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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Hello,” she said shakily.

  “Hello,” answered the voice of Fitzturgis, as clear as though he were in the room.

  “Oh, Mait, is it really you?”

  “what is the matter?” he demanded.

  “I” … oh, how dry her mouth was! “I had — to speak to you.”

  “Has something happened? Are you in trouble?”

  “No — no. I just had to speak to you.”

  “But why?”

  “Because … I love you so and I want to hear you say you love me … that’s all.”

  He was silent. Surely he could hear the beating of her heart. What a thing that would be — right across the ocean!

  “Maitland!” she cried. “Are you there?”

  Still silence.

  “Maitland! Speak to me.”

  Now his voice came no longer clear, but harsh and broken. “My darling.”

  “Are you sorry I called you?”

  “No — no — I’m glad. Why — to hear your voice — so unexpected — it is unbelievable.” His own voice shook.

  It was too much for her to bear. She broke down and began to sob into the telephone.

  “Adeline — my darling — if only I had you in my arms …”

  “Oh, Mait …” She could say no more.

  Again his voice came, rough and shaken by emotion. “If you wanted to hear me say it — hear me now — I love you and only you and always shall.”

  She could say nothing.

  “Adeline? Are you there?”

  He could not make out her incoherent reply.

  “Listen.” He spoke sternly. “You rang me up. You wanted to talk. Are you going to waste all our time in crying?”

  “No.”

  “Then tell me that you’re going to be brave and happy. You know how I feel. Even though my letters …”

  “Your letters are so …” She could not go on.

  “My letters?”

  “Y — yes.”

  “what about them?”

  “Oh — never mind … Maitland, darling, are you crying in Ireland?”

  “I am not.”

  “But you were!”

  “Well … almost.”

  “Oh, say you were. I can bear everything — if I think you’re crying too.”

  He gave a short, uncertain laugh. “Very well. I’m crying too.”

  “No — you’re laughing! You mustn’t laugh at me, Mait.”

  Now his voice had great tenderness in it. “I only laugh because I … Oh, darling, how narrow the ocean seems! I feel that I can gather …”

  The warning signal came. She tried to speak. She tried to cry out, — “Go on … don’t stop …” She heard his muffled goodbye. “Goodbye!” she cried, and bent her forehead to the receiver.

  It was over.

  She went outdoors into the new world that the snow had made. She crossed the lawn and walked toward the orchard. The trees still held their leaves, and one old tree, the apples of which had not been gathered, still displayed them boldly red, though each was capped by snow.

  On the road to the stables some grain had been spilt and the pigeons were collected there. Whether because they had had enough, or for love of her, they now left the grain and winged through the grey air with grey and white and puce and buff wings to where she stood. She remembered how Noah had put out his hand from the ark and drawn in the dove. She put out her hand and caught the willing white pigeon, her favourite, and set it on her shoulder. The others circled about her head, their coral feet held close, the jewels of their eyes shining. They curved, they floated, they dropped, as though to alight on her, then again swept upward, the white one on her shoulder cooing in pride. She felt the movement of its feet through her thin blouse.

  She saw her father in his riding clothes returning to the house from the stables. He saw her also and turned toward the orchard. At his approach, the birds, with a heavy whirring of wings, rose and flew back to their grain. As he drew near, her heart was bursting to tell him all. It was so hard for her to deceive. She would be forced before long to confess that she had telephoned to Ireland. Better tell him everything now, try for his sympathy. She called out:

  “Hello, Daddy. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

  “No? Well, everything is arranged. It’s going to be a grand show. What have you been up to?”

  Been up to! If only he knew! what would he say? Now is the moment for telling him … He put his arm about her. The white pigeon swept upward and soared lonely above the ravine. The sun came out and the clots of soft snow began to fall from the trees. Soon winter would again retreat.

  “why are you outdoors in that flimsy thing?” he demanded.

  “I’m not cold.” She looked up into his face.

  Never could she love any man better than him. If she had to choose between the two, which would she choose? She would die, she thought, before making that choice. But there was no need to choose. Brace yourself she thought, and tell him all — he will understand. Never had she asked understanding of him in vain. Yes, she would pour out to him the story of her love. She tried to choose the right words from the tumult in her brain. It should be easy, for she had been talking to Fitzturgis and now the ocean seemed so narrow. But no words came. She twisted a button of his jacket.

  He repeated, carelessly curious, — “Tell me, what have you been doing?”

  “Nothing,” she answered, smiling.

  She was so close to him that the fine check of his homespun jacket was magnified and she saw it as a miniature countryside of little fields, green and brown and mauve. He guessed that she had something on her mind, and he pressed her against his side, in encouragement.

  “Come,” he said, “what’s up?”

  “I’ve been telephoning,” she got out.

  “Yes?”

  “To Ireland.” Her knees shook and she clung to him for support … “To a man I love.”

  She raised her eyes to his face, eyes so like his own.

  “Yes? And what did he say?”

  He felt her body tauten. “Oh, Daddy,” she cried. “You know! And I made Uncle Finch promise he wouldn’t tell. He gave me his word.”

  “Wakefield told me.”

  “Are you angry?”

  “I should be,” he thought. “I should be the arrogant outraged parent, ordering her to put this rascal out of her mind forever. But …” He looked down into her face, tracing in the pink-flushed marble of its contours the resemblance to the proud portrait of old Adeline. He had been waiting for this moment. He was glad now that it had come. He drew her along the path toward the house.

  “No,” he said, “I’m not angry.”

  In the porch, where her outgoing footprints stared up at them, he halted. “I’ve been in love myself,” he said, smiling.

  “I suppose you have. With Mummy.”

  “Yes.” The back of his hand went to his lips, as though to conceal the smile. “Yes — with your mother. And I had to wait, you know.”

  “Oh, I’m willing to wait. I’ll wait for years — if I must. Though waiting comes hard to me.” Then she added, almost defiantly, — “I’ll never love anyone else … not in this way.”

  “Of course not.” He touched her hair soothingly. “One never loves two people in the same way. It’s always very different.”

  She laid her hands on his chest. “Oh, if only you could meet him,” she cried. “You’d understand everything. He’s so sensitive, so proud —” She hesitated and then added, almost in a whisper, — “so poor.”

  “Yes. I gathered that.”

  Now her eyes flashed in pride of her lover. “But he’s so clever. He can change everything, if only he’s given a chance … what I want is to see you two together. You’d be sure to like each other.”

  He took a rather battered package of cigarettes from his pocket, extracted one with care and lighted it. He said, in a matter-of-fact tone, — “I must meet the chap. I should like to meet him quite soon. How about you and
me going to Ireland next spring and looking him up?”

  Adeline stared at him speechless, in incredulous joy. She rose on her toes and raised her arms, as if about to fly.

  The door opened and Finch stood there, with an enquiring expression.

  “Want to catch your death of cold, Adeline?” he asked. “Will you come in or shall I bring you a sweater?”

  “I couldn’t take cold,” she cried. “Nothing bad could possibly happen to me. I’ve just had the most glorious news. Come out and hear.”

  She caught him by the arm and drew him into the porch. The three dogs followed him to the door. They looked out to see if anything worthwhile was happening. Deciding that there was nothing, they returned to the warmth and lay down.

  THE END

  Variable Winds at Jalna

  MAZO DE LA ROCHE

  DUNDURN PRESS

  TORONTO

  I

  The Coming of the Lover

  ALAYNE TURNED FROM the mirror to Renny. “Do I look all right?” she asked, with an odd little smile, as though she deprecated her interest in her appearance at this moment. And she added, “Not that he’ll have any eyes for me.

  Renny moved back a step to have a better look at her. It had been a distress to him when her beautiful hair, very fair, which she had worn long, had, in the space of a few years, turned silvery white. He had always admired her hair. He had liked the way it flew up, following her hairbrush, not wavy but so full of life. For a time he had avoided looking at the white hair, as though it were some kind of disfigurement that had descended upon her. People had remarked how distinguished she looked with that silvery French roll up the back of her head, but he still had looked the other way. Then one day, less than a year ago, she had suddenly appeared before him with her hair cut short and curled all over her head. He had given her an outraged look — how had she dared have her hair cut without consulting him? Then he had looked again, had been impressed by the charm of her new aspect, the jaunty look which never in her young days had she worn. He liked it, and, with his eyebrows still expressing outrage, he had given her a grin of approval.

  Now he said, “He’ll have eyes for you all right. A man usually takes a good look at his future mother-in-law.”

  She gave a shrug of impatience. “Don’t say that, please. This affair may well fade into nothing before he’s been here a week.”

  “Not if I know Adeline.”

  “Renny, how can you know her, any more than she can know herself? She likes to think she is the reincarnation of your grandmother — a woman of one great love — but remember how young she is. Twenty!”

  “Would she know better if she were twenty-five?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Did you?”

  Alayne flushed. “You need not have reminded me of that,” she said.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Only to remind you that the great age of twenty-five is not always infallible.”

  She put a hand on either side of his head, drew it down, and kissed him. She said, “when I met you I could not help myself.” She turned then and began briskly to tidy the things on her dressing-table.

  He looked at his watch. “The train is due,” he said, then added, with a touch of chagrin, “Funny Adeline didn’t want me to go with her to meet him.”

  “I think it was only natural. Those first moments together w ill be something just for them. Perhaps a little embarrassing, and an outsider would have made it worse.”

  “Me an outsider!” he exclaimed in astonishment.

  “You’re outside their love.”

  “I wish to God,” he said, “that Adeline had fancied someone I know. One thing is certain: she can’t go back to Ireland with him. He’ll have to settle down here.”

  “That’s what he wants, he says.”

  Staring out of the window, Renny said, with his back to her:

  “Alayne, for some reason I suspect this Fitzturgis. I can’t bring myself to like the thought of him.”

  She made a little ironic sound against her lipstick. “You’d feel just the same about any man Adeline was engaged to.”

  “No. I deny that. I shouldn’t feel like this if it were Maurice.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. Maurice is her cousin — one of the family. I do believe that if you had your way all the cousins would marry each other. How would it end? With inbreeding. You don’t do that with livestock, do you?”

  He argued, for the sake of arguing, “There’s something in knowing the background of one’s son-in-law.”

  “Well, Adeline has told us quite a lot about him. His mother is a garrulous widow — his sister rather odd — his land unproductive.”

  “Are you trying to reassure me?” Renny exclaimed.

  “It’s just my pessimistic way.”

  “You don’t relish this any more than I do!”

  She was silent a moment and then answered, “I think Adeline is terribly vulnerable.”

  He did not like this conception of their daughter.

  “She is made of good stuff,” he said.

  “Of course she is, but she’s very inexperienced; and this Fitzturgis — well, you know what he’s been through.”

  “Married and divorced, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  Renny gave a sudden bark of laughter. He said, “Think how inexperienced I was! And you’d been married and divorced.”

  He had known before he said this that it would annoy her but had not been able to stop himself.

  “It’s in such bad taste,” she said. “That’s what I mind.”

  “I never was in good taste, was I?” he grieved.

  In a tone of the most extreme politeness she said, “I think we had better go downstairs. It will be easier to meet them there, don’t you agree?”

  “I agree to anything,” he returned.

  She looked at him coolly. She thought: “You are in one of your unashamed bad-boy moods, but you will find no response in me.” She asked, “Is Uncle Nicholas resting?”

  “In bed. He wants Fitzturgis brought up to his room before he settles down for the night.”

  “Dear me — I hope it won’t be too much for him.”

  “Too much! Not a bit of it.” It was a part of his protectiveness towards his old uncle that he would not acknowledge the deterioration of his heart. He followed Alayne down the stairs to the drawing-room, where tea was laid. The windows were open and the summer breeze was warm.

  Renny cast an appraising glance about the room.

  “Everything looks shining,” he said, and put his nose into a bowl of roses.

  Their son Archer came into the room. He was a tall boy of nearly sixteen, with a high forehead and clear light eyes. He hid his feeling of superiority toward almost everyone else beneath a retiring manner. He never smiled.

  Now, looking over the tea-table, he remarked in his clear incisive voice, “I suppose we’re to starve while Adeline collects the Irishman.”

  “Surely, Archer,” said his mother, “you wouldn’t have us begin without our guest.” She looked at him dubiously. She had fervently hoped that Archer would be like her father. Now ironically she found him rather too much like her father — an exaggeration of his less attractive qualities, with the gentleness, the politeness, left out, and in their place some disconcerting qualities of the Whiteoaks.

  Archer said, “Probably by the time we’ve seen this Fitzturgis we’ll not want our tea.” Archer was a confirmed tea drinker, caring little for coffee, disliking milk, abhorring lemonade, ginger ale, Coca-Cola, and all soft drinks. Surreptitiously he had sampled the contents of every decanter on the sideboard and passed a cool judgment thereon, in favour of port wine.

  In a moment of nervous horseplay Renny reached for his son, intending to ruffle his hair, but Archer eluded him, placing the tea-table between them.

  Wragge, the houseman, appeared in the doorway. After thirty years in Canada his cockney accent still was crisp and confident. When he arrived, having been Re
nny Whiteoak’s batman in the First World War, he had looked old for his age. Now he looked young for it.

  He said, particularly addressing Renny, which he invariably did as if no others were present, “I thought you’d like to know, sir, that the train ’as been ’eard to whistle.”

  “Good,” said Renny, looking as though it were the reverse of good. “They’ll soon be here.”

  A step was heard in the hall, and Wragge moved aside, with the air of making way for a personage, to allow Renny’s sister, Meg Vaughan, to enter. She was two years older than he, a stout widow of sixty-six, and in great contrast to him, for while her face was smooth and the curve of her lips retained the sweetness of her girlhood, his thin weather-beaten face was strongly lined, marked by endurance and fortitude, and his thick red hair that grew to a point on his forehead showed scarcely a grey hair, while hers was of a fine iron-grey and naturally curly. Her movements were slow, while his had an incisive swiftness. It was the same with their speech.

  Now she said, “I simply could not resist dropping in to see the Irish fiancé. How excited Adeline must be! I’m sympathetic to her, you know, but …” She waited till Wragge was out of hearing, then added, “If only it might have been Maurice.”

  “That’s just the way I feel,” said Renny, putting her into a comfortable chair.

  She smiled at Alayne and put out a hand to Archer as though she would draw him toward her, but with a frosty glance he avoided it.

  Meg said, noting Alayne’s expression, “I know I shouldn’t have said that in front of the boy. But you’ll forget what Aunty Meg said, won’t you, dear?”

  “That is ‘lex non scripta,’” he returned, dropping into Latin in an irritating way he had. But it did not irritate his aunt and she exclaimed admiringly, “How clever Archer is! He picks up dead languages the way the other boys pick up slang.”

  “You can say that again, Aunty,” said Archer.

  “Archer!” reproved his mother. His father once more stretched out a hand to rumple him and again Archer eluded it.

  Desultory talk prolonged rather than shortened the period of waiting. Renny Whiteoak consulted his watch every three minutes. Archer surreptitiously felt the temperature of the teapot. Meg sighed and remembered her personal worries. Alayne was the first to hear the approaching car.