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

by Mazo de La Roche

  Early in their acquaintance he had introduced her to his sister and her husband. They too had been charmed by the actress, and the four had spent many pleasurable hours together, either in Sylvia’s flat or dancing after the theatre in the feverish nights of bombing.

  When the war was ended Fitzturgis returned to England to find his sister a tragic widow, her mind precariously near the point of breakdown. She had been placed in a mental home. With his tendency to idealize women, he had cherished a conception of Georgina which did not exist, never had existed. Soon he was irritated by her egotism, by her vanity which nothing could subdue. He discovered that she had not been faithful to him, but was the mistress of a man who had influence in moving-pictures and had, through his influence, secured her first part on the screen. Violent scenes took place between them, as she strove to justify her defection and passionately reiterated her undying love for him. Half beside himself from the troubles heaped upon him, he threatened to kill her. Their brief married life had ended in divorce. He had removed his sister from the mental home and taken her and his mother to Ireland.

  Adeline’s letter came as a shock to him. Then he asked himself what could have been more reasonable than that Wakefield Whiteoak, hearing his name, should connect it with that of Georgina Lennox, and inform Adeline of his marriage and divorce. He cursed himself for having deceived her. Yet he looked on her as so young, so innocent, that the recital of what he regarded as a sordid story would have been almost impossible to him. Now he wanted, above all things, to justify himself in her eyes. He longed, with an almost despairing fervency, to see her once again before she sailed for home. The brief moments when he had held her in his arms were relived, dwelt upon, prolonged, in the wakeful hours of the night. In the morning he went to his mother.

  “Mother,” he said, “I’m going to London. Something has happened that makes it necessary.”

  She was running a carpet-sweeper over an old Turkish rug with a worn spot in the middle. She heard him but pretended she had not. She was always impressing on him how hard she had to work. Now, panting with every stroke of the carpet-sweeper, she drove it up and down the rug, avoiding the worn spot. But the sweeper, already too full of dust, began to spit it out again, in grey clots, as though in protest. Fitzturgis stood watching her for a moment without again speaking. He was seething with mingled exasperation and pity. Why did she have to be so inefficient? why did she wrap her head in that ridiculous scarf, with her long earrings dangling beneath? How hot and tired she looked! She pretended that she had just discovered his presence, and ceased the sweeping.

  “Oh, good morning, darling,” she said. “You’re late this morning.”

  “Yes, I couldn’t sleep and then — I slept. Listen, Mother —”

  “I understand. I’m just the same. Lie awake and lie awake, thinking of all the queer things that have happened, and then — just when it’s time to get up — fall into a heavy sleep. And dream! What do you suppose I dreamed last night? Well, I dreamed that you were a little boy again and were in this very room which was odd because we were never here when you were a little boy, and, as I say, we were in this very room, only it wasn’t the same because where that sofa stands —”

  He interrupted, — “I’m sorry, Mother — I can’t wait to hear now —”

  Her feelings hurt, she answered, a little sharply, — “Really, Maitland, you have an abrupt way of speaking. And after staying so late in bed I think another minute wasted wouldn’t much matter. Though, to tell the truth, it would take me a good half-hour to tell all the intricacies of that dream. It was so muddled and yet so clear. I saw you, as clear as I see you now, only with a much sweeter expression, for as a child you had a very sweet face and so had Sylvia, yet now —”

  “I know,” he said, between his teeth, “I know —”

  She stared at him hard, out of her clear blue eyes, and he noticed that her head kept moving a little.

  “I’m going to fly to London today,” he repeated.

  “Fly,” she cried. “why, that costs a lot more.”

  “I know, but I must go.”

  “Is it to see Adeline Whiteoak?”

  “No —” but he could not lie to her — “yes. Don’t ask me, Mother.”

  “Your shirts!” she mourned. “I didn’t get those buttons sewn on.”

  “Never mind. I must go.”

  “You must do what you think best, but — always remember there’s Sylvia to be thought of.”

  “I’m not likely to forget,” he answered harshly.

  “It’s very hard on you, having us two always on your mind.” She drew a deep sigh.

  He put both arms about her. “Mother dear, I won’t have you talk like that.” He bent with his cheek to hers, and her earring pressed into his flesh.

  The Irish servant had cooked his bacon and eggs for him an hour ago and was keeping them hot in the oven. They were hard and unpalatable. He quickly despatched them, then sought Sylvia whom he found in a corner of the chill living room. She was sitting with bent head, her hands dangling between her knees, her eyes fixed on the floor.

  “I’m off to London,” he said. “I’ve booked my seat in the plane by telephone.” He spoke in a cheerful matter-of-fact tone, as though all was well in that house.”

  “I never want to see London again,” she returned, without looking up.

  “No. Of course not. I shouldn’t go, but — it’s important.”

  “There is nothing important in my life.”

  He ignored this. He had so often heard it. The sight of her sitting there, the remembrance of his mother with the carpet-sweeper, shook him into a moment of impatience. “There’d be something in your life,” he said, “if you’d give Mother a hand with the work. You know what an inconvenient house this is. It’s too much for her.”

  “She doesn’t want my help. It only bothers her.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Sit here and mope, if you must. But — don’t forget that other people have had tragedies —” He broke off and came to her side and touched her fair curling hair with a caressing hand. “It makes me so anxious for you,” he went on, “to go away and leave you looking forlorn. I don’t need to tell you, do I, how much you mean to me?”

  She caught his hand, kept it a moment, then pushed it roughly from her. “You’re a fool, Mait,” she said, “to trouble your head about me. Just leave me to mope. It’s what I like now.”

  “I can’t, and you know it. I want you to promise me that you’ll make an effort — not just a little one but a big one — to keep Mother cheerful while I’m away.”

  Sylvia laughed. “She doesn’t need me to keep her cheerful. Cheeriness is a part of her and a damned irritating part at times.”

  “You wouldn’t think so if you’d been with her just now.”

  “She likes to work on your feelings.”

  “Nothing can make me believe,” he said sternly, “that you are as callous as you pretend.”

  She turned on him fiercely. “For Christ’s sake, get out,” she stormed, “and let me be. Go and meet your darling and I hope you’ll have better luck with her than you had with your last.”

  He flushed, glared at her in anger, then controlled himself. This was to be one of Sylvia’s bad days. He knew he should not go away and leave his mother alone with her. But he could not help it. He must see Adeline. Whatever happened he must see Adeline.

  “Very well,” he said, “I’ll go.”

  The desire to leave that house, to breathe the air of freedom, moved him to a kind of feverish haste in his preparations. He flung his belongings into a suitcase, said a hurried goodbye to his mother and sister, and flung himself into his car by the side of the odd-job man who was to drive it.

  First the train, soot-smelling and slow. Then the plane, clean and swift. He did not look at his fellow passengers but rested his spirit on the sweep of sky and sea beyond the plane. The steady throb of the engine numbed his thoughts and after a time he became calm.

&nbs
p; XXIV

  MEETING

  Adeline did not go out with Finch that afternoon. She told him she had shopping to do, and, though he did not believe her, as he believed she had little need or money for buying, he left her to herself. He was always willing to be free and alone in London. It was a hot, bright morning. The shining river cut through the shadows of the stone walls, moved beneath its bridges, where people leant over the parapet to watch it, played with its barges, its tugs, its ships, in a gay youthful mood.

  Adeline went down the short flights of red-carpeted stairs to the lounge which at this hour was almost deserted, and found a seat from where she could see the door. Through it, at this hour, the postman would appear and conceivably bring her a letter from Fitzturgis. If she had counted the hours, she would have realized that this was not possible, yet so intense was her desire to hear from him that it swept aside the limitations of time and space.

  She sat, hands folded in lap, watching the entrance. Near it was the porter’s desk where there was a constant coming and going of guests, enquiring about trains, buses, mail, leaving their keys, getting their keys. Close by stood two small pages, pink-cheeked, in their little liveries and pillbox caps. At the entrance another page opened and closed the swing door. His white-gloved hands looked too large for him. His expression varied between mild interest as he swung the door to admit someone, and mild expectancy if a guest were departing. Beyond the hall Adeline had a glimpse into the dining room, with its vista of white-clothed tables and dark-panelled walls. A single waiter moved about among them. The only other occupants of the lounge were a handsome woman with arthritical hands, and her husband. They looked at Adeline as though they wondered why she should have chosen a chair in such proximity to them and as though afraid she might speak to them. At the far end of the room a clergyman was doing the crossword puzzle in The Times.

  People came to and went from the desk. The porter hung keys on hooks by pigeon-holes, took keys from hooks, searched through timetables, all with an expression of good-humoured forbearance. The two little pages yawned, covering their mouths with their white gloves. One of them sat down on a high-backed chair and nodded. Adeline’s eyes burned from watching the door.

  The door swung open and disgorged two people simultaneously. One, a stout Belgian business man, went straight to the desk and demanded his key. The other … Adeline caught her breath, the other — his shoulders, his profile, she had seen before — seen on board ship — seen in Ireland. She was on her feet. She was at his side. At first her voice would not come, her throat was so constricted. Then she got out his name. He wheeled and looked into her face.

  “Adeline.”

  He saw how deadly pale she was. Was she going to faint? She put her hand to her throat and swallowed. There was only dryness there and an aching constriction. He kissed her on the cheek and led her into the lounge. They found a secluded seat in a corner.

  “You are surprised,” he said.

  “Yes,” she whispered, shaken by the impact of his nearness.

  “I had to come, after I got your letter.”

  “You must have come right away,” she said.

  “I flew.”

  “Oh!” She looked at his hands which lay, as though tranquilly, on his knees. “You say you flew?”

  “Yes. We had a good trip.”

  “Not rough?”

  “No. It couldn’t have been better.”

  “That’s good.” A long sigh escaped her. Her breath came more easily. Her heart ceased leaping in her breast.

  He put one of his hands on one of hers. “I can imagine,” he said, “what you think of me.”

  “I’m not thinking. I’m just feeling — that you’re here.”

  “I wish we might be alone,” he said.

  The eyes of the clergyman were raised from the crossword puzzle. They rested reflectively on the linked hands of Adeline and Fitzturgis, then, without having noticed their faces, returned to the puzzle.

  She now spoke in a controlled voice. “It’s better the way it is.”

  “How can I try to make you understand here?”

  “I don’t think you could say anything — anywhere — that would make me understand.”

  “I suppose you think I set out deliberately to deceive you.”

  “Well — you know, Mait, I haven’t had any experience.”

  “That’s just why,” he said eagerly, “I couldn’t bear to tell you.”

  “I don’t see why. There’s no disgrace in having been married before.”

  “No. But I couldn’t bring myself to talk of it to you. Meeting you — being with you on the deck, in the sun and wind — was such a fresh, beautiful experience to me that I couldn’t bear to drag my rather ignoble past into it.”

  She considered this and then said stubbornly: “You should have told me.”

  He answered with some heat, — “I expected everything to end with our arrival in Ireland. It wasn’t as though I’d asked you to join your life with mine.”

  She drew her hands away from him and folded her arms. “why?” she asked, with accusation in her eyes. “You knew I loved you.”

  “You very well know why. I had nothing to offer you.”

  “But, the last time we met, you said you’d come to Canada some day and ask me — if you were able — oh, you know what I mean!”

  She spoke with passion, raising her voice so that not only the clergyman but the reserved couple in the far corner of the lounge heard her and looked at her in surprise.

  “Ssh.” Fitzturgis gripped her knee. “Those people are staring.”

  “I don’t care,” she answered, scarcely lowering her voice.

  A hubbub broke out in the hall. A party was pouring in for a wedding reception, women in wide-brimmed hats, men in top hats and buttonhole nosegays. Other people began to come into the lounge for tea. A waiter appeared, pushing a tea wagon loaded with sandwiches, cakes, and strawberry tarts. The place was transformed, the atmosphere changed to that of a social gathering. One could talk without being heard.

  “Will you take tea?” Adeline asked coldly.

  “Thanks.” He stared at the crowd without seeing them.

  A low table was placed in front of them and soon they were choosing something to eat. Adeline noticed that Fitzturgis’ hand shook a little as he raised the cup of tea to his lips. But how calm his face was. She became conscious of her own face from forehead to lips and tried to make it into such a mask. Mechanically she put food into her mouth — but even the tarts had no flavour for her. She heard him say:

  “Let’s get out of here, into the air.”

  “Yes. I’d like that. I’ll run up and put on my hat.”

  He followed her to the foot of the stairs and bent over the glass case in which Penguin books were displayed, reading the titles while he waited.

  She was not gone for long. Now she stood on the last step looking at him, filled for a burning instant with wild joy at the sight of him standing there, looking so natural, looking as though all were well between them. He turned to her:

  “Ready?” he asked, with a smile.

  “Yes,” she returned, with no answering one.

  They went out through the swing doors into Albemarle Street. “We’ll go to the Green Park,” she said.

  The late sunshine was still beating down on Piccadilly. Three street musicians were playing a martial air, while a fourth man held out a little box to the passers-by. The ingratiating smile never left his face. Unconsciously Adeline moved in time to the music. Then, as they were confronted by the little box, she said, — “Give them something, Mait.”

  He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a shilling. Adeline, eyeing it, exclaimed. — “It’s no good. I mean it’s no good to him. It’s Irish.”

  The man kept his smile, his eyes fixed on Fitzturgis, who muttered, “Of course, of course.” He fished in his pocket, while the crowd jostled, and brought out more silver. Adeline snatched an English half-crown from his palm and
dropped it into the box. The man took off his hat and made her a bow.

  They crossed the street and entered through the tall iron gates into the park.

  Adeline asked, — “Did I give them too much?”

  “Too much? I didn’t notice.”

  “It’s just that I’m feeling sorry for people who aren’t happy.”

  “They probably are — as happy as any of us.”

  The park was emptying. Those who had been lounging on the grass or in the chairs, women with children, women with dogs, were moving toward the gates homeward. But a steady stream of people passed along the paved walks through the park toward Buckingham Palace Road. A smell of warm earth and grass rose to the nostrils, as Adeline and Fitzturgis sought a quiet spot. Here and there the grass was pressed down by the weight of human bodies, but by tomorrow the grass blades would rise and the imprint have vanished. How lovely to walk on grass again, Adeline thought, pressing her toes against the ground, and making for the shade of an oak in which, high up, a song-thrush poured out his happy memories of the day.

  She dropped to the grass, between light and shade, that side of her face nearest the tree pale and grave, while the other side, played on by the sunlight between the gently moving leaves, seemed almost to smile.

  Fitzturgis dropped beside her, stretching out his legs and, for an instant, closing his eyes, as though he postponed the moment of looking into hers. She contemplated him with a feeling of more detachment than she had yet known. From the hour of their first meeting her feeling toward him had been intensely personal and instinctive. Now she saw him almost as an outsider who had thrust his way into her life, troubling it to its depths. Yet the delight of his nearness, of seeing him stretched on the grass, was there too, making conflict within her.

  Now he looked up into her eyes. He said:

  “You make me do everything I swore I wouldn’t do.”