Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

“when did you last see it?”

  “This morning … last night … I forget.”

  “Well — of all the duffers!”

  Finch shouted, — “If you keep me here talking how can I search for it?”

  “There’s no time to search!”

  “Tell them to go without me.” He turned back into his room.

  Maurice and Adeline came running up the stairs and into the littered room. They began systematically to turn over, shake, and still further disarrange every object in it. Their faces were pale, desperate. Outdoors Piers began to sound the horn insistently.

  “Look here,” cried Finch. “It’s no use. You’ll have to go without me.”

  Dennis spoke in his cool little voice. “Here is the wallet,” he said, taking it from between two books on the bookshelves.

  With something between a groan and a cry of joy Finch snatched it from him and tore down the stairs. Maurice and Adeline leaped after him. Dennis had expected a chorus of thanks but instead found himself alone with Rags. For a moment they stared blankly at each other, then hastened after the others.

  When Rags, very much out of breath, reached the porch the car was already speeding down the road, the dogs were looking dejected as they always did after a departure, and the uncles, with resigned smiles, were turning back into the house.

  “what a pity you could not have gone with Mooey,” Alayne said to Pheasant.

  Pheasant could not answer. Her voice was stifled by tears. Alayne would have liked to comfort her but could think of nothing to say. Her innate reserve kept her from putting her arm about Pheasant. It seemed stupid to say, — “Perhaps before long you will go.” Pheasant’s tears were for the permanent loss of her son to another country. In truth she knew that in the last five years, when he had been at home, a part of him had remained in Ireland.

  The travellers, with the aid of Renny and Piers, had barely installed their hand luggage on the racks when the train began to move. There was no time for goodbyes, but Piers delivered a parting shot.

  “Hard luck on you, Adeline,” he said, “to have these two crackpots on your hands. Don’t trust them with your valuables.”

  He hurried after Renny. The train was moving. Renny took him by the arm and helped him off, anxious because of Piers’ artificial leg.

  Finch put his hat on the rack, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He was humiliated by the mislaying of the wallet, he was angry with himself for his absent-mindedness. He was angry with Piers for the stony silence he had preserved during the drive in, though he had to acknowledge that Piers’ handling of the car at such speed had been rdly. They were lucky not to have been stopped for breaking traffic laws. Finch felt exhausted nervously. He hated the vibration of the train. He felt that he had spent too much time on trains, rattling from one city to another, from one crowd of strangers to another. If Piers led the life he did, perhaps he wouldn’t always be so cocksure of where he had put things. And what was it that Renny had said? “I might have known you’d bungle things!” Well, a remark like that was enough to make anyone laugh. He who led an infinitely more complicated life than Renny! Good Lord — the simplicity of Renny’s life! The saddle — in place of the piano seat! The reins — in place of the keyboard! And what a contrast their marriages! Of course, Renny and Alayne had had their difficulties but they really were devoted to each other. A man was lucky to have Alayne for a wife … so steadfast … so sympathetic … with a kind of nobility in her that was rare.… He could hear Maurice and Adeline talking together in subdued tones, as though not to disturb him. He heard Adeline give an excited schoolgirl giggle. Through a slit of his eyelids he looked at her. She too had taken off her hat, and her brown hair, with its overtone of auburn, lay tumbled a little on her forehead. Her lips were parted in a carefree, expectant smile. Maurice was looking at her with a possessive air, as though having got her away from Jalna a new relationship between them had come into being. In some inexplicable way the boy looked older, more assured. Finch closed his eyes again and felt for his wallet to make certain it was safe. He relaxed his long limbs, let his body sink into the chair. After a while the roadbed of the train became smoother, the sound of the wheels less irritating and by degrees grew into a soothing hum. After all he was not at the beginning of a tour but was setting out on a journey of pure pleasure. He would see Ireland and England again. He would be once more with Wakefield.

  They were a gay trio in the restaurant car. They went early to bed, and next morning breakfasted in New York. Not once had Adeline or Maurice made any reference to the mislaying of the wallet, but Finch could not put it out of his mind. Every so often would his hand steal to his pocket. He would recall to himself how many times he had gone to a concert hall leaving his music, his watch, his handkerchief in the hotel; how often he had left his gloves or his galoshes in the concert hall.

  New York was glittering in springtime brightness. Adeline must buy herself a new necklace of costume jewellery out of Renny’s parting gift. Finch bought her a scarf and Maurice a box of chocolates and a basket of fruit from a superb Fifth Avenue shop. The price of those so alarmed her that she was subdued for some time. “If that is the way you are going to throw your money about, young man,” she said to Maurice, “it won’t last long.”

  Finch’s agent had lunch with them at their hotel. Maurice and Adeline were quite impressed by the conversation between the two men. It seemed strange to them that Finch’s doings should be of such consequence to someone in New York and they were even more impressed when they went aboard the ship to find that reporters, on the lookout for celebrities, were eager to ask Finch questions about his plans and to photograph him. These manifestations in a foreign country were more significant to them than all they had previously heard or read of Finch’s reputation.

  Finch’s desire was to escape from these gentlemen. If the ship had been one of the great liners, with movie stars aboard, he was sure they would not have troubled about interviewing him. He and Maurice shared a cabin. It had been possible to secure a small one for Adeline, not to be shared by a stranger. Setting this little place in order, placing her belongings to the best advantage, enthralled her for a short while, then shoutings and the throbbing of the engines told her that the ship was about to sail. She hurried to the deck, through the confusion of people, to the confusion of moving lights against the blackness. It was midnight.

  Finch found her and tucked his hand in her arm.

  “We’re off,” he said.

  “Yes. Isn’t it marvellous?” But she was rather disappointed by the slow movement of the ship, the confusion of lights. Would she never ride out into the open? All about her were the dark forms of other passengers. She wondered whether she would speak to any of them. Would one of those dark forms become perhaps a friend? She heard a group of people speaking Spanish. She heard a rough Irish brogue from a stout woman talking to a priest. She asked:

  “How old were you, Uncle Finch, the first time you crossed?”

  He answered, rather heavily, — “Twenty-one.”

  “Oh, I remember hearing about it. You had just come into Great-grandmother’s money, hadn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you brought Uncle Nicholas and Uncle Ernest with you, for a treat.”

  “Yes.”

  “Goodness, that was funny. A boy off on the loose with two old gentlemen.”

  “We enjoyed it.”

  “It must be wonderful to inherit a fortune.”

  “Well … I don’t know … It can be embarrassing.”

  “I’d love to try it … Maurice has done it too. Aren’t you a lucky pair!”

  “I didn’t hang on to my money for long.”

  “Really! What became of it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You actually don’t know?”

  She laughed gaily. “Uncle Finch, you are funny!”

  He gave a grunt of agreement.

  “Your wife was rich too, wasn’t she?” It was the first tim
e Adeline had ever referred to his marriage to him, but the ship had loosed her tongue.

  “She had a good deal of money,” he said, “but her last husband managed to get hold of most of it. What is left will go to Dennis.”

  “Lucky dog! I never used to think about money but now I realize how important it is. I see Daddy with never enough of it.”

  New York lay behind them, pillars of lights, bridges of lights, clusters of lights, with no discernible support, against the dark blue sky. The white foam of the wake was spreading like an opening fan at the stern. The air was cold.

  “I promised to look after you,” said Finch. “Now I think you ought to go to bed. You look tired — at least as tired as you are able to look.”

  He remembered the exhausted young face that he had seen reflected from his looking glass when he was her age.

  “I am a little sleepy,” conceded Adeline, “but I promise you it’s the last time I shall go to bed early on this voyage.”

  “Early! It’s one o’clock.”

  “Is that all? where’s Maurice?” Now she saw him coming toward them. “Oh, there you are, Mooey! where have you been?”

  “Isn’t it cold?” he exclaimed. “Let’s get inside.”

  The deck was emptying. The throb of the engines was becoming resolute as the ship increased her speed. Inside there was light and warmth and a restless movement of passengers. There was searching for mislaid luggage, opening of telegrams and boxes of flowers. Adeline was delighted when she was handed a telegram from Nook wishing her bon voyage.

  “How sweet of him!” she cried. “And it was only the other day when he saw me.”

  Another telegram was handed to her. This was from Humphrey Bell. It read: “With sincere good wishes for a happy voyage and a safe return.”

  It amazed her and made her laugh. “To think of it!” she exclaimed. “That funny little man!” But she was pleased. She cherished both telegrams.

  Maurice shrugged. “I’ll bet a lot of thought went into the wording of that telegram,” he said.

  At that moment Humphrey Bell, stretched in his bed, with his cat at his feet, was wishing with all his might he had not sent it and by sending it lowered himself still further in her eyes.

  “I’ve been talking to a man,” Maurice said. “A nice fellow. An Irishman.”

  Adeline was at once interested.

  “He’s standing over there lighting a cigarette. I’ll introduce him now if you like.”

  “Wait till tomorrow,” said Finch. “Adeline’s going to bed.”

  “Are you going to be a killjoy, Uncle Finch?” asked Maurice.

  “Well — I promised this child’s mother —”

  Adeline gave him a hoot of scorn. “Point out the Irishman to me,” she said, “and if I like his looks I’ll meet him tonight, if I have to do it over Uncle Finch’s dead body.”

  “I did point him out,” said Maurice. “He’s just at the foot of the stairs. His first match went out. Now he’s lighting another. There — don’t you see him?”

  Adeline glanced at him. “I like his looks,” she said, “well enough — but I think I’ll wait till tomorrow to meet him.”

  The flare of the match had illumined an intent dark face, topped by upstanding curly hair. He took the cigarette from his lips now and revealed a strongly marked mouth that was both humorous and sensuous. His curious glance took in the face of each person who passed him.

  “what part of Ireland is he going to?” asked Finch.

  Maurice replied, — “Quite near to me. He hasn’t lived there long. He was in the Army in the East. Now he’s bought a small place and apparently is settled down.”

  “what’s his name?”

  “Maitland Fitzturgis.”

  “Help!” said Adeline. “what a name!”

  “It is rather a mouthful. You must meet him tomorrow.”

  “How old is he?”

  “In his early thirties, I should say.”

  Suddenly Finch thought, — “I have left my thirties behind.” And he felt it strange.

  The ship was rather crowded. It was easy to meet people and then lose sight of them again. Next morning there was a strong breeze and the dark blue sea was rough, carrying the ship jauntily beneath quickly moving white clouds. Up on the sports deck the breeze was almost a gale. Maurice and Adeline soon had enough of deck tennis. They wandered to a sheltered part where, overshadowed by lifeboats and funnels, a number of people were stretched out in the sun. In a corner by themselves they almost stumbled over Finch and the Irishman, Fitzturgis.

  “Don’t get up,” cried Adeline, and dropped to the deck beside Finch. “Do you mind if Maurice and I sit here too?”

  He put an arm about her. “Adeline, this is Mr. Fitzturgis.”

  They were soon all four talking together with ease. Adeline was eager to tell how this was not her first visit to Ireland and that she had visited New York once before. She did not say that she had been only four years old at the time and Finch and Maurice kept silent on that point. The heat of the sun combined with the crisp coldness of the air was exhilarating. The four were soon on friendly terms. Finch knew America as well as one who merely tours a country filling engagements can know it but he was looked on as an authority by the other three. Fitzturgis felt that he had seen a good deal of New York, had tasted its promises and foretasted its disappointments. After a time Finch and Maurice wandered away and Adeline and the Irishman were alone together.

  “I’m really only half Irish,” he said. “My mother is English and I was sent to an English school.”

  “That’s why I’m disappointed in you,” she returned. “I expected you to talk Irish.”

  “Not really!” he laughed. “Well, if you want me to, I certainly shall.” And, assuming a rich brogue, he began to rave over the beauty of sky and sea.

  Adeline lay on her back looking up at him, her teeth white between her parted lips, her dark eyes laughing beneath the shade of their thick lashes.

  “That’s lovely,” she said, “but you mustn’t do it anymore because it’s not real. It is like my great-grandmother who used to go all Irish when her feelings were hurt.”

  “Do you remember her?”

  “Oh, no. But in our house they don’t let her memory die. We never seem to forget anything in our house.”

  “Do you like that?” he asked quickly.

  “Yes, because if you let things die that belong to your family, your life has no meaning.”

  He looked at her in astonishment.

  “what a strange thing for a young girl to say!”

  “Don’t you feel that?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment before he answered. “No. I like to forget.”

  “Do you? Of course, I haven’t much — not really anything to forget — yet. But there’s been handed down to me a lot to remember.”

  “All pleasant, I’ll wager.”

  “No, indeed. Some of it very sad.”

  He frowned down at her, as though angry that there should be anything to cloud her happiness. “And you actually want to hold in your memory what was sad?”

  “Yes, because it’s a part of me, though I wasn’t there to see.”

  “Do you know,” he said, “I tremble for you. I think you have a great power of suffering … what are you going to do when things happen to you — bad things, I mean?”

  “Bear them, I suppose, like other people do.”

  “No, not like other people,” he objected. “You’ll never do anything — just like other people.”

  She gave a little laugh. “You seem to know a great deal about me, considering that we’ve just met.”

  “I don’t feel as though we’d just met.”

  “That’s funny. I feel as though I’d known you quite a long while. I guess the truth is we don’t know anything about each other.”

  “Sometimes,” he said, rather dictatorially, “one finds out a great deal in the first meeting.”

  “I suppose that means I�
��m easy to see through!”

  He answered quickly, — “No, not at all. I think it means that there’s a good deal in you to see, to know, and you’re so unaffected. I’ve met girls — since the war especially — who spend their time leading you on and when you arrive — there’s nothing there.”

  There was silence for a time, then Adeline asked abruptly, — “Won’t you tell me about your life in Ireland? To judge from what my cousin says, there are only two sorts of people — the rich ones who do nothing and the poor ones who do nothing.”

  “I’m neither.” Fitzturgis spoke rather sombrely. “I raise Kerry cattle. That is, I’m beginning in a small way. I’ve a rather nice house, with a lot of rhododendrons round it. Very secluded. Mountains all about — I suppose you’d just call them very high hills.”

  “It sounds nice but — rather lonely, for a young man.”

  He laughed. “I thought you’d look on me as almost middle-aged.”

  She drew back from that idea. “Oh, no. You see, I live in the house with my two great-uncles who are past ninety. I call them old. I don’t call a man middle-aged till he’s sixty. That’s what my father is.”

  She went on to talk of all her uncles, telling their ages and what she considered their dispositions to be. She told him proudly of Finch’s achievements as a pianist, of Wakefield as an actor, of Eden’s great talent as a poet. She was obviously surprised and a little hurt that he had not heard of one of them. She thought the less of him for that.

  “But, you see,” he explained, “I was away in the East for years and since I came back I’ve been buried in a rustic spot in Ireland.

  “Have you no one to look after you?”

  “I’ve a woman who comes in daily. She looks after me very well.” Abruptly he changed the subject to say, — “Tell me about yourself. Have you any special talent?”

  “Me? Oh, yes — if you call riding a talent. You should see the rows of cups and ribbons I’ve won. I’ve inherited that from my father. There’s no better horseman in the Dominion. As for high-jumping! I don’t suppose there’s a bone in his body that hasn’t been broken at one time or another.”

  “Well …”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, if you like! I’ll go to my cabin and bring up a photograph of him on horseback to show you.”