“why will you talk of snow and falling leaves?” he demanded, still bent on being hurt. “It’s morbid. It makes me miserable.”
“I won’t do it again,” she said — and she did not, but more and more she longed for freedom to express what was in her.
One day by chance Renny met the priest who had been Wakefield’s confessor after his conversion to Catholicism. Renny, moved by a shrewd understanding of his brother, asked the priest to go to see Wakefield. The appearance of the kindly old cleric at Fiddler’s Hut almost caused a panic in the pair living there, but there was no need for panic. There was nothing formidable about the priest. He was accustomed to the frailties of human nature and said no word of censure. He talked to them of country life and of the Belgian hares which he bred, and of the cure for poison ivy, and of a famous recipe he had for blackberry cordial. This would be good for Wakefield, he said, and promised to bring him a bottle. This he did, and followed it with other visits. With each visit from him and Renny, Molly felt conscious of a web being woven about Wakefield, drawing him inexorably into a life she could not enter.
When the blazing colours of fall were at their wildest, with the blue tent of the sky hanging above the treetops and frost white on the grass when Molly prepared Wake’s breakfast, the two visitors arrived from Ireland: Maurice Whiteoak and Patrick Crawshay. They were to stay at Jalna — because Piers’s house was too small for so large a family — till after Christmas. Alayne was not disinclined to having the two young men in the house, but she would have liked to be consulted in the matter — which she was not till the visit had been arranged. That was always the way of it, she thought, with wry resignation. The Whiteoaks did what was most convenient to themselves, without considering the trouble it might be to others. Alayne realized that the presence of two visitors would mean a great deal of extra work for the Wragges, who were growing old; but they accepted the news gladly because it came from Renny, who never gave a thought to their powers of endurance.
As for Adeline, she was, in these bright-coloured days of autumn, strangely exhilarated. She told herself, in her extravagant youth, that she was like a ship that had been buffeted by storm and had now found harbour. This harbour was all the calmer because the golden-haired harbour rd was away, finishing his education. Although she fancied herself as a buffeted ship, she felt childishly irresponsible. Everything had been arranged for her. Inside the circle drawn for her she was as free as air. Never had Renny been so pleased with her. He lavished so many endearments on her that an observer might have thought her father was in love with her had it not been obvious that just as many flatteries were spoken to his horses.
Adeline met Maurice with more warmth than she had given him in many a day — possibly more than she ever had given him. For one thing she was sorry for him. For another she wanted him to believe in her radiant happiness which could include even him. Maurice met her with a dignity for which she was not prepared. He was sober but not sombre, as he said, “Congratulations to young Philip.”
Adeline imagined a slight stressing of the word “young,” for Philip’s youth was a tender point with her, but she achieved a smile and said, “Congratulations to us both. We’re very happy.”
The young men had come prepared for sport. Mountains of luggage, guns, and fishing rods were carried upstairs. Their heavy boots littered the floor of the bathroom. Towels were thrown on the floor. Both were accustomed to being waited on by plentiful servants. But their manners were so delightful and they were so charming to Alayne that she forgave them. They were in such contrast to the violent immaturity of modern life! Often she reflected on what would have been her father’s reaction to it. She pictured his look of cautious wonder. He never had been quick to condemn. Even while she never was able to feel near to her own children, she was thankful that they were moderately congenial to her. She envied Renny — and was sometimes almost bitter in her envy — the close bond between him and Adeline, the queer congeniality between him and the aloof Archer. Life for him, she thought, was so easy, so instinctive!
In the very hour of arrival from Ireland, Maurice went to see his mother. She was just where he expected to find her: in the garden, potting geraniums. He came up behind her and put both arms about her.
Pheasant, looking down on his hands, exclaimed:
“Mooey, darling — it’s you!”
The pet name was sweet to him on her lips. He turned her round to look into her face.
“You look well,” he said, and gave the impression, both to himself and to her, that he had been anxious about her health, though in reality he had been thinking only of his own doings and Adeline’s engagement.
“I am well. Never worry about me. Mooey — how wonderful to see you!” She poured out questions about his journey, about his friend Crawshay. She noted with pleasure the clearness of his eyes and complexion, while, his arm still about her, he sniffed the familiar scent of her that had added the scent of sweet geranium leaves. At last he said:
“Arent you wondering what I think of this engagement?”
“I am indeed.”
“Well, if you really want to know, I think it’s damnable.”
“Scarcely that, Maurice. On my part I think it’s dangerous.”
“It’s damnable, I tell you. Adeline will be miserable.”
“They may get on together better than we think. The danger is that both are so strong-willed — and yet so immature. Of course, lots of very young people are getting married, but — these two are different.”
Maurice demanded, “who arranged this? Surely they didn’t do it themselves. Lord, I should like to have overheard that proposal.”
“I can tell you,” said Pheasant, “the young man is very pleased with himself, and so are his father and his Uncle Renny pleased with him.”
“I’ll bet they are,” said Maurice, and added bitterly: “They never wanted mefor her.”
“Tradition is all very well,” said Pheasant oracularly. “I like tradition; but Jalna is a Canadian estate, not a dukedom. Your great-grandmother and great-uncles are dead, Maurice, but they left behind them a tradition that’s living and strong. What does it matter who marries whom, so long as the couple are happy?” She brushed the earth from her hands and raised her lovely eyes to the shining October sky. “I don’t see happiness in this arranged marriage.”
In the studio, over a drink, Maurice allowed his brother Christian to see further into the depths of his hurt and resentment. “Nobody,” he said, “except Mother, thought I was good enough for Adeline. She was influenced against me — I’m certain. Dad never has liked me. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?”
“He’s not demonstrative,” Christian said uncomfortably, “toward any of us but Mary. Uncle Renny’s fond of you, I know. I’ve heard him say so. But he’s possessed by the idea of another Philip and Adeline at Jalna.”
“what of Archer?”
“Managing Jalna is the last thing he would choose to do. He’s a queer boy but I like him. He’s so clever he’ll be quite able to provide for himself. I expect he will inherit Aunt Alayne’s money — that is, if she has any left.”
“Hm,”grunted Maurice, digesting this information — and added, “Uncle Renny tells me that you are to paint portraits of Adeline and Philip.”
Christian made a gesture as though he would hurl the palette he held to the floor. “Did you ever hear such nonsense? As though I could!” He looked really distressed.
To distract him Maurice said, “I do like that picture on your easel — all those glorious autumn colours. I’d like to buy it to take back to Ireland, but — there’s something in it — a feeling so intense — a loyalty to this place — it would hurt me to have it.”
“I understand.” said his brother. “I wish to God I could sell a few pictures. It would encourage Dad, after all he’s spent on me.”
Maurice could not keep his mind off Philip and Adeline. “They’d be good subjects.” he said.
“They would,” a
greed Christian. “There’s something about us Whiteoaks, we have old-time faces. We’re so damned individual — the way people used to look, before everybody was in a hurry. I find that I can’t guess what a man is by looking at him. It seems to me they all look alike — that they could change faces and never notice the difference. They all look like businessmen on their way to a conference. We’re different. Is it a good thing? I don’t know.”
Patrick Crawshay admired the picture Christian was just finishing, and bought it on the spot, also a second one to take home to his mother. He soon became as one of the family at Jalna, and popular with the men about the stables. He had the look of happy youth that has never been crossed. Having met Adeline on her visit to Ireland — the visit which had brought about her former unfortunate engagement to Fitzturgis — he thought of himself as a suitor. His mother would have liked to see him settle down in marriage. Maurice, on his part, had a mischievous hankering that his friend might yet break tip Adeline’s engagement to Philip. Philip was away from the scene. Adeline could not possibly be in love with him. Maurice did everything he could to bring her and Patrick Crawshay together. Unsuspected by his elders, he wove a net of mutual regard about the pair. He contrived to isolate them. When the three rode together he would fall behind on some pretext. When they walked he would drift away to rediscover some haunt of his childhood. When they sat together before a blazing fire at night he would put on a record of passionate or romantic music. Jealousy of Philip was his strongest emotion.
XVI
This and That
The two young men from Ireland, accompanied by Renny and Finch, went on a fishing trip. Later they went duck shooting. On this outing Finch did not join the party. As he matured, the thought of taking the life of birds, of causing suffering to them, was abhorrent to him. In all excursions, in life at Jalna, Pat Crawshay took part with happy zest. He had enough to live on, to live well. No one had ever suggested to him that he should make himself a useful member of society. His spirit was so untrammelled that it expressed itself in a remarkable way through all his body. Adeline found that she enjoyed being with him more than with any other, with the exception of Renny. He fascinated Wakefield, who found himself imitating his speech and mannerisms — acting the part, as it were, of Sir Patrick Crawshay.
In the lovely weather of Indian summer, an excursion was planned to one of the not too distant northern lakes. A son of the Rector, a boyhood friend of Finch’s, George Fennel, who had married a rich widow, offered to lend Finch a cottage on this lake. In the manner of the country it was called a “cottage,” but, in reality, was a roomy stone and stucco house, with fine gardens, overlooking the lake.
Sylvia was pregnant and had become enervated by the heat of the summer. Finch felt that a change would benefit her. He himself was tired by the stress of composition, for he took everything the hard way, and would be glad of the northern air. Sylvia’s condition was not yet noticeable. They decided to make a party of it — not a large party but only those who would be congenial to Sylvia.
Would Renny be congenial to her? Finch wondered — but there was no need for conjecture: Renny was committed to preparation for the horse show. Patrick Crawshay, Maurice, and Adeline eagerly agreed to be of the party. When Christian was invited, he said at once, “I’d love to go, Uncle Finch. I shall do a picture there.”
“Good,” said Finch. “It’s settled then. There’ll be six of us.”
“what of Wakefield and Molly?”
“Is he well enough, do you think?”
“Quite. I saw him this morning. He tells me he’s mad for a change. In fact, he’s heard of the party and wants to join it. His doctor says it will do him good, if he is careful not to overtire himself.”
“Good Lord,” said Finch, pulling nervously at his underlip. “I hadn’t thought of that contingency.”
“what contingency?”
“Molly.”
Christian stared in puzzlement. “But surely she would enjoy the change. She’s had a pretty monotonous summer.”
“I know,” said Finch, “but there’s Adeline. She’s never been to the Hut since they came.”
“How strange. I hadn’t heard. Is it by Adeline’s own wish or her parents’?”
“Of one thing I’m certain,” said Finch. “Alayne would be most unhappy if Adeline were to go where Wake and Molly are of the party.”
“why in the name of reason,” exclaimed Christian, “don’t that pair get married?”
“I’ve no notion.”
“Possibly Wake is like me” — said Christian — “reluctant to part with his freedom. I marvel when I see how some fellows — my own brothers, for instance — are ready to stick out their necks for the yoke. Look at Humphrey Bell. Nobody can make me believe that he wasn’t happier before Patience and her fat baby planted themselves on him.… I’ll never do it. Never.” And firmly he squeezed the paint from a tube.
“Marriage certainly brings an awesome responsibility,” said Finch. “I’ve been twice married.”
“Of course there are the dear little children,” Christian continued, in a sweet conversational tone. “I’m sure Humphrey enjoys the squalling of his daughter Victoria. And you have your own dear little boy, and before long you’ll have another dear little boy. Oh, Uncle Finch, it makes me so glad for you!”
Finch left him, with a grunt of mingled chagrin and amusement. There was no one from whom he could ask advice in this predicament. He made up his mind to go straight to Wakefield. He began to wish that George Fennel had not offered him the cottage or that he and Sylvia might have gone alone to it.
He strode along the path through the wood, which, because of the thinning foliage, seemed suddenly open to the sky. Along its edge fragile Michaelmas daisies grew, and sturdy goldenrod. Finch had a reckless holiday feeling and, when he glimpsed Wakefield, sitting outside the door of Fiddler’s Hut with a book, he shouted: “Hullo — Wake! what do you think of this for a morning?”
“It’s fine,” Wakefield called back, delighted to have a visitor. “Come and sit down.”
“what are you reading?” asked Finch. He peered to see the title of the book.
“It’s Hardy’s Woodlanders.”
“Appropriate to this place, but scarcely a book I should have expected you to choose.”
“I didn’t choose it. It is one of an armful Renny brought from the house. It was Alayne who chose them.”
Finch sat down and, after a space, Wakefield said:
“I long for some activity but I don’t quite know what it’s to be.”
Finch said — desperately — “George Fennel has lent me his summer cottage for a week. If this weather holds it will be lovely there. I’d like to invite you and Molly to join us, Wake, but …” He halted, then got out — “There’s Adeline.”
Wakefield stared, not at first understanding. Then he muttered, “I see. I quite understand. It’s all right.”
Finch was relieved. “I’m glad you understand, old man. I was afraid you might be hurt.”
“We have Alayne and her prejudices to consider. I don’t believe Adeline would mind — even though she hasn’t been here to see us.”
Finch’s mind was lightened of its load. After some desultory talk he hastened away to make final arrangements for the holiday. There was a supply of food to be ordered and a new warm coat for Sylvia to be bought. She was clinging, in these days of her pregnancy. Whatever Finch bought for her she would like. He tried to remember what Sarah had been before the birth of Dennis, but he could not. He could remember only her almost savage possessiveness after the infant’s arrival.
When Finch had left him Wakefield folded his arms and bent his dark brows to the point of looking tragic. He felt himself to be a martyr to his loyalty to one woman. He felt that, not for a long while, had he wanted to do anything so badly as he wanted to accompany Finch and the others on this stay of a week by the lake. He had not through his illness, after the first sombre shock, pitied himself, but now h
e was fairly overcome by self-pity. He remembered how in childhood he had seen one after another of the family depart on some pleasure jaunt, and he left at home. Now he was not even at home. He was marooned in an island of greenery, in a multicoloured sea of autumn leaves. He was a castaway.
He was sitting in this attitude of dejection when Molly, returning after a shopping expedition to the village grocery, discovered him. She laid her heavy bag on the kitchen table and hastened to him. She had ready an imitation of the shopgirl to amuse him, but seeing his frown, his bent head and folded arms, she hesitated and said:
“Everything all right?”
“I suppose so.” He raised his eyes and added, “Finch was here.”
What would Finch have said, she wondered, to hurt Wakefield? She asked, “Had he any news?”
“Yes — of a sort. George Fennel, an old friend, has lent him his summer place. In this weather it will be lovely. Right on a lake, two hours’ drive from here. Finch is making up a small party.”
“Oh.” Molly tried to think what there was in this news to hurt Wakefield, for he was hurt — she was sure of that.
He said, “Of course, we’re not invited.”
“But, in any case, you couldn’t go, could you?”
“Certainly I could go. I spoke of the possibility to my doctor when he called yesterday and he said it would be good for me if I took care not to overtire myself.”
“Then why not go?” Her face which had been serious was now lit in bright expectancy. If there were any obstacle in the way, she would overcome it.
“Because,” said Wakefield, “we are not respectable.”
Now she saw clearly the reason for his pain, his disappointment. Like a child he was hurt because he was left out of a picnic.
“Don’t let’s mind,” she said. “We’ll do something else — something better.” And she cast about in her mind to discover what that something better could be.
“There’s nothing for us to do.”
“Wakefield — did Finch make it clear to you?”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 523
