Maurice poured it for him, then, looking about, remarked, “How cosy it is here! I’m glad to get away from Dad. He brings out the worst in me — and I in him! But what you need here is a lovely woman to share it.”
“Music is marriage for me.”
“Ah, how lucky you are! God, how I wish I had a talent. I could be happy. I’d ask nothing more.”
“I’m happy here,” said Finch in a pensive tone. “Listen to the stillness, Maurice. I’m really secluded.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Maurice, listening.
The only sound was the singing of a locust. Hidden in the grass, this long green insect, in passionate devotion to the music he was making, poured out his fervour. Another locust answered. They sang. They challenged. They sang. They sought out each other for combat. And in the benign warmth of the day a chorus of ants sang unheard by human ears but to their own delight.
“There is a woman,” said Finch, “whom I love.”
“In Europe?”
“No. Here.”
“I believe I can guess.”
“‘who then?”
“Sylvia Fleming.”
“You’re right. But have I been so transparent?”
Maurice made a characteristic gesture, as though reaching out to touch Finch. “I think I know better than the others do, Uncle Finch. And I like her tremendously — as much as I dislike her brother. Is it all settled?”
“It’s all off,” Finch returned gloomily.
“But surely she wouldn’t reject you?”
“I’m not such a prize as that…. Still — she would have me if —” He broke off. “I can’t tell you, Maurice. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Please forget what I’ve said.”
“Very well,” said Maurice, “if that’s what you want. But it’s a pity. Have another drink, Uncle Finch.”
“No, thanks.”
Finch went to the large window that seemed to bring the outdoors into the room, and stared out in silence for a space. The two locusts had joined in a falsetto duet, challenging, insulting each other. The happy chorus of ants continued unheard.
Maurice contemplated the glass he held so lovingly in the curve of his hand. He said, “I’m terribly sorry that an affair of the heart should go wrong for you, Uncle Finch, because Mummy has told me …” He hesitated.
“Told you what?” Finch wheeled to face him.
“Well — that you weren’t altogether happy in your marriage. You were divorced, weren’t you?”
“I was hellishly unhappy … Mind you, it was more my fault than Sarah’s. I think I’m not cut out for marriage. I guess Sylvia is well rid of me.”
“Uncle Finch,” Maurice exclaimed in hot defence, “any girl who gets you will be damned lucky.”
“No one will get me now. I shall never love another woman.”
“You’re in such earnest then?”
“Sylvia makes other women seem like a desert to me. Flat and dull in their talk — uninteresting in their bodies. She may say nothing, but I’m conscious of her through my whole being.”
“I feel just like that about Adeline.”
“You couldn’t,” said Finch. “Adeline is scarcely grown up. She’s had no experience of life.”
“I’ve loved her since she was a child. I don’t know how it is, but she gives me finer things to think about than anyone else.”
“I shouldn’t have spoken as I did,” said Finch. “I’m sure you have a great love for Adeline, and God knows it has persisted, without much encouragement.”
“With no encouragement. I have to swallow the hard fact that she doesn’t care a hoot about me.”
“She has shown damned poor judgment in her choice,” said Finch. “But there — it is not a matter of judgment.”
“I suppose” — Maurice now spoke almost resignedly — “instinct is the best guide in choosing a mate.”
Now there was complete silence, for the male locusts had ceased to sing, having met in deadly combat. The exquisitely thin music of the ants was inaudible.
The silence was at last broken by Finch’s saying, “If a woman you wanted to marry told you something about herself which you felt you might recall — almost certainly would recall — with damage to your feeling for her — what would be your reaction? Would you want to go on with the affair?”
“If I love a girl,” said Maurice, “I love her. Nothing she has done can make any difference.”
“Nothing?”
“If she’s committed a murder it will make no difference.”
“You are so theatrical, Maurice. I’m thinking of something much less startling but something that might live on in the imagination.” Finch’s face darkened at the vision evoked by what Fitzturgis had told him.
“I’m just a good lover,” said Maurice. “If I give my heart — I give it.”
Dennis appeared, looking in at the window. He had on a torn shirt and somehow managed to have the look of a waif.
“Hullo, Dennis dear,” called out Maurice. “Come in and tell your troubles to Cousin Maurice. He’s in a most genial frame of mind.”
Dennis came through the door into the room. “I have only one trouble,” he said. “I want to come home to live with my father.”
“Well, now,” laughed Maurice, “I am the very opposite. My great trouble is that I amliving at home with my father. Take my advice, Dennis, and shun your father’s roof. Fathers are hard to get on with, believe me.”
“Just the same,” said Dennis, “I want to live with mine.”
“And so you may” — Finch spoke with forced geniality — “after Maurice has paid me a visit. Your room will be waiting for you. You may go and have a look at it, if you choose.”
When he had gone Maurice said, “I hope he won’t mind my coming to stay with you.”
“Oh, he won’t mind,” said Finch. He had an uneasy feeling that he welcomed a visit from Maurice partly because it would postpone Dennis’s descent on him.
The little boy again appeared. He asked, “How long will Maurice stay?”
“Mind your manners,” Finch said with some severity.
“I only meant that I like my room.”
“I promise,” said Maurice, “not to make a long visit.”
“Did your father put you out?” asked Dennis.
“He did,” said Maurice solemnly. “Neck and crop.”
“I don’t mind sleeping on the floor,” said Dennis, “or on the verandah.”
“Please don’t be so persistent.” A vivid recollection of Sarah trying to force her way into his bedroom darkened Finch’s mind.
“Or,” pursued Dennis, “I could sleep in the garage. I shouldn’t mind that.”
“Perhaps I had better not come,” said Maurice.
Dennis addressed him. “I could sleep with my father, like I did one other time.”
Finch sprang up, took him by the arm and swept him through the door. Outside he said, “Dennis, listen to me. I want no more of this nonsense. When I’m ready for you I’ll send for you. Now make yourself scarce.”
When he returned to Maurice it was as though there had been no interruption. They settled down to talk round and round the subject nearest Finch’s heart but never quite touching it.
XVII
Rough Weather
AFTER ADELINE HAD left Fitzturgis she was divided between a wish to run back to him with more reproaches for what she thought had been dishonourable in him and a cool reviewing of all that had been said, though she doubted her ability to keep cool. She longed to make him understand how disloyal he had been to Renny and herself — to rub it in — to make him grovel, if only for a moment. Yet she sensed something stubborn in him, something that would hug the vial of wrath to his breast. She had a sudden fear for their love. She felt an impetuous unreasoning anger toward her mother. Why should Fitzturgis have gone to her with his tale? Adeline remembered how those two always appeared to be hand in glove.
She ran along the path that led to the woods. She pas
sed one of the farm labourers driving his team back to the stables after their day’s work. She saw Piers seated on a mowing machine moving toward the sheds. She saw Dennis running from the direction of Vaughanlands. She saw Patience and her poodle going toward the ravine. All she avoided. She beheld in front of her the dimness of the ancient pine wood which first was abandoned by the sun. She knew that if she entered there she would give herself up to her emotion. The solitude would be more than she could bear. The silence of the wood yearned toward her weeping.
No, she would not go away among the sombre pines. She would hold to the last of the day’s golden light. The days were growing shorter. She had heard her father remark that they were growing shorter. Now his face came before her, aquiline, stern, with a look of contempt on the lips. The face of Fitzturgis rose before her, darkened by anger. But he must not be angry, not with her. Surely if anger were to flame, hers was the right … but they must not let the sun go down upon their wrath…. Where had she heard that saying? Surely it was biblical! She felt rather proud of herself for remembering something religious at this time. It showed that the religious instruction she had received at school was not wasted. She pictured the sun’s going down behind the pines. She pictured her wrath cooling in the last rays — then completely extinguished as twilight drew near. She made up her mind that she would go straight to Fitzturgis — show him a benign forgiveness — make him, by her own magnanimity, ashamed of his stubborn weakness. She dared not let her mind dwell on that or she would be angry again!
She turned and ran back to the house. Archer had just come into the porch, a copy of the Odysseyin his hand.
“Have you seen Maitland?” she asked, trying to appear unflurried.
“Maitland,” he repeated musingly. “Y-yes, I believe I did. Let me think….” His high white brow was as untroubled as a mountain peak in January.
Adeline exclaimed, “why in the name of goodness don’t you go out in the sun and get a little tan? You’re simply disgusting — with that pallid highbrow look.” Archer came as near to smiling as ever he did.
“This craze for suntan bores me,” he said. “Everybody looks alike. Nobody looks interesting.”
“Archer, which way did Maitland go?”
“I believe,” Archer said thoughtfully, “that he went in the direction of the lake.”
“Walking?”
“Oh no. He was in a car.”
“what car? Ours is in the garage.”
“Let me think ... oh, yes, it was Aunty Meg’s car.”
“Aunty Meg’s car! Well — I’ll be darned!”
“And another thing,” said Archer. “He was wearing a bathing suit — dark blue, with a tear in the seat.”
“Archer, will you do me a favour? I’m rather tired. Will you go to the stable and saddle Bridget and bring her here? I’ve something important to tell Mait.”
“Gladly,” agreed Archer. The book still in his hand, he set off at a trot for the stables.
Adeline was now all impatience to seek out Fitzturgis. Her heart ached with passionate longing to take him again into favour. More closely than ever would they be united in their love. She would hurry forward the wedding and they would live happily at Jalna ever after. She ran into her room, threw off her clothes, scattering them on the floor in her haste — in truth Alayne had never been able to teach her tidiness — put on her bathing things and over them drew on riding breeches and jacket. When she returned to the porch, the mare, with Archer mounted, his book clamped to his side, was trotting toward the house.
“Thanks, Archie.” She beamed at him. “You were quick. Tell Mother I’ll not be long.”
“Bridget’s not at all pleased, I may tell you. She’d just had her oats put in front of her.” Archer dismounted, and the roan mare, with every sign of temper, made as though to return to the stables.
But Adeline was now in the saddle and spoke soothingly to her. “You’ll have a carrot, old dear, when we come back, and three lumps of sugar.”
“I’ve just remembered,” said Archer, his eyes on the treetops, “that Maitland was not alone.”
Adeline pulled the mare about to face him. So full of temper was the mare that its feet appeared scarcely to touch the ground. So astonished Adeline that their combined vitality admirably suggested a question mark.
“Not alone?” she exclaimed.
“No. I think it was Roma who was with him. The female who accompanied him had that same vicious look. Yes, I believe it was Roma.”
Archer watched horse and rider disappear behind the balsams and hemlocks, heard the clatter of hoofs (“doing it almost as well as they do it on the radio,” he thought), saw a red squirrel dart out on to the lawn, and heard the syncopation of hoofbeats that told how the sight of it had caused the mare to shy. (“Sheer temper,” he thought; “she is in a nasty mood.”) He sat down on the lowest step, the Odysseyon his knees; then, hearing the sound of galloping hoofs from the road, he exclaimed in heartfelt tones, “Mercy!”
Persons who have committed acts of violence sometimes declare that they “saw red.” Adeline did not see red, but a combination of bright colours did indeed dance before her eyes. At other times she saw nothing. Only instinct guided her along the roads and through the lane that led to the lake. Long before the lake could be seen she heard its waves tumbling on the sandy beach. The lane was sandy, too, and edged by scrubby trees that already bore the look of fall. The mare was not pleased by anything she saw or heard. She humped her back and behaved as though she were going to bolt when a piece of paper was blown across the lane. When the greenish-blue expanse of the lake was spread in front of her, she drew back as though she never before had viewed it. No more was Adeline pleased by what she saw. There in the rolling greenish waves were Roma and Fitzturgis, holding hands, bobbing up and down like silly children! They were laughing, like children who had escaped from authority.
Adeline dismounted and tied the mare to a tree. The mare had many a time been tied to this same tree, but she now viewed the procedure as though it were a torture newly designed for this moment of misery. When Adeline had secured her and again turned to the lake she saw that Fitzturgis had breasted the waves outward for a short distance. He turned then and flung himself on them, was for an instant submerged, then borne buoyantly to the shore. Roma reclined on the lake as on a rocking-chair. She wore an expression of bliss. She loved the water and was a better swimmer than Adeline.
Fitzturgis lay for a little on the sand. He looked like a drowned man cast up by the waves. For a passionate moment Adeline was impelled to fly to him, to gather him into her arms.
But he gathered himself up and leaped through the gleaming green waves to Roma’s side. He stood looking down at her, his back to Adeline.
A greater wave came and washed her as though inevitably straight into his arms.
She flung her arms about his neck. He clasped her to him. Adeline saw their two faces pressed together. She gave a cry of rage and pain. She snatched up a handful of small stones and ran to the lake’s edge. With all her strength she hurled them at the embraced pair.
“Villains! Villains!” she shouted. “Take that and that!” She gathered up more of the shingle and flung it at them.
Fitzturgis, after his first consternation, placed his body in protection of Roma. Adeline saw a trickle of blood on his cheek. He called out something, frowning over his shoulder at her, but she could not hear the words. She bent to pick up more stones, but now he was at her side.
“Adeline,” he cried, “are you quite mad?”
“I wish I were. Better mad than be sane and see what I’ve seen.”
“It was nothing. It had no meaning.”
“Perhaps not to you! Oh — don’t talk to me — it’s all over — it’s finished between us!”
“Adeline!” He stood before her, dripping from the lake, the colour drained from his face. “You can’t mean it,” he went on. “You don’t know what you are saying. You cannot wreck our future —”
Roma now came out of the lake and approached them. She stood quiescent, looking from one face to the other, rather as a spectator than as one involved in so passionate a crisis. Fitzturgis turned to her. “Tell Adeline,” he said, “that there has been nothing between us — nothing more than she saw.”
Roma smiled. “There’s been nothing,” she said.
“You’re damned good at this game.” Adeline cast a look of scorn at the childish figure in the sky-blue bathing suit. “It’s the one thing you are good at — little bitch!” She flung away and plodded through the heavy sand to the mare.
Fitzturgis followed her. “If you throw me over because of this,” he said, his voice coming roughly, “I shall know that you had already ceased to care for me.”
“Isn’t it enough?” she cried. “Can I believe in your love? I’ve been noticing a difference in you. This is the end.” She untied the mare and scrambled to the saddle.
“The trouble is,” he said hotly, in an accumulation of resentment, “that your only real love is for your father.”
“Didn’t I show real love for you in Ireland? Wasn’t I a faithful lover for years? It is you who have never loved me. I see it. I feel it. You’ve been half-hearted ever since you came here. You never have belonged.”
“You want me to go? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes,” she said in a strangled voice. “I want you to go.” She loosed the rein, and the mare, mad to be back in her stall, with the full manger before her and her stable companion reaching round the partition to nuzzle her, gave a squeal of joy and galloped along the lane.
* * *
Patience was standing on the rustic bridge looking down at the stream, which was lower than she ever remembered, when she heard someone running down the steep path. She saw it was Adeline, descending in helter-skelter fashion. She ran on to the bridge, almost colliding with Patience, and not till that moment aware of her.
“Goodness,” exclaimed Patience. “You arein a rush.” Then she saw Adeline’s face and demanded, “whatever is the matter?” She barred the way as Adeline would have fled across the bridge.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 498
