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

by Mazo de La Roche

  No, she would not go away among the sombre pines. She would hold to the last of the day’s golden light. The days were growing shorter. She had heard her father remark that they were growing shorter. Now his face came before her, aquiline, stern, with a look of contempt on the lips. The face of Fitzturgis rose before her, darkened by anger. But he must not be angry, not with her. Surely if anger were to flame, hers was the right … but they must not let the sun go down upon their wrath…. Where had she heard that saying? Surely it was biblical! She felt rather proud of herself for remembering something religious at this time. It showed that the religious instruction she had received at school was not wasted. She pictured the sun’s going down behind the pines. She pictured her wrath cooling in the last rays — then completely extinguished as twilight drew near. She made up her mind that she would go straight to Fitzturgis — show him a benign forgiveness — make him, by her own magnanimity, ashamed of his stubborn weakness. She dared not let her mind dwell on that or she would be angry again!

  She turned and ran back to the house. Archer had just come into the porch, a copy of the Odysseyin his hand.

  “Have you seen Maitland?” she asked, trying to appear unflurried.

  “Maitland,” he repeated musingly. “Y-yes, I believe I did. Let me think….” His high white brow was as untroubled as a mountain peak in January.

  Adeline exclaimed, “why in the name of goodness don’t you go out in the sun and get a little tan? You’re simply disgusting — with that pallid highbrow look.” Archer came as near to smiling as ever he did.

  “This craze for suntan bores me,” he said. “Everybody looks alike. Nobody looks interesting.”

  “Archer, which way did Maitland go?”

  “I believe,” Archer said thoughtfully, “that he went in the direction of the lake.”

  “Walking?”

  “Oh no. He was in a car.”

  “what car? Ours is in the garage.”

  “Let me think ... oh, yes, it was Aunty Meg’s car.”

  “Aunty Meg’s car! Well — I’ll be darned!”

  “And another thing,” said Archer. “He was wearing a bathing suit — dark blue, with a tear in the seat.”

  “Archer, will you do me a favour? I’m rather tired. Will you go to the stable and saddle Bridget and bring her here? I’ve something important to tell Mait.”

  “Gladly,” agreed Archer. The book still in his hand, he set off at a trot for the stables.

  Adeline was now all impatience to seek out Fitzturgis. Her heart ached with passionate longing to take him again into favour. More closely than ever would they be united in their love. She would hurry forward the wedding and they would live happily at Jalna ever after. She ran into her room, threw off her clothes, scattering them on the floor in her haste — in truth Alayne had never been able to teach her tidiness — put on her bathing things and over them drew on riding breeches and jacket. When she returned to the porch, the mare, with Archer mounted, his book clamped to his side, was trotting toward the house.

  “Thanks, Archie.” She beamed at him. “You were quick. Tell Mother I’ll not be long.”

  “Bridget’s not at all pleased, I may tell you. She’d just had her oats put in front of her.” Archer dismounted, and the roan mare, with every sign of temper, made as though to return to the stables.

  But Adeline was now in the saddle and spoke soothingly to her. “You’ll have a carrot, old dear, when we come back, and three lumps of sugar.”

  “I’ve just remembered,” said Archer, his eyes on the treetops, “that Maitland was not alone.”

  Adeline pulled the mare about to face him. So full of temper was the mare that its feet appeared scarcely to touch the ground. So astonished Adeline that their combined vitality admirably suggested a question mark.

  “Not alone?” she exclaimed.

  “No. I think it was Roma who was with him. The female who accompanied him had that same vicious look. Yes, I believe it was Roma.”

  Archer watched horse and rider disappear behind the balsams and hemlocks, heard the clatter of hoofs (“doing it almost as well as they do it on the radio,” he thought), saw a red squirrel dart out on to the lawn, and heard the syncopation of hoofbeats that told how the sight of it had caused the mare to shy. (“Sheer temper,” he thought; “she is in a nasty mood.”) He sat down on the lowest step, the Odysseyon his knees; then, hearing the sound of galloping hoofs from the road, he exclaimed in heartfelt tones, “Mercy!”

  Persons who have committed acts of violence sometimes declare that they “saw red.” Adeline did not see red, but a combination of bright colours did indeed dance before her eyes. At other times she saw nothing. Only instinct guided her along the roads and through the lane that led to the lake. Long before the lake could be seen she heard its waves tumbling on the sandy beach. The lane was sandy, too, and edged by scrubby trees that already bore the look of fall. The mare was not pleased by anything she saw or heard. She humped her back and behaved as though she were going to bolt when a piece of paper was blown across the lane. When the greenish-blue expanse of the lake was spread in front of her, she drew back as though she never before had viewed it. No more was Adeline pleased by what she saw. There in the rolling greenish waves were Roma and Fitzturgis, holding hands, bobbing up and down like silly children! They were laughing, like children who had escaped from authority.

  Adeline dismounted and tied the mare to a tree. The mare had many a time been tied to this same tree, but she now viewed the procedure as though it were a torture newly designed for this moment of misery. When Adeline had secured her and again turned to the lake she saw that Fitzturgis had breasted the waves outward for a short distance. He turned then and flung himself on them, was for an instant submerged, then borne buoyantly to the shore. Roma reclined on the lake as on a rocking-chair. She wore an expression of bliss. She loved the water and was a better swimmer than Adeline.

  Fitzturgis lay for a little on the sand. He looked like a drowned man cast up by the waves. For a passionate moment Adeline was impelled to fly to him, to gather him into her arms.

  But he gathered himself up and leaped through the gleaming green waves to Roma’s side. He stood looking down at her, his back to Adeline.

  A greater wave came and washed her as though inevitably straight into his arms.

  She flung her arms about his neck. He clasped her to him. Adeline saw their two faces pressed together. She gave a cry of rage and pain. She snatched up a handful of small stones and ran to the lake’s edge. With all her strength she hurled them at the embraced pair.

  “Villains! Villains!” she shouted. “Take that and that!” She gathered up more of the shingle and flung it at them.

  Fitzturgis, after his first consternation, placed his body in protection of Roma. Adeline saw a trickle of blood on his cheek. He called out something, frowning over his shoulder at her, but she could not hear the words. She bent to pick up more stones, but now he was at her side.

  “Adeline,” he cried, “are you quite mad?”

  “I wish I were. Better mad than be sane and see what I’ve seen.”

  “It was nothing. It had no meaning.”

  “Perhaps not to you! Oh — don’t talk to me — it’s all over — it’s finished between us!”

  “Adeline!” He stood before her, dripping from the lake, the colour drained from his face. “You can’t mean it,” he went on. “You don’t know what you are saying. You cannot wreck our future —”

  “We have no future.”

  Roma now came out of the lake and approached them. She stood quiescent, looking from one face to the other, rather as a spectator than as one involved in so passionate a crisis. Fitzturgis turned to her. “Tell Adeline,” he said, “that there has been nothing between us — nothing more than she saw.”

  Roma smiled. “There’s been nothing,” she said.

  “You’re damned good at this game.” Adeline cast a look of scorn at the childish figure in the sky-blue bathi
ng suit. “It’s the one thing you are good at — little bitch!” She flung away and plodded through the heavy sand to the mare.

  Fitzturgis followed her. “If you throw me over because of this,” he said, his voice coming roughly, “I shall know that you had already ceased to care for me.”

  “Isn’t it enough?” she cried. “Can I believe in your love? I’ve been noticing a difference in you. This is the end.” She untied the mare and scrambled to the saddle.

  “The trouble is,” he said hotly, in an accumulation of resentment, “that your only real love is for your father.”

  “Didn’t I show real love for you in Ireland? Wasn’t I a faithful lover for years? It is you who have never loved me. I see it. I feel it. You’ve been half-hearted ever since you came here. You never have belonged.”

  “You want me to go? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Yes,” she said in a strangled voice. “I want you to go.” She loosed the rein, and the mare, mad to be back in her stall, with the full manger before her and her stable companion reaching round the partition to nuzzle her, gave a squeal of joy and galloped along the lane.

  * * *

  Patience was standing on the rustic bridge looking down at the stream, which was lower than she ever remembered, when she heard someone running down the steep path. She saw it was Adeline, descending in helter-skelter fashion. She ran on to the bridge, almost colliding with Patience, and not till that moment aware of her.

  “Goodness,” exclaimed Patience. “You arein a rush.” Then she saw Adeline’s face and demanded, “whatever is the matter?” She barred the way as Adeline would have fled across the bridge.

  “Let me pass!” Adeline cried, then without warning flung herself on Patience’s breast.

  Patience put both arms about her. “Surely,” she thought, “one of the horses has died.” She said comfortingly, “There, there, darling — tell Patience what’s the matter.”

  “I can’t,” gasped Adeline, “I can’t,” and dropped to the floor of the bridge in an abandoned heap.

  Now Patience was really frightened. “Please, Adeline,” she begged. “Tell me. Whatever has happened?”

  Against her cousin’s shoulder Adeline got out, “It’s Mait — Mait and Roma —”

  At that name Patience was shaken out of her protective calm. “Roma,” she repeated, “Roma.”

  Adeline sat up straight and looked into her eyes. “Yes — Roma…. I know how it feels now, Patience … I heard they had gone to bathe, and I followed them on Bridget to the lake. I saw the car in the lane. Then I saw them…. They were out in the waves ... hugging in the most disgusting way and giving each other lasciviouslooks! I thought I had known what it was to feel fury but never had till that moment.”

  “what did you do?”

  “You remember what they did in ancient times to those caught in adultery?”

  “They stoned them.”

  “That’s what I did!”

  “No — Adeline, you couldn’t.”

  “I did. I took handfuls of stones and threw them with all my might. I wounded him — his face was bleeding.”

  Patience sat silent, picturing the scene with the satisfaction in primitive violence which quite gentle women frequently show.

  “He tried to explain,” went on Adeline, “but I wouldn’t listen. I told him all was over between us and rode away.”

  The poodle now appeared, coming out of the stream where she had been cooling. She chose a spot close to the girls and gave herself a thorough shaking.

  “Don’t quite drown us, sweet,” Patience admonished. The poodle gave her an arch look.

  Adeline exclaimed tragically, “Here we sit, you and I — two forlorn women — in the same boat — abandoned!”

  Patience added, bitterly, “Done in by that same Delilah. I wonder what she has that we haven’t.”

  “Mait is a very different man from Norman,” said Adeline with a certain coolness.

  “Superior, you think?” asked Patience mildly.

  “I shouldn’t say superior. I should say more interesting.”

  “Well ... they’re both gone.”

  There was a mournful silence, broken only by the poodle drying herself on the boards of the bridge.

  Humphrey Bell now came to the top of the path that led to the bridge from its opposite side. The poodle recognized him as a friend and pranced up the steep to greet him. But Adeline exclaimed, “I can’t meet him. I’m going.” She fled up the path toward the house.

  Patience was undecided as to whether she should follow, remain where she was, pretending not to have seen Bell, or to seek his sympathetic understanding of this hour’s happenings. The poodle decided it for her. She stood by Bell’s side, loudly urging Patience to come up and join them. When she did the poodle ran to meet her, nibbled her ankles, worried the cuffs of her slacks and generally did what she could to impede the progress she had so earnestly urged.

  “I hope,” said Bell, “that I didn’t frighten Adeline away.”

  “Oh no. She was going anyhow.”

  “I had a feeling that she ran when she saw me.”

  “Oh no. She was running anyhow.”

  “It’s rather warm for running.”

  Patience raised her face to the treetops. “It blows like rain,” she said.

  “Yes, it’s an east wind,” agreed Bell. He added shyly, “I hope there is nothing wrong.”

  “There’s something terribly wrong,” she said tersely.

  Bell’s fair skin flushed pink. “Now, look here,” he said. “I don’t want you to think I am prying.”

  “It’s no secret or can’t be one for long ... Adeline has broken off her engagement to Maitland.”

  “You astound me!” exclaimed Bell. “I thought they were ... Good Lord, it’s the last thing I expected to hear.”

  “Those are the very things that happen,” Patience said sombrely.

  “I’m glad” — he looked at her with questioning rather than seriousness in his blue eyes — “that I care for nobody and nobody cares for me.”

  “You have your writing,” she said. “You are safe. You are immune.”

  “Comparatively,” he agreed. “Not quite.”

  The rain that had been threatening now began gently, almost imperceptibly, to fall. Neither of them noticed it. They could at the moment think of nothing to say.

  * * *

  When Adeline reached the house she examined the gravel sweep to discover whether there were signs of the arrival of the car from the lake. There were not. Inside, the house appeared deserted. She thought, “when Uncle Nicholas was living it never had this look. He was always here.” And suddenly, because of her emotional stress, she missed him with a poignancy she had not before felt. The tick of the grandfather clock became resounding — louder and louder. “It is,” she thought, “as though it wanted to get all things over and done with.”

  She hastened out of the house and to the stable. Evening was coming on. The horses in their boxes were quietly, dreamily munching. Everywhere was clean straw. Alf, the stableman, was singing in a shrill tenor something about being lonesome for you-oo, but he looked perfectly happy. She went to her father’s office and opened the door without knocking. He looked up surprised. He was seated in his swivel chair and without hesitation she shut the door behind her and cast herself on him. She cast herself on him as though she were ten years old, not twenty. The impact caused him to grunt, but he clasped her to him and vigorously patted her on the back. “There — there,” he comforted. “Don’t feel so badly. Anyone is liable to make mistakes.”

  She burrowed her face against his neck.

  “I’m not feeling badly about that,” she said, “but about Mait. Therewas my mistake!”

  “what’s this?” he demanded, putting her from him and scanning her distressed face. All her defences were down. She sought again to burrow into the comfort of him, but he held her off.

  “what’s this?” he repeated. “Explain.�
�

  For a moment she could not speak. Then she brought forth all her self-control and said in a shaking voice, “I’ve broken off my engagement. It’s all over between me and Maitland.”

  With a supreme effort he drew his brows together in a frown, compressed his lips, concealed the pleasurable — the grateful — astonishment he felt at these words.

  “Yes?” he said quietly. “How did it come about?”

  “We’d quarrelled.” She, too, now spoke quietly. “You can guess about what.” Her mind flew back to the quarrel.

  “Yes? And then?” He put his hand up to stroke, in a brief caress, the hair that clung to her forehead.

  “We separated. I went for a walk. I had to be alone. When I came back Archer told me that Mait had motored with Roma to the lake. I followed them there on Bridget.”

  Struck afresh by the pang of her discovery, Adeline got to her feet and stood facing Renny, her back to the door.

  “They were there, in the lake, bathing,” she said, now speaking quickly to finish the tale. “He took Roma in his arms and held her — and kissed her. She kissed him back. They were like lovers.”

  “what did you do?” Renny asked sharply.

  “I —” Adeline closed her eyes, then opened them wide. “I stoned them.”

  “Stoned them,” he repeated in amazement. “Do you mean you actually threw stones?”

  “Yes.”

  “And hit them?”

  “Hard enough to hurt?”

  “There was blood on his face.”

  Renny gave a bark of laughter. “By Judas,” he exclaimed, “I wish I had been there to see!”

  “It was justice,” she said. “I judged them. I thought they deserved stoning. As in olden times.”