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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “I’ll get my hat,” said Clapperton, “and have a look at the car.”

  He left the kitchen. The two young women stood gazing at Raikes. He raised his bloodshot eyes to Gem’s face and his expression became even more melancholy. She turned to her sister.

  “Are you going to telephone the grocer or shall I?” she asked.

  Althea gave her an angry look. She drew herself together as though for an outburst, but instead muttered:

  “I’ll telephone.” She almost ran from the room.

  Gem moved a step nearer to Raikes. “Don’t feel too badly,” she said, in a sweet comforting voice, — “accidents will happen. The papers are full of them.”

  “They are indeed,” returned Raikes, almost resigned. The shadow of a forlorn smile flickered across his lips. He put up his hand and gently felt the plaster on his nose.

  Eugene Clapperton returned and the two men went out through the back door to the garage, where stood the Cadillac with its side stove in.

  Eugene Clapperton stood staring at it in shock, then he exclaimed — “Good God, is that my Cadillac!”

  “It is indeed, sir,” returned Raikes heavily.

  “It’s a wonder you were able to get home in it.”

  “It is that. But I don’t think the engine is too badly damaged.”

  “when will my other car be repaired?”

  “Well, ye see, sir, they’re having trouble in getting the parts.”

  Clapperton turned away in disgust. “Well,” he said grimly, “I shall have to leg it wherever I go for some time.”

  What bad luck was his, he thought. His animals ailing or dying … his cars smashed … his marriage … well, he’d put the disappointment over his marriage out of his mind … he wouldn’t let it get him down … he wouldn’t let any of his worries get him down … happiness and balanced living could only be achieved by an effort … keep the balance within, and the outer adjustments will inevitably take place. He would not let himself be angry with anyone — least of all with Raikes, the only decent man he had ever had. He took a good walk through the moist spring day and felt the better for it.

  He ended by stopping at the door of the Fox Farm. He felt it his duty to do what he could to get Humphrey Bell out of the rut he was in. But Bell had seen him coming and he knocked in vain. The cat knew that the door should be opened and meowed again and again. Eugene Clapperton could hear her and he called out in a childlike way, — “Puss — Puss, let me in!”

  Evidently the cat liked him, for it rubbed itself against the door, but Humphrey Bell remained flattened against the wall in a corner. Clapperton gnawed his lip in annoyance. He hated to be frustrated in his plans for good. Now he took out a pocket notebook and resting it against the wall he wrote, — “Enter the new day courageous and unafraid. Relax and get rid of the tension that is tightening your nerves and ruining your health.” He did not sign it. The young man would know. He tore out the leaf and slipped it under the door. His heart felt lighter.

  When the cat saw the paper appear beneath the door she curved a graceful paw and played with it. There Bell found her and the message.

  “Relax!” he cried. “Relax! How the hell can I relax with that old fool eternally after me!” He took the poker in his hand and beat on a log of pine in the woodbox, as though for once he had Eugene Clapperton at his mercy. The cat sharpened her claws on his best chair.

  At Vaughanlands Althea followed Gem into her bedroom. Speaking as though after running she said:

  “Gem, I don’t like the way you look at that man.”

  Gem was making her husband’s bed, drawing the bottom sheet tight. “what man?” she asked, tapping the sheet with her rapid fingers, “This man?”

  “You know what man I mean,” gasped Althea. “I mean Raikes.”

  Gem laughed. “Ho, him! what don’t you like about the way I look at him?”

  “Well — I can tell you it’s almost tender.”

  “He’d hurt himself. I’d be sorry for Eugene if he broke his nose, shouldn’t I?”

  “They shouldn’t be mentioned in the same breath — not by you.”

  “why?”

  “Eugene is your husband. After all, look what he’s done for you.”

  Gem put her hands on her hips and stared at her sister across the bed. “I’ve repaid him,” she said boldly. “I’ve repaid him twice over. Don’t worry about him.”

  “You haven’t made him happy. He’s not as happy as he was when we first met him.”

  “It’s all the worry he’s had in this place.”

  “That’s not so and you know it.”

  “what has come over you, Althea?”

  “I have a sense of justice, that’s all.”

  Gem continued with the bed-making and Althea bent to help her.

  “Just compare the two men,” said Gem. “If a woman’s human she’ll notice the difference.”

  Althea gently put the pillow in place. “The head that lies on this belongs to a good man,” she said. “He may be boring —”

  “You’re telling me!” laughed Gem.

  “How common you’re becoming!”

  “Yes. Stronger and stronger, and commoner and commoner. More like Raikes and his sort.”

  “I tell you, he’s absolutely worthless!” cried Althea. “I’ve been sure of that for some time.”

  “You said to me not long ago you’d like to paint his portrait.”

  “Yes, as a gypsy-looking fellow, picturesque but no good to anyone. The kind silly women fall for.”

  Gem’s face flamed. “Next thing,” she said, “you’ll be warning Eugene.”

  “Never. You may do what you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  Althea went up to her room. Gem finished her work and then sought Raikes. He had just returned after taking the damaged car to the nearest town for repairs.

  “You are back quickly,” she said.

  “I had a lift right to the gate. ’Twas Colonel Whiteoak took me into his car.”

  “I’m glad. You must feel tired.”

  “I do that. But it’s no matter. I’m going to mow the lawn now. It’ll be grown hay if I don’t get at it soon.” He moved toward the shed where the mower was kept. It was as though he wanted to hear no more of car smashes or bone-breakings. He took the handle of the mowing machine and trundled it to the lawn. He bent to adjust the knives, then went up and down the length of the lawn in long swinging strides, grass blades flying from the wheels in a tender green shower. Gem stood in the shelter of a lilac tree, heavy with bloom; the sunlight falling through its leaves dappled the skin of her face and neck, her white bare arms. She reached up and drew one of the heavy white blooms down to her. A scented shower of drops, stored from an early morning rain, fell over her. She felt it as a kind of blessing and smiled up into it.

  Some weeks passed and the smaller of the two cars was back in the garage again. The plaster was gone from Raikes’ nose and he looked himself. Eugene Clapperton was cheerful once more. He would not allow himself to be long otherwise, indeed considered he had much to be cheerful about. He had rented the arable land of his property to a farmer. He kept a cow, fifty laying hens, and a few pigs which Raikes looked after. Three new bungalows were in process of building. The sound of that sawing and hammering, so distasteful to Renny Whiteoak, had a cheery ring to him in the summer air. The small property he had bought from the farmer, Black, he was holding till he had a suitable offer from a factory builder. He realized that these projects were going to spoil the already damaged seclusion of those parts but he did not care. He had made up his mind to move to California where the salubrious climate, the interesting variety of places, people, and religions would, he thought, suit him well. He thought rather in the fashion of a travel booklet and his imaginings were like its bright-coloured illustrations. But he would like to have Raikes with him wherever he went. The sooner he made this certain the better. He found the Irishman cutting asparagus in the garden. Kneeling he held a bundl
e of the fine robust stalks in his hand. He wore a thoughtful, even meditative look, as though living were for him a serious affair.

  Eugene Clapperton strode across the asparagus bed to him, taking care not to step on the tender green tips that thrust up through the earth. Without preface he said:

  “Tom, if I moved to a better climate, say to California, would you come with me?”

  Still kneeling Raikes gave his polite little bow. “Indeed, sir,” he said, in a voice that comforted, “I hope to work for you many more years. I’ll go with you anywhere.”

  XIII

  ARRIVAL

  All passengers who were disembarking in Ireland were up early in the morning. It was fresh and fair and so chill that Adeline shivered in her light coat. As usual everyone had been roused far earlier than was necessary. They stood about in determinedly cheerful groups or sat resignedly in the lounge, waiting for the summons to show their passports. Fitzturgis joined the three Whiteoaks, casting a swift look at each in turn. Maurice tried to look friendly, to conceal his shock, his chagrin of the night before. Finch’s eyes, with their accusing glance, contradicted his cheerful “Good morning.” He fervently wished they had never become acquainted with Fitzturgis, though up to this time he had liked him very much. But Adeline had been given into his charge and what would he say to Renny if his daughter became entangled in some silly love affair? He thought of himself at her age and of his lovelorn thoughts of a girl whom he used often to see but never met and never did meet. He realized that Adeline was different.

  Fitzturgis met their looks coolly. Then he let his eves rest for an instant on Adeline. He knew that both men were watching him and he gave her a tranquil smile. The lighting of her face and the happy sparkle in her eyes were proof enough of her feeling for him. She was too unskilled in deception, too ardent in nature to attempt concealment.

  After the long time of waiting, the passengers filed into the room where the passports were to be examined. Finch and Maurice stood close to Adeline like two guards, giving her no chance to speak to Fitzturgis. She looked past them, smiling at him, not caring. There was plenty of time ahead. Feeling important, a traveller, she held her passport firmly. She opened it then and saw the stern young face pictured inside. Maurice glanced at her coldly, accusingly. He felt that she had spoilt his return to Glengorman. How often he had pictured their arrival, their first days, when he would lead her through all the dim old rooms, revisit with her all the hills and valleys, the cottages of the peasants he remembered so well.

  The tender came alongside and they went aboard. Everyone was anxious about his own luggage. Irish-American voices called out loudly. Adeline had never seen so many suitcases and trunks in such a muddle. She said, with a tremble in her voice, — “I shall lose all my best things! I know I shall.”

  Finch and Maurice began anxiously to scan the disorderly mass of luggage. Though it was May the wind blew icy. A stout man in uniform put his hand on Adeline’s arm.

  “It’s too cowld here for ye,” he said. “Get ye into the war-rm.” Gently he pushed her toward the saloon. Finch and Maurice she had got rid of. Fitzturgis was just ahead. She pressed forward till she was beside him. She touched his arm and said, — “Hello, Mait.”

  He turned sharply and looked into her eyes.

  “I felt you coming,” he said. His low voice went through her like the sound of a bugle and all her nerves sprang to attention.

  “Isn’t it glorious?” she said, and held up her face to the wind.

  They saw people crowding into the saloon, stout women, men in stiff suits, nuns, a priest or two. They pushed their way along the narrow passage, through another smaller saloon, past people clutching bundles, out on to the foredeck. A thousand waves were playing about the ferry, as though wondering what they would do with her. Seagulls cried out, then winged swiftly, as though in a race, or sailed with wings as still as marble.

  Fitzturgis put his body between Adeline and the wind. He said — “We’re almost at our journey’s end. It’s been …” he hesitated and then went on quickly, — “one of the happiest times in my life.”

  “And my happiest.”

  “No, no, don’t say that.”

  “why not?”

  “It couldn’t be … except for one reason.”

  The warm colour flooded her face. “And that is the reason, Mait.”

  Finch came out of the saloon toward them, his brows drawn together in a frown, his sensitive mouth embarrassed.

  “I’ve located your luggage, Adeline,” he said.

  “Oh, thanks, Uncle Finch.”

  “I suppose you’ve been worrying about it,” he said grimly.

  “Oh, yes — I mean, oh, no — I knew you’d find it. Thanks so much.”

  Fitzturgis said, in his tranquil voice, — “Quite a crowd on board. Two hundred they say.”

  “Yes.” Finch put his arm about Adeline. “If you’re determined to stay out here, I must try to keep you warm.”

  “We shall soon be there,” said Fitzturgis.

  “We are to be met by a car. What about you?” asked Finch.

  “I go by train from Cork.”

  Adeline put in, — “Can’t you come with us in the car?”

  Well, that was forward of her, thought Finch. If she were going to behave like this he wished he’d been in charge of someone else.

  “There’ll be lots of room. It’s a big car, Maurice says.”

  “Of course, it’s Maurice’s car.” Finch looked hard at her.

  Fitzturgis said, — “I have business in Cork. And, in any case, I’m not convenient to Glengorman.”

  “I thought you were quite near,” she cried, disappointed.

  “No, not very near,” he returned, as though indifferently.

  She gave him a mischievous look. (“He is not going to let Uncle Finch see what there is between us.”) She could not discover from Finch’s expression whether Maurice had told him anything. They stood looking at the approaching island, clothed in the pastel freshness of spring.

  Maurice now joined them saying — “We’re about to land.” He gave an accusing look at all three, as though they made a conspiracy among them against him. There was a general movement toward the stairs.

  Adeline’s fingers touched Fitzturgis. His hand grasped them a moment and held them fiercely.

  “Mait,” she whispered, “we’ll stay together as long as we can.”

  “Yes. As long as we can.”

  Soon they were in the confusion of the customs sheds. The letter W was far from the letter F, yet they soon discovered that the porters were not slaves to initial letters. As some of them could not read they set down the luggage where it was convenient and left the distraught passengers to discover it. So it turned out for Adeline, pressing through the crowd in search of the immense brown suitcase which Ernest had lent her (“I would gladly give it you, my child, but I may need it myself, at any time.” As though he, poor old dear, would ever take another journey!) She searched most diligently in the vicinity of the letter F, and there by the counter that ran the length of the shed, she espied Fitzturgis standing with his belongings opened up in front of a customs officer.

  She heard him speak and the sound of his voice drew her like a magnet. She stood beside him, looking eagerly into his face. “Oh, Mait, Uncle Ernest’s suitcase is lost. Have you seen it?”

  “No, but I’ll help you search. Where are the others?”

  “At the far end. They’ve lost things too.”

  The officer was chalking something on the cases. Fitzturgis set them on the floor and took Adeline by the arm.

  “We’ll soon find them,” he said.

  They pushed their way among the baffled throng, dodged porters pushing harrows of luggage or carrying loads too heavy for them. One was very old for such work, one was very young and thin and ragged, but everyone was so good-humoured it made Adeline happy. The group of nuns had been met by a small, very efficient Mother Superior. She marched here and there g
iving orders to porters like a diminutive sergeant-major. The youngest nun was small too and extraordinarily pretty. It was plain that she had never been away before. She clung to the hand of one of the other nuns with the look, half-frightened, half-pleased, and wholly trusting, of a little child. When the older nun moved she led her so, a pace behind, glancing down at her with a proud protective look, like a mother with her little one.

  “That little nun,” thought Adeline, “knows nothing of the happiness I feel or how amazing it is to be me.”

  The cold draught that swept through the shed was beautiful to her. She thought no more about the suitcase but gave herself up to watching Fitzturgis as he intently examined one heap of luggage after another. She wanted to impress his every feature on her memory — the way his crisp curly mouse-brown hair grew on his forehead, his deep-set eyes, high cheekbones and full-lipped mouth. She had no plans, no feeling that could be called desire, only a wild wish to live and to exult in living.

  At last the suitcase was found. Again Finch and Maurice joined them. Maurice was too much concerned about his trunks to give a thought to Adeline. One by one the trunks were swung up by a derrick and of them all his were the last. Before he had recovered them Fitzturgis said goodbye. There was regret in his eyes as he shook hands. He was conscious that their attitude to him was not as friendly as it had been. However, Finch said vaguely, —

  “I suppose we shall see you before long. You don’t live too far away, do you?”

  “About fifty miles. That’s quite a way in Ireland.”

  They hesitated, looking doubtfully at each other. Finch raised an enquiring eyebrow at Maurice. (Adeline was willing, — “Oh, Mooey, please, please, please ask him to come to Glengorman.”)

  “There’s my smallest trunk!” cried Maurice, and pressed to the platform’s edge.

  The stout man in uniform who had driven them back from this narrow platform half-a-dozen times again complained, — “It’s not allowed. Ye must get into the shed. Come, now, young lady —” and he took a pinch of Adeline’s sleeve and himself led her back. How willingly she went! Anything to be separated from her two guardians.