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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “what did he do?”

  “He came up to me — out of the water. He tried ... to explain, but ... I told him all was over between us and rode away.”

  “You did well. I’m proud of you.”

  Adeline swallowed the sob that rose from the very centre of her being.

  Renny picked up a paper-knife and balanced it on his hand, hiding the triumph in his eyes.

  “It is well,” he said, “that you found him out before you married him. If he could play fast and loose before marriage — well, there’s no knowing what he might be up to later.”

  “what had I better do now?” She gave a look of bewilderment about the little room. Still she could hear the muffled beat of the waves, see the embraced figures in their midst.

  “I shall go back with you to the house. It’s almost dinnertime. You can go straight to your room. I shall want an interview with the young man, but it will be brief.... Adeline, believe me, he never would have settled down here. Your only chance of a tolerable life with him would be where he might find congenial work. Possibly in New York. Would you like that?”

  “No, no — I must have space about me.”

  “Now you can see, my pet, that this fellow is not what you thought he was. He’s not what I hoped he was. I’ll not say what I think of him except that when my daughter marries I want her to marry a man worthy of her.”

  Renny rose and went swiftly to Adeline. He took her in his arms and held her close to him. He could not see her suffer without himself suffering. The look in her face was now reflected in his own. Yet in his heart there sprang up a fountain of clear elation. It was as though the Almighty had stretched out a finger and toppled Fitzturgis from his pedestal.

  Again Adeline clung to Renny, absorbed strength from the feel, the very smell of him. Never had they been more united. She was painfully tearing her spirit from the bondage that for two years had possessed it. She did not realize that these same bonds had for some time been weakening. Nothing would have induced her to acknowledge that the Fitzturgis of today was not the lover she had idealized.

  “My darling,” Renny repeated, kissing her in a fervour of protective love. “My darling ... my little pet.”

  “It’s hard,” she said, “to lose him to Roma.”

  “Don’t let that trouble you.” Gently he stroked her hair. “If it had not been Roma it would have been someone else. He hasn’t it in him to be faithful. She was merely at hand.... Forget him, my dearest; put him out of your mind.... Happy days are coming — for us two!”

  * * *

  Fitzturgis had knocked on the door of Sylvia’s room. She was not there. He heard from Archer, still immersed in his book but not to the point when he was unaware of what went on about him, that she had gone to the summerhouse. This latticed retreat had been in a state of ruin twenty-five years ago, but still it remained standing. It was on the far side of the house. It was in deep shadow from morning to night. It was rotting, it was the home of earwigs, spiders, and field mice. Almost never did anyone sit there, but Sylvia had discovered it, and in these days of bewilderment and indecision she sometimes hid herself in its seclusion.

  Now she heard approaching steps and peering through the clustering wild grape vine that covered the summerhouse, on which hung the green bunches of small sour fruit, she saw her brother coming quickly toward her. When she stood in the doorway she saw the greenish pallor of his face and wondered whether it might be tinged by the shadow of the vine. Yet in a moment she realized that his colour was evidence of deep emotion.

  “what has happened now?” she asked, as one accustomed to expect unhappy things.

  He stood in the doorway looking sombrely in at her. “what a disgusting spot!” he exclaimed, then added, “Just the right sort of place for the news I have. It’s all over between Adeline and me.”

  “But how can it be?”

  “We had a disagreement. Some pretty hot words. On her part she seemed to set out to anger me. I was overheated in my temper and in my body. Roma happened to be going to the lake to bathe ... I went with her. Adeline followed us there.... She caught us ... well, Roma was in my arms.... Adeline made a pretty scene. She actually threw stones at us.” He threw up his hand in a gesture of mingled excitement and self-protection. “For Christ’s sake don’t say it’s no more than you expected, Sylvia! I can’t bear that.”

  “It’s beyond words of mine,” she cried. “I could not have pictured your doing such an imbecile thing — not unless you were so mad about the girl that you completely lost your head. Surely you haven’t lost your head over that bit of fluff.”

  “Can’t you understand?” He scowled in exasperation. “It was the impulse of a moment. It signified nothing.”

  “And everything is spoilt,” she exclaimed in distress. “what is wrong with us, Maitland? Can we bring only unhappiness — to ourselves and to others?”

  “Well,” he said gloomily, “it appears to be all up with us here. In your case you should not have sent me to Finch. You should have gone to him yourself. You might have told your story in a way which would have made you all the more desirable to him.”

  She felt he was dragging in her case that she might be in the same boat with himself. She said humbly, “No way I could have put it would have made Finch see what I did in any but a horrible light.”

  “who the hell do these Whiteoaks think they are!” he exclaimed. “Have they lived such puritanical lives?”

  “Finch is just naturally good,” she said. “He’s fastidious. It makes him unconsciously cruel. As for Adeline — she’s scarcely grown up. She’s had everything her own way. To please her you’d have to be all she’s imagined you to be. She’s talked to me of you. You should have heard her. God, what a pedestal she’d put you on!”

  He said bitterly — “Well, I’ve come off it with a crash. I’ve been toppling for some time. I’ll bet that her father and her Uncle Piers have never lost an opportunity to put in a word against me.”

  “Perhaps it’s better, Maitland,” she said, “that Adeline and you should separate before it’s too late. You’re not happy here. Tell the truth — you’ve been trying to make yourself over into a different person. And as long as I’ve known you, darling, I’ve known that nothing can change you.”

  “I would make myself into what they want me to be — for Adeline’s sake,” he said stubbornly.

  “It’s no use. You can’t. I know you better than you know yourself. We’re defeated. Let’s go back to New York and start all over again.”

  He came into the summerhouse, bent over her and kissed her. “You’re a brave girl, Sylvia,” he said.

  Steps were heard drawing near. Sylvia, peering through lattice and wild grape, exclaimed, “Renny’s coming. Is he looking for you, I wonder. Oh, Maitland, perhaps you can patch things up. He’d understand.”

  “He’ll take damned good care not to understand.”

  Fitzturgis strode from the summerhouse and came to meet Renny with an air more defiant than propitiatory. The rain was coming down softly.

  “Come into the drive,” Renny said. “The trees will shelter us.” They moved in unison as though for a ceremony.

  When they were in the drive Renny halted and said, “Well, Fitzturgis, you’ve turned out no better and no worse than I expected.”

  “Just what did you expect?” asked Fitzturgis.

  Renny gave him a look which showed a kind of liking for him or rather what might have been liking had Fitzturgis been anyone but the object of Adeline’s, as he thought, misplaced affection. He now added to the look, “I felt from the first that you two were not suited.”

  Fitzturgis had not been prepared for anything so mild as this. Withering comment on his lack of honour, determination to make this the object of violent invective, this he had expected. But here was Renny looking at him almost kindly, stroking his left eyebrow as he said:

  “Adeline, I must tell you, is the very reincarnation of my grandmother. You may have noticed the p
ortrait of her as a young woman, hanging in the dining room.”

  As this portrait and its companion — that of Captain Whiteoak — were the most noticeable objects in the dining room, and as the attention of Fitzturgis had been drawn to the resemblance between the two Adelines on the first day of his arrival, he answered a little testily, “I have noticed the picture.”

  Renny continued, “There is in the drawing-room another portrait of my grandmother, one painted in Ireland when she was a child.”

  “I have seen that too,” said Fitzturgis, wondering what the devil the man was driving at.

  “Would you say the likeness is remarkable?” Renny asked.

  “The features appear to be identical,” agreed Fitzturgis.

  “And so is the spirit,” Renny exclaimed with enthusiasm. “Proud spirits, both of them! And unlikely to forgive a hurt to their pride.”

  So thatwas it!

  Fitzturgis said, “Mr. Whiteoak, I want you to believe that my love for Adeline has never wavered. You can understand surely how a man ...”

  “Indeed I can.” Renny spoke almost warmly. “But Adeline can’t. She’ll never forgive you, I promise you that.”

  “I gave Roma no more than a passing caress,” said Fitzturgis. “It signified nothing. Cannot Adeline be brought to believe that?”

  “You could not have made a worse choice for that passing caress. Roma is in Adeline’s black books because she has already broken up the engagement between Patience and young Green. No — Adeline will never forgive you. She told me so. She said, ‘It’s all over between me and Maitland.’ I know my daughter. She’ll never forget or forgive the hurt to her pride. I think you know very well that she won’t. I fancy she made her feelings clear.”

  “She threw stones at us,” said Fitzturgis. Unconsciously he put his hand to the bit of adhesive plaster on his cheek. He gave a rueful smile.

  Renny regarded him almost solicitously. “Well,” he said, “that was a bit extreme. But Adeline is extreme in her emotions. Certainly she had an infatuation for you. She declared that, like her great-grandmother, she would have only one great love in her life. But her great-grandmother had several lesser loves before settling down to the great one. And so will Adeline, I expect.... I realized before you had been here a fortnight that you never were cut out for this life. I know you have tried. You have tried damned hard.”

  “You were never pleased with me.”

  “How could I be? I have been more worried than I can tell you. I’ve seen you and Adeline preparing to take a disastrous step. I’ve seen nothing but trouble ahead.”

  “I will try,” said Fitzturgis, “for Adeline’s forgiveness —”

  “You’ll never get it.”

  “My God, that’s impossible to believe! If she had been there, in the lake, bathing with us, it might have happened. Roma was swept into my arms by a wave. I kissed her. That was all.”

  “I quite understand,” Renny said mildly. “But Adeline can’t and never will. You might have a talk with her ...”

  “You agree to that?”

  “My dear fellow, I am human. I have had temptations. I know what it is to be weak, but — fortunately for me — I have a gentle, old-fashioned, forgiving wife. Adeline is none of these. But — you can try. And if she should bring herself to forgive you, and you are willing to stay on here — to begin all over again —”

  “It would never do,” broke in Fitzturgis. “We should have to go somewhere else.”

  “where?”

  “Possibly New York. No — not there — I realize that she would not be happy in a city.”

  “I’m glad you understand her so well,” Renny said blandly.

  In some way this attitude of kindliness cast a deeper gloom over Fitzturgis. He drew a heavy sigh which was echoed by the sighing of the hemlocks and spruces beneath the rain.

  “I must tell you,” said Fitzturgis, “that I am grateful for the way you have taken this, and I still think that Adeline and I may make it up.”

  “I’m willing for you to have a try,” and somewhat enigmatically the master of Jalna added, “if you can manage it.”

  It was almost dark under the heavy-boughed trees. The rain was coming down harder. One of the dogs, returning after some urgent business of his own and in great anxiety about his supper, passed them without a look. Fitzturgis said:

  “I’ve left my sister waiting in the summerhouse. I must go to her.”

  “In the summerhouse, eh? A nice old place — or would be, if it were in repair. I really must see to that.”

  They separated, and Renny strode to the house. In the hall he found Piers waiting for him.

  “I’ve just dropped in to tell you,” said Piers, “that Maurice has gone to stay with Finch. Things have not been very pleasant between us — I can’t put up with his drinking, and it’s a bad example to the younger boys. So far as I am concerned I’m glad that he should go, but it has hurt Pheasant, and I wish you would tell him so — tell him he must come back and try to behave himself. His visit —”

  Renny interrupted, “Yes, yes, we can attend to that later. But here is wonderful news, Piers. Adeline has caught Fitzturgis and Roma in the act of kissing — in the lake bathing, mind you — she’s broken off her engagement to him!” In the exhilaration of the moment Renny threw his arms about his brother and pressed him into the execution of some triumphant dance steps down the hall. Piers, however, was concerned for his artificial leg and planted himself firmly just outside Adeline’s door.

  “She’s in there,” whispered Renny, “and what I want you to do is to take her home with you and keep her there till he’s out of the way. He’s all out to have another try for her forgiveness. God knows she might forgive him. I’m running no risks.”

  Piers’s healthy face was close to his. Piers whispered hoarsely, “It’s the best news I’ve heard in many a day. And it’s just like Roma — God bless her.”

  “There’s not a minute to spare.”

  “I’m your man. Bring Adeline along. My car is outside.”

  “Drive it to the side door.”

  Renny tapped on the panel of Adeline’s door. Twice he tapped before a muffled voice asked, “who’s there?”

  He did not answer but went softly into the room. It had an air of desolation. She lay stretched on the bed, her face pressed into the pillow, but when he spoke she put out her hand to him.

  He took the hand and bent over her. “Adeline,” he said, “you’d rather not meet Fitzturgis again, I’m sure.”

  She sat up and raised her troubled eyes to his. “Have you been talking to him?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’ve told him that I quite agree with you in breaking off the engagement.”

  “what did he say?”

  “I think he understands that it’s hopeless. But — you would find it very embarrassing to meet him at table. I want to save you that, my pet....”

  “I’m not going to the table.”

  “Of course not. Now look here. Uncle Piers is at the door with his car. He wants to take you to his house. Everything will be much easier for you. It will be more comfortable all round. Come.” He half lifted her from the bed. He felt there was no time to spare. She was confused, willing to be led. He led her, supporting her through the side door, outside which Piers was waiting in the rain. Like a sick person she was supported by the brothers, half lifted into the car. It moved off.

  Renny blew out his breath in relief. He returned to the hall and closed the door of Adeline’s room. He heard the voices of Sylvia and Fitzturgis in the porch and darted up the stairs to avoid them. He knocked on the door of Alayne’s room. “It’s me, Renny,” he said.

  She opened the door and stood there, in her lace-trimmed nylon slip, the silvery waves of her hair, looking so cool, so fresh that he spent a moment in admiring her before he spoke. Then he said, “I have some good news for you, Alayne.”

  His idea of good news did not always agree with hers. Therefore when he came in and closed
the door behind him she awaited what he had to say with a degree of uncertainty. She was ready to accept his news as good when she had heard it, not before.

  “Yes?” She gave him a look of cool enquiry.

  “I’m getting rid of Fitzturgis.” For some reason which he could not have defined he used the tone in which he might have informed her of the dismissal of a groom. Possibly he was remembering how she and Fitzturgis seemed naturally to come together in a room.

  She could not at the first take in his meaning. She stared, bewildered. Then she said, “But you couldn’t ... I don’t understand.... Do you mean that you and he have quarrelled?”

  “No, indeed,” he ejaculated, as though thankfully. “I simply mean that the engagement is off. Adeline is free.”

  “But why?” she cried. “what has happened?”

  He turned, with finality. “Adeline discovered him and Roma in a compromising situation, so — she broke off her engagement to him.”

  “Roma,” repeated Alayne. A painful colour flooded her face and neck.

  “Yes,” he said. “There was nothing else for Adeline to do.”

  “I suppose not,” Alayne agreed faintly. “where is Adeline?”

  “She’s gone to spend the night with Pheasant and Piers. He’d dropped in most conveniently.”

  “Is Adeline very much upset?”

  “Naturally she’s a bit upset. What woman wouldn’t be?”

  “And you tell me you have seen him since — talked with him?”

  “Yes.”

  She put her hand to her throat, as though to help her to get out the words. “And ... What does he appear to feel?”

  “He’s very much ashamed. What man wouldn’t be! He realizes that it’s all over between them. I think he’ll be leaving quite soon. He and I are parting quite civilly. I think it’s best, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m sure it’s best.”

  “Alayne, what do you feel about this?”

  “I — I’m staggered, but ...” She hesitated, to moisten her dry lips.

  “But what?”