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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Neither is a duty.” Meg spoke as patiently as she could. “Both are pleasures. Long-expected pleasures — for we have been looking forward to this centenary for a hundred years.”

  “I shall be glad when it is over,” he said, “and that I shan’t be here for the two hundredth.” He then said to the motor car, “whoa, Nelly,” remembering his old mare, which had been dead for many a year.

  Meg was not amused. She said, “I do wish Roma and Maitland would hurry. She never kept us waiting till she married him.”

  “She married him promptly,” remarked Mr. Fennel. “I hope she won’t live to regret it.”

  “Maitland is a dear fellow,” said Meg.

  “I don’t like this going back to Ireland,” said the Rector. “It’s never done by the Irish.”

  “My dear old grandmother,” said Meg, “frequently remarked that she wished she were back, but of course she couldn’t go — not with all us descendants. Dear me, why don’t that pair hurry? Sound the horn, Rupert.”

  Inside the Rectory, Roma was giving a final brushing to her hair, which was folded like wings back from her temples. Fitzturgis was putting on his shoes and saying, “I hope I shan’t be expected to dance.”

  “There’s one thing about our parties,” said Roma, “we always have plenty of men.”

  “Even if I were in the mood to dance,” he said, “which I’m not, I couldn’t dance in this heat.”

  “I could dance all night,” softly sang Roma, then added, “Just listen to that motor horn! Does the silly old blighter think we’ll be ready any the sooner for that?”

  Fitzturgis stood waiting.

  At The Moorings Piers and his family were on the point of leaving for the party when Pheasant summoned them to admire Ernest as he slept. They came on tiptoe, Piers gazing down with a doting smile at the infant; the young men, Christian and Philip, a little bored but still admiring.

  “Have you ever seen anything so exquisite?” demanded Pheasant. “And when I think of the narrow escape he had on his christening day I tremble — almost drowned, poor darling! I shall never like that boy Dennis. He’s not to be trusted.”

  The object of their admiration lay, with lightly folded hands, a tuft of fair curls on his crown, a smile on his lips, as though consciously posing.

  Mary was calling to everyone to come and say good night. They trooped into her room, bent over her cot and in turn kissed her. At that hour even the kisses of her brothers were welcome.

  “Funny,” said Philip when they had left, “how Mary seems to like you at bedtime. She’ll give you a kiss and a hug then, as though she had some affection in her.”

  “That’s because she is afraid,” said Christian. “She knows that when the light is put out she’ll be terrified. I well remember the feeling.”

  “If I thought,” said Pheasant, “that Mary was afraid, I’d go straight back to her.”

  “Children love terror. I remember how I’d pull the bedclothes over my head, waiting for the strange shapes that came out of the darkness. I was terrified, yet I would not for the world have missed their mouthings and their eyeless faces. Yet I was frightened of the dark.”

  “That’s the artistic temperament,” said Piers. “I’ll bet Philip had no such imaginings.”

  “My head scarcely touched the pillow when I was asleep,” said Philip, with satisfaction.

  The car from the Rectory passed them. Meg waved and, when Roma saw Meg wave, she too waved.

  At Jalna a number of guests had arrived. As soon as it was possible for the young people of the family to leave the guests and collect in a body in front of the portraits of the young Adeline and Philip, which Renny had caused to be framed and hung in the dining room, facing those of the great-grandparents, they did so.

  “These new portraits,” Christian said dolefully, “compare very badly with the old ones. I wish I had never undertaken them.”

  “I like them,” said Philip. “Adeline likes them. That ought to be enough.” He put his arm about his fiancée’s waist and looked possessive.

  She was about to move away from him when she had a glimpse of the face of Fitzturgis, who had remained outside and now looked moodily through the window at the group in front of the portraits. With Roma and Fitzturgis regarding her through the window, Adeline could not resist languishing against Philips shoulder and flickering her eyelashes at him. He flushed in pleasure and a dimple indented his cheek.

  “Look at that young ass,” Maurice whispered to Pat Crawshay, gripping his friend’s fingers. “And Adeline doesn’t really care a damn for him. She’s just showing off. She couldn’t care less.”

  “She’s to marry him.”

  “My dear fellow, it was all arranged. They had little to say about it.”

  Pheasant appeared in the doorway. “Come, all of you,” she cried, “and join the reception line on the lawn. Guests are pouring in.”

  They trooped after her.

  Maurice and Pat Crawshay were the last to follow. Maurice already had had a drink. Its visible effect — for he carried his drink badly — was to lend an unneeded brightness to his eyes and a truculence to his bearing. Now he laid his hands on the portraits of the young Philip and Adeline and pushed them askew.

  “There,” he said, with a humourous yet malicious glance at Crawshay, “that expresses what I feel about them. The whole affair is crooked.”

  The two left together and immediately Fitzturgis entered. He put the portraits straight, then stood before them in an attitude of reflection. The sound of the orchestra, the chatter of voices, came to him as from a long way off.

  He remembered his first meeting with Adeline on board ship on the way to Ireland. He had been returning after a visit to his married sister in New York. She had been accompanied by Finch and Maurice, the three bound for Maurice’s house. How excited she had been by the visit in prospect — how unreservedly happy. He had not wanted to fall in love with her but he could not stop himself. And she was so openly, so generously in love with him. Two years had passed before he came out to Canada to make himself useful at Jalna — if he could — and to marry her. He had done neither. He turned from regarding her portrait and passed through the hall and to the porch, to see her standing with her parents welcoming their guests.

  It was a gay scene: the orchestra playing a Viennese waltz, the light dresses of the women, the summer suits of the men, pale against the majestic darkness of the trees. The trees maintained their primeval darkness and grandeur, despite the levity of the music, the laughter, and the Chinese lanterns suspended from their luxuriant boughs. Every window in the house was alight and it appeared to Renny Whiteoak to wear an expression of reflective brightness, as though it remembered the lively spirit and strong heart of its first mistress, that other Adeline Whiteoak who herself had lived to be a hundred years old — a gallant and stubborn-willed centenarian. Many of the guests still remembered her. Some were descendants of families who were important in the province in her day but whose names were now seldom heard. There were quite a number of young people, and before long dancing began.

  Renny remained in the porch, from which he could see, through the French windows, the dancing in the drawing room and library. They looked crowded, especially as some of the women wore the new bouffant dresses that took up so much room.

  Renny saw two figures approaching across the lawn, one tall, one very small. He saw that they were Finch and Dennis coming from the direction of Vaughanlands. He went to meet them and said, in a welcoming voice:

  “You’re late. We’ve missed you.”

  “We were having a little argument,” said Finch. “I did not intend to bring this fellow along but he was determined. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? We’d have minded greatly if he hadn’t come! There’s a nice girl in there, Dennis, longing to dance with you.”

  Dennis did not believe him. He stared about him in wonder. “How pretty everything looks,” he said. “It’s like a fairy tale. I’d like to s
tay out here and listen to the music. I couldn’t dance well enough.” He left them abruptly and ran to look in at the dancers.

  “How does he take the proposed visit to Ireland?”

  “He seemed quite calm about it — till tonight. Suddenly he said he couldn’t go. He said it was too far away — that he wanted to be here with me.”

  “He’s very attached to you.”

  “I doubt it,” Finch broke out. “He goes his own perverted way, without regard to my wishes. He looks so innocent — yet sometimes I think he’s really vicious.”

  “No, no, I’ll never believe that. How long will Maurice keep him?”

  “The longer the better,” said Finch.

  Dennis came running back to them. “They look beautiful in there dancing,” he cried. “But is it nice for girls to be nearly naked when they dance? Shouldn’t they have upper parts to their dresses?” Without waiting for an answer he exclaimed, “I see lightning. There’s going to be a storm.” He seemed oddly, almost pleasurably excited, as though he would have welcomed a storm.

  “I hope not,” said Renny. “Rain would ruin the Chinese lanterns.” He looked anxiously at the sky, where summer lightning lit up the scene with operatic splendour.

  In spite of the heat the dancers continued in their rhythmic and graceful movements. Through the open French windows a cooling breeze now entered. Dennis ran back to the window that he might look in on them. “Women,” he said in a whisper. “Cows. That’s what they are. I hate them because they’re cows.”

  Another figure emerged from the shrubbery and came to look in at the windows. It was Maitland Fitzturgis. Among the faces passing, glimpsed for a moment, then lost, he sought only the face of Adeline. Now he saw her dancing with Patrick Crawshay. She was wearing a yellow taffeta dress and topaz earrings and necklace. Both looked singularly happy. In contrast to them were Roma, her face calm and pale, expressing nothing, and Archer, who had chosen her because she made no demands on him. He steered her stiffly through the crowd.

  “why don’t you dance?” came in the clear boy’s voice beside Fitzturgis. Dennis’s eyes, green in that light, were raised inquisitively to his face.

  “I hadn’t thought of it,” said Fitzturgis. “But why aren’t you dancing?”

  “You know why,” laughed the boy. “I’m too young. I shouldn’t be here, but my father let me come because I’m so soon leaving for Ireland. Do you think I’ll like living there? Do you like going back?”

  “I think I do,” said Fitzturgis. “It suits me better than New York.”

  “Did Jalna suit you?”

  “Not very well.”

  “wherever my father is suits me,” said Dennis, and ran across the dark grass to where he could see Renny and Finch. He pressed in between them, absorbing with eager ears what they were saying. Renny was indeed trying to persuade Finch to go in with him and join the dancers. But Finch refused. His heart was heavy with the sorrow of Sylvia’s death. If only she might have been beside him on this summer night!

  “I’ll just stroll about here,” he said, with an effort at cheerfulness, “till they come out for supper.” He went to the door of the marquee where the supper was being got ready, and exclaimed, “You certainly are doing well by your guests.”

  “There’s plenty of champagne,” said Renny. “This is an occasion. We shall never see its like again. It’s seldom that the same family lives in the same house for a century. Of course that’s not long in the Old Country, but it’s a long while here.”

  Inside the house Adeline and Philip were dancing together. Everyone was aware of the nearness of their marriage and a number stopped dancing and smilingly watched them. Some clapped their hands. Already their portraits in the dining room had been viewed with real or pretended admiration. The youthful pair were happily self-conscious.

  To Maurice, looking on from a doorway, the sight of those two dancing together was one to make him feel dizzy with jealousy. Philip, he thought, was an abominable dancer, rigid and military, who translated the exquisite rhythm of the waltz into a soldierly two-step. He would himself dance with Adeline and show what they two could do together. He was placing a real importance on this dance. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and hands. He sought to wipe from his face any disagreeable expression and to replace it with a look of genial invitation. But, while he was so engaged, Fitzturgis had come in through the French window, gone straight to Adeline and asked her to dance. Other couples began to move about the floor.

  Maurice was more than surprised; he was hotly resentful when he saw Fitzturgis place his arm about Adeline’s waist. It was in bad taste, Maurice told himself, watching the two as they began to dance. It was not only in bad taste, it was an affront to the family. Fitzturgis, who had been cast off by Adeline — daring to lead her out to dance!

  But there was no doubt about it, the Irishman was graceful, an elegant dancer. No taller than Adeline, his movements were the epitome of rhythm. So well were they suited to her that she danced as she had never danced before. They were like one body moving in vitality and grace. Yet there was ordinarily nothing in the carriage of Fitzturgis to suggest this talent. They had never before danced together, or, if they had, she had forgotten it. Certainly it had not been like this. This was entrancing, and her delight was visible in her glowing eyes and smiling, parted lips.

  As the other dancers had paused to watch Adeline and Philip, so now they ceased dancing to watch her and Fitzturgis; but with what a difference! Now they did not smile or clap their hands. The expression on the face of Fitzturgis was not one of pleasure but rather of sombre and relentless concentration. His dancing was altogether too good. To the minds of this rather conventional company it was embarrassing. They knew that the pair had been engaged to be married and that the engagement had been broken off. It was said that Fitzturgis had a shady past. He had been married to a London actress, been divorced; was again married, but a short while ago, to Adeline’s cousin. What business had he to dance so superlatively well? Besides, they felt something antagonistic in him, something that repelled them.

  Young Philip had not been a witness to this exhibition. After his dance with Adeline he had hastened out into the night air to cool off. But he would be back very soon to dance with her again, to take her in to supper. He thought that the evening had been something of a triumph for them both. He was proud of her, proud of himself, proud of Jalna, but he wished to goodness that he did not perspire so readily.

  Three members of the family watched this dance with unmixed disapproval. They were Roma, Maurice, and Renny. She, standing in a doorway with Maurice, remarked to him:

  “They’re making laughingstocks of themselves, that’s what.”

  Maurice agreed, with a contemptuous curl of the lip. His feeling toward Fitzturgis at that moment was one of furious jealousy. Renny was in too genial a mood to be more than ruffled on the surface, but he did think Fitzturgis showed extremely bad taste in dancing with Adeline, and particularly in dancing with such professional aplomb. He had not looked even tolerably cheerful when dancing, but had worn an expression enigmatic, not to be described.

  When Fitzturgis and Adeline had left the floor they went through one of the French windows on to the lawn. People were beginning to move toward the refreshment tent where waiters were ranged in readiness and Rags was being particularly officious. He was going out of his way to speak to friends of the family, to give orders to the waiters. To him Dennis attached himself, firstly because he wished to keep out of Finch’s way, secondly because he was tired of being spoken to by some of the older guests as a little boy. He did not want to be patronized by them as a little, rather touching boy, because of the bereavement in his family. That seemed long ago to him — yet occasionally near, with a terrifying clarity.

  Fitzturgis, from the darkness of the trees, saw Philip looking for Adeline. His tall boyish figure, with the blond head, was easily discernible, and Fitzturgis gave a sardonic grimace as he glimpsed the boy searchin
g. Adeline saw nothing. Her hand still rested on the arm of her former fiancé. It would appear that she needed his support, for her dark eyes wore a dazed look. She had not indeed recovered from the rapture of that dance. She was at that moment like an instrument which, having been performed on by a rd, still reverberated to that ecstasy.

  “Shall I get some refreshment for you?” asked Fitzturgis, with old-fashioned formality.

  “Not yet.”

  He turned his head to look into her face, pale in that light.

  “Tired?” he asked.

  “Oh, no.” After a moment she added, “But we must not dance again.”

  He gave a little laugh, his face close to hers. As though they could not help themselves, her white arms were about his shoulders and their lips were pressed together. During all the period of their attachment they had never kissed like this. It was something new and, to her, frightening — to Fitzturgis tantalizing, even maddening in the hopelessness of their situation. But he was willing to surrender to the seduction of the moment, with no more than one despairing glance into the future.

  Their kiss was seen by no one, for they were in deep shadow; but Maurice saw their two figures — the faintest glimpse of Adeline told him who she was — the white shirt-front of Fitzturgis in conventional evening dress, for he did not possess one of the pale summer suits affected by the other men.

  Adeline, seeing Maurice approach, almost fled in the direction of the marquee.

  Maurice approached Fitzturgis, all his former dislike of him seething into hate. He said, scarcely knowing what he said, “Up to your old tricks, eh?”

  Fitzturgis, in a sudden fury, said with contempt, “Get to hell out of here.” He took a step toward Maurice. A flash of lightning illuminated this retreat. In it Fitzturgis looked formidable. Other people were approaching. Maurice turned away, but he thought, The time will come when I must knock that fellow down.

  Though lightning intermittently disclosed the animated scene with great vividness, the rain held off. Supper was served. Champagne was plentiful and the merriment became noticeably more enthusiastic. With the assistance of Philip, Renny began to set off fireworks. Rockets soared into the night sky and descended in a shower of stars. Renny had been extravagant in expenditure. Not only rockets, but designs in fireworks brought forth Ohs and Ahs of admiration from the guests. The last of these was a crown in stars and beneath it, clearly to be read, the legend 100 YEARS OLD. Obligingly this hovered right over the roof and the vine-clad chimneys of the house.