The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (651 page)

“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 searching. 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.

A few large drops of rain fell.

A little tired, but certainly not tired enough to go to bed, Renny Whiteoak was the last to stand before the house that night. A great stillness had fallen. A distant roll of thunder only accentuated this deep nocturnal stillness. Where he had kept his supply of fireworks he found one last rocket. This he set off; with a smile watched its swift, hissing ascent, its explosion into a bouquet of stars, and raising his hand said: “A salute to you, Gran.”

All the long evening the dogs had been shut in their room at the end of the hall. Now he strode in to release them. They came tumbling out — the bulldog, the spaniel, and the little cairn terrier. They rejoiced to be with him. He had a ham sandwich for each of them and one for himself. Together they ate them under a few pale stars that now appeared, and a brightness of dawn in the east.

Dennis

Finch was the first to leave the party. He had not waited for supper, nor did he feel that he could endure the spectacle of the champagne-exhilarated crowd hilariously watching the fireworks. He was on his way when he remembered Dennis and turned back. Where was the boy? he wondered. He had had no more than a glimpse of him since their arrival. Archer was standing alone with a cup of coffee in his hand. Finch went to him and inquired whether he had seen the boy. “He’s at a table over there, with Aunty Meg and another elderly lady, eating chicken salad. How wretched he will feel tomorrow! Yet tonight it gives him confidence to sit with those two stout ladies, and it gives them confidence to sit in the company of one so young and greedy who can gobble all the food put in front of him without fear of getting fatter.”

“I’m leaving,” said Finch. “He’d better come.”

“He’d miss the fireworks. He is just the right age to enjoy the fireworks. I well remember when I loved to set off a firecracker — on the twenty-fourth of May it was, I seem to remember, somebody’s birthday. Boadicea’s, was it?”

“I’m leaving,” repeated Finch.

“Have you said goodbye to my mother and father?”

“Yes.”

“And they let you go without a struggle?”

“They understood.”

“She would understand,” Archer said thoughtfully. “She’s probably wishing that she herself might leave, but I can’t picture him as understanding. To him the pleasure of a party consists in draining the cup to the dreary dregs.… But I’ll tell you what I shall do — I’ll run Dennis home in our car when he’s ready to go.”

“Perhaps he could spend the night here,” said Finch hopefully.

“Scarcely,” said Archer inhospitably. “We are pretty full up. The spare rooms are taken by Maurice and Patrick. My mother’s insomnia will be troubling her, and my father has already three dogs in his room — ”

Archer would have continued but Finch abruptly said good night and left.

But there was no need for Archer to take Dennis home. He set out independently when the display of fireworks was over, taking a shortcut through the ravine. It was inky dark down there, for the moon had set and the few stars were powerless to penetrate between the luxuriant leaves of early summer. Now the voice of the stream could be heard in its dark communion with reeds and undergrowth. Dennis must go slowly, for the path was rather overgrown and sometimes not easy to find. Ever since the terrible night of Sylvia’s death Dennis had felt a shrinking from the hours of darkness. He was actually afraid of the dark, as he never had been before that night. No longer had he the sense of power which had then malignantly whipped him. He knew what fear was. He had frightening things to remember. Yet he wanted to go home alone — to go into the house by himself and find Finch there.

He found him sitting in his favourite chair with a book in front of him, but he was not reading. Dennis stood looking in at him through the picture window, his heart swelling with possessive love. Yet he was fearful of Finch, and started and flinched as though rebuked when Finch, becoming conscious of his presence, looked out at him. Then he came quietly into the house.