The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (590 page)

“Up to some of her tricks, I’ll bet. Probably she’s after money.”

“But she sat with him yesterday, too.”

“Then it’s more money.”

“He’d never give her money twice — so near together. There’s something sinister in it.”

“Goodness, you’re suspicious.”

“I’m observant. I’ve observed how it bores Roma to be with Uncle Nick. Now I enjoy being with him, yet he never gives me money.”

“You’re not a large-eyed appealing young girl.”

“Neither am I an orphan. There’s something in being an orphan.”

He spoke musingly and Adeline did not hear him. She was absorbed in the appointments of the room over which she had taken much thought. She felt that all must be welcoming and beautiful for Maitland’s sister. Consequently she had filled every available vase with flowers. In this room there was a small grate, on the mantelshelf of which she had arranged six vases, large and small, of flowers of all colours. This was to say nothing of two large earthen jars filled with sunflowers in front of the empty grate, the grate itself replenished with ferns. Vases of pansies, sweet peas, roses and nasturtiums were on the dressing table and windowsill.

Archer regarded these decorations pessimistically. “Is this Sylvia going to stay here long?” he asked.

“As far as I am concerned,” she returned, “Sylvia may stay forever.”

“Mercy!” said Archer.

Meanwhile downstairs it had been arranged that Finch was to drive Sylvia and Adeline to inspect the new house. Only the last touches had to be added and he was soon to remove to it. Sylvia was not tired and was, she said, all eagerness to see it. Adeline wanted Fitzturgis to be present when they went on a tour of Jalna.

The front door of the new house stood open. The wholesome Finnish woman who was to work for Finch by the day was polishing windows. He said, a little apologetically, to Sylvia, “It’s really not worth coming to see. It’s very small. But I’m rather proud of it. For some time I’ve wanted a place of my own near to Jalna.”

Sylvia exclaimed in admiration. Never had she seen a house like this — small indeed, but with such large window’s looking out into what seemed a forest of stately trees. And inside, everything so new, so fresh and spotless.

“It’s adorable,” she said. “How I love new houses, new furniture. I’m accustomed to things old and fusty. This has a different smell.”

“Jalna is not new,” said Adeline, “but it’s not fusty.”

“There is something so happy about a new house,” Sylvia continued. “No memories to torment one.”

“You begin to collect memories from the very day you move in,” said Adeline. “As for this one — memories will be coming right up through the floor because it is built where an old house stood.”

“Don’t,” said Finch. “I’d rather not think of that.”

Sylvia knew his wife had died. Now she asked, “Have you children?”

He looked vague, then said, “Yes. A small boy.”

“Is he like you?” Now she looked him full in the face, wondering what sort of small boy he had been. The face of the man was so sensitive, so marked by experience, she could not picture him as a child.

Adeline said, “Dennis isn’t at all like Uncle Finch. He’s not even musical.”

“what a pity! Not inheriting that talent, I mean. It’s wonderful to be talented.”

“Have you heard Uncle Finch play?”

“I’m sorry to say, no. I’ve been in Ireland since the war, and before that …”

“Tell the truth,” said Finch. “You’d never heard of me.”

“Oh, but I had.”

“Well,” said Adeline, “you will have the opportunity now. Have you played since you came home, Uncle Finch? Surely you have on this gorgeous piano.” She wanted to show him off, show the piano off.

He stood staring at it, drinking in the beauty of its form in sensuous anticipation. Untouched, awaiting his will, it appeared too massive, too beautiful for the small house. Even in its silence it dominated the house.

Adeline put an arm round each of the others. “what fun we three shall have together!” she said. “And Mait, too, naturally. Oh, I can scarcely believe that the long time of waiting is over. All happy things seem to be happening at once.”

“when is the wedding to be?” Sylvia asked.

“In a month.” A shadow crossed her face. “We are to have a double wedding. I didn’t much want that, but Aunt Meg and Daddy think it is best. And it will certainly save money. A double wedding. Roma and Norman. Maitland and me.” Now she smiled gaily, picturing the four of them, marching triumphant down the aisle. Then she remembered how Finch and Sylvia both had lost their mates. Her eyes grew misty in sympathy and she kissed first one of them and then the other.

She flew off then to investigate a step she heard, thinking it might be Fitzturgis. Finch said, “Adeline’s so completely happy, it makes one afraid for her.”

“I am afraid for her,” said Sylvia.

“You mean no one should take such felicity for granted?”

“I suppose I mean that it’s safer to expect trouble.”

“Adeline has it in her to make a man happy.”

“I love her,” said Sylvia, “more than any woman I have ever met — if you can call her a woman. She’s really still a child.”

Adeline returned then, having discovered Dennis outside. She led him to Sylvia. “This is Uncle Finch’s cross, Sylvia. Dennis, this lady is going to be your cousin. She is Maitland’s sister.”

“How do you do?” said Dennis, offering his square child’s hand. Then he added, “They’re back.”

“Maitland and Daddy? why didn’t they come over here? Do they know Sylvia has arrived?”

“Yes. They’re having a drink.” He took a turn up and down the room with an air of possession. He asked of Sylvia, “Do you like this room?” He looked up and down and around it, as though he had designed it, built the house. “I live here,” he said. “Want to see my room?” He was so small, so young, that they had to look at him — as at a kitten, a puppy. He went and touched one note on the piano. “This piano,” he said to Sylvia, “is a concert grand. My father is going to play on it. Would you like to hear him play?” He spoke as though at his bidding Finch would sit down at the instrument and perform. Yet he cast an uncertain sidewise glance at Finch, as if to anticipate dismissal.

He had it in a quick gesture. He went to the window and stood in an attitude of unconcern looking out at the tall old trees in their dense summer foliage, their greenness unrelieved by the bright colours of flower border or flowering shrub. In the fire that had destroyed the earlier house all these had been burned and the rubble of builders had choked the roots.

Adeline now felt that Sylvia had seen enough of Finch’s bungalow. Once she knew that Fitzturgis was at Jalna her impatient desire was to return there with Sylvia. She, on the contrary, would have lingered. The glimpse she had had in Ireland of Finch had crystallized into a vivid memory. He had the most arresting, the most changeful face she had ever seen. So she thought as she moved beside him from room to room. He was shy, reserved, sensitive, and she wanted to make him forget his shyness, break down his reserve, yet protect his sensitivity. She, who had but lately emerged from a long illness of the nerves, sensed in Finch someone who had suffered as she had.

Finch drove them back to Jalna. (“We should have walked back through the ravine, Sylvia,” Adeline had cried, “but for your nylons. The brambles would have done them in.”) Dennis came with them, but Finch returned to his bungalow. “You’d better stay here,” he had said to the child and had added: “I must be alone. You understand — alone.”

On the way upstairs they discovered Fitzturgis and Roma sitting together on the window seat of the landing. They did not hear the two girls approaching till they were halfway up the stairs. Fitzturgis got to his feet, with a half-apologetic smile for Adeline and a “Hullo, my dear,” to his sister. He kissed her cheek.

Roma slid from the seat and stood with childish unconcern, waiting to be introduced. When this had been done, with a certain abruptness, by Adeline, she turned to Fitzturgis. “You are back sooner than I expected. Did you know Sylvia had arrived?”

“The business was soon settled. Your father bought the horse,” he replied to the first question, and to the second, “Yes. I was told you and Finch had gone to meet her.”

Adeline looked at him steadily. She said, “I am taking Sylvia to the stables to see the horses. Do you want to come?”

“Horses!” he ejaculated. “Good Lord — I’ve had enough of horses for one day.”

“Very well.” She turned away. “Come along, Sylvia.” She darted up the remaining stairs, temper in every movement of her lithe body.

Sylvia followed, a smile of amusement lighting her pale face. In her room Adeline asked, “Can I help you to unpack?”

“Thanks, but I shall just change into other shoes and unpack later. I haven’t much to unpack.”

“You’ll not need a lot of clothes here. We lead a country life. Why do you suppose Maitland wouldn’t come? Even if he has seen enough horses, he’s seen nothing of me today, and you not for weeks.”

“He’s a lazy dog. Surely you have discovered that, Adeline.”

Adeline said, with passion, “I don’t want to drag him about where he doesn’t want to go, but — to think he’d prefer …” She could not finish the sentence but bit her lip in anger.

“Look here,” said Sylvia, “if you’re going to start off by taking Maitland too seriously — why, I pity you.”

“whom should I take seriously if not the man I’m going to marry?”

“what I mean is, you must take him as you find him.”

Adeline’s eyes flashed. “Well, I find him very irritating at the moment.”

Sylvia had now changed into sturdy shoes. “I’m ready,” she said, and added, “Your cousin is very pretty, isn’t she?”

“I suppose so. I haven’t thought about her looks. To tell the truth, she hasn’t interested me. Now Patience — wait till you meet Patience!”

Passing the open door of Nicholas’s room they saw him and Archer engaged in a game of backgammon.

Fitzturgis and Roma were sitting on the window seat, but he now rose and said, “Well, I see you’re ready. So am I.”

“You stay here and rest. Sylvia and I are quite happy by ourselves. Aren’t we, Sylvia?”

Adeline tossed her mane of hair, burnished to red by the sun, caught Sylvia’s hand, and the two ran down the stairs. Roma blew a column of smoke down her nostrils.

“Now you’ve done it,” she said.

“Done what?”

“Put Adeline’s back up. It doesn’t take much.”

As though asking for comfort he said, “All I remarked was that I’d seen enough of horses.”

“Oh, she’ll soon get over it. She’s very sweet really. Just a bit spoilt.”

“I can see that her father dotes on her.”

“And she on him! I love that word.
Dote
. I wish someone doted on me.”

“Norman shows every sign of doting.”

“Please don’t bring Norman into this conversation.”

“I thought girls always liked to talk of the chaps they’re engaged to.”

“I talk enough of Norman when I’m with Norman. His plans, his propositions. The big things he’s going to do.”

“Don’t we all like to talk of ourselves?”

“Not me.”

“I wish you would.”

“I’m not interesting.”

“You’re very interesting to me.”

“I wish I could believe you. But perhaps you’re one of those fellows who think anything in a skirt is fascinating.”

“Have I given you that impression?”

“Oh, I don’t know. When I’m with you I’m always thinking I’d like to fight with you.”

Fitzturgis gave her an amused, a speculative look. She met it with daring and the warm yet challenging smile she had inherited from her mother.

“This place, this family, are getting me down,” she said. “I’d like to go a thousand miles away. Or five hundred would do — perhaps New York.”

Alayne came into the hall below, looked up at the sound of their voices, then, with an air of not having seen them, returned to the library.

“She hates me,” said Roma. “Firstly because of something I did when I was a child. Secondly for being who I am. I’m the daughter of her first husband, you know, and I guess she hated him. He ran off and left her and I don’t blame him. I’d do the same if I were her husband.”

Abruptly she said she must be going. They went down the stairs together. She departed, and Fitzturgis turned into the library, where Alayne was selecting a book from the shelves. When first she had come to Jalna there had been few books there — mostly romantic novels of the mid-nineteenth century, belonging to old Mrs. Whiteoak, and books on the breeding of show horses, histories of the Grand National and other great racing events, books on farming and the rearing of farm stock. But during the years of what might almost be called her regime Alayne had changed all that. Byron and Moore, old Adeline’s favourites, had been the only poets represented. To these Alayne had added many volumes of poetry, old and new, novels, works of philosophy, history, essays. It had been necessary to build new shelves to accommodate the books she had collected. It was not only in the library where her influence during the years of her marriage to Renny had been exercised. All over the house it could be seen. It was progress, it was revolution, and much of it had been painful. How many struggles, both silent and vocal, had taken place in the basement kitchen between her and the Wragges! There was the subject of the refrigerator. Should fruit be kept where its scent would taint butter and milk? Should the refrigerator be kept religiously clean or was a wiping with a dish-cloth now and again enough? Should mouldy scraps be allowed to accumulate in the bread-box? Should the good old English dinner service be put into a fiercely hot oven to warm? Should the dogs be allowed to lick the platters? Well — dogs had been licking platters in that kitchen for seventy-five years before ever she had entered it!

By Alayne (and she had paid for this out of her own purse) a proper heating system had been installed to take the place of the huge old stove in the hall and the numerous fireplaces that had caused so much work.

Cupboards that had not in decades seen the light of day had been emptied out. A vacuum-cleaner had been bought, though the servants much preferred the old carpet-sweeper that rattlety-banged over the rugs, dropping out almost as much dust as it took up. In some rooms modern pale-coloured wallpaper replaced the dark, heavily scrolled and gilded paper which many years ago had been the pride of old Adeline Whiteoak. Leaks in the roof, which formerly had been accommodated with a basin underneath, were mended, loose shutters made secure. Certain renovations had been opposed by the master of Jalna, yet carried through by Alayne. But there were others which he would not endure. Several ornate and ugly pieces of mid-Victorian furniture which she considered out of place beside the fine old Chippendale, Renny tenaciously clung to and would not have banished.