehow managed to knock the table over. Two of the dogs had got into a fight and I was separating them. One leg of the table was cracked and it was carried to the attic to await repairs.”
“And there it waited five years,” said Meg. “Do you deny that, Alayne?”
“No,” returned Alayne bitterly.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 489
