The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (554 page)

“We’re off,” he said.

“Yes. Isn’t it marvellous?” But she was rather disappointed by the slow movement of the ship, the confusion of lights. Would she never ride out into the open? All about her were the dark forms of other passengers. She wondered whether she would speak to any of them. Would one of those dark forms become perhaps a friend? She heard a group of people speaking Spanish. She heard a rough Irish brogue from a stout woman talking to a priest. She asked:

“How old were you, Uncle Finch, the first time you crossed?”

He answered, rather heavily, — “Twenty-one.”

“Oh, I remember hearing about it. You had just come into Great-grandmother’s money, hadn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you brought Uncle Nicholas and Uncle Ernest with you, for a treat.”

“Yes.”

“Goodness, that was funny. A boy off on the loose with two old gentlemen.”

“We enjoyed it.”

“It must be wonderful to inherit a fortune.”

“Well … I don’t know … It can be embarrassing.”

“I’d love to try it … Maurice has done it too. Aren’t you a lucky pair!”

“I didn’t hang on to my money for long.”

“
Really!
What became of it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You actually
don’t know?
”

She laughed gaily. “Uncle Finch, you
are
funny!”

He gave a grunt of agreement.

“Your wife was rich too, wasn’t she?” It was the first time Adeline had ever referred to his marriage to him, but the ship had loosed her tongue.

“She had a good deal of money,” he said, “but her last husband managed to get hold of most of it. What is left will go to Dennis.”

“Lucky dog! I never used to think about money but now I realize how important it is. I see Daddy with never enough of it.”

New York lay behind them, pillars of lights, bridges of lights, clusters of lights, with no discernible support, against the dark blue sky. The white foam of the wake was spreading like an opening fan at the stern. The air was cold.

“I promised to look after you,” said Finch. “Now I think you ought to go to bed. You look tired — at least as tired as you are able to look.”

He remembered the exhausted young face that he had seen reflected from his looking glass when he was her age.

“I am a little sleepy,” conceded Adeline, “but I promise you it’s the last time I shall go to bed early on this voyage.”

“Early! It’s one o’clock.”

“Is that all? where’s Maurice?” Now she saw him coming toward them. “Oh, there you are, Mooey! where have you been?”

“Isn’t it cold?” he exclaimed. “Let’s get inside.”

The deck was emptying. The throb of the engines was becoming resolute as the ship increased her speed. Inside there was light and warmth and a restless movement of passengers. There was searching for mislaid luggage, opening of telegrams and boxes of flowers. Adeline was delighted when she was handed a telegram from Nook wishing her
bon voyage
.

“How sweet of him!” she cried. “And it was only the other day when he saw me.”

Another telegram was handed to her. This was from Humphrey Bell. It read: “With sincere good wishes for a happy voyage and a safe return.”

It amazed her and made her laugh. “To think of it!” she exclaimed. “That funny little man!” But she was pleased. She cherished both telegrams.

Maurice shrugged. “I’ll bet a lot of thought went into the wording of that telegram,” he said.

At that moment Humphrey Bell, stretched in his bed, with his cat at his feet, was wishing with all his might he had not sent it and by sending it lowered himself still further in her eyes.

“I’ve been talking to a man,” Maurice said. “A nice fellow. An Irishman.”

Adeline was at once interested.

“He’s standing over there lighting a cigarette. I’ll introduce him now if you like.”

“Wait till tomorrow,” said Finch. “Adeline’s going to bed.”

“Are you going to be a killjoy, Uncle Finch?” asked Maurice.

“Well — I promised this child’s mother —”

Adeline gave him a hoot of scorn. “Point out the Irishman to me,” she said, “and if I like his looks I’ll meet him tonight, if I have to do it over Uncle Finch’s dead body.”

“I did point him out,” said Maurice. “He’s just at the foot of the stairs. His first match went out. Now he’s lighting another. There — don’t you see him?”

Adeline glanced at him. “I like his looks,” she said, “well enough — but I think I’ll wait till tomorrow to meet him.”

The flare of the match had illumined an intent dark face, topped by upstanding curly hair. He took the cigarette from his lips now and revealed a strongly marked mouth that was both humorous and sensuous. His curious glance took in the face of each person who passed him.

“what part of Ireland is he going to?” asked Finch.

Maurice replied, — “Quite near to me. He hasn’t lived there long. He was in the Army in the East. Now he’s bought a small place and apparently is settled down.”

“what’s his name?”

“Maitland Fitzturgis.”

“Help!” said Adeline. “what a name!”

“It is rather a mouthful. You must meet him tomorrow.”

“How old is he?”

“In his early thirties, I should say.”

Suddenly Finch thought, — “I have left my thirties behind.” And he felt it strange.

The ship was rather crowded. It was easy to meet people and then lose sight of them again. Next morning there was a strong breeze and the dark blue sea was rough, carrying the ship jauntily beneath quickly moving white clouds. Up on the sports deck the breeze was almost a gale. Maurice and Adeline soon had enough of deck tennis. They wandered to a sheltered part where, overshadowed by lifeboats and funnels, a number of people were stretched out in the sun. In a corner by themselves they almost stumbled over Finch and the Irishman, Fitzturgis.

“Don’t get up,” cried Adeline, and dropped to the deck beside Finch. “Do you mind if Maurice and I sit here too?”

He put an arm about her. “Adeline, this is Mr. Fitzturgis.”

They were soon all four talking together with ease. Adeline was eager to tell how this was not her first visit to Ireland and that she had visited New York once before. She did not say that she had been only four years old at the time and Finch and Maurice kept silent on that point. The heat of the sun combined with the crisp coldness of the air was exhilarating. The four were soon on friendly terms. Finch knew America as well as one who merely tours a country filling engagements can know it but he was looked on as an authority by the other three. Fitzturgis felt that he had seen a good deal of New York, had tasted its promises and foretasted its disappointments. After a time Finch and Maurice wandered away and Adeline and the Irishman were alone together.

“I’m really only half Irish,” he said. “My mother is English and I was sent to an English school.”

“That’s why I’m disappointed in you,” she returned. “I expected you to talk Irish.”

“Not really!” he laughed. “Well, if you want me to, I certainly shall.” And, assuming a rich brogue, he began to rave over the beauty of sky and sea.

Adeline lay on her back looking up at him, her teeth white between her parted lips, her dark eyes laughing beneath the shade of their thick lashes.

“That’s lovely,” she said, “but you mustn’t do it anymore because it’s not real. It is like my great-grandmother who used to go all Irish when her feelings were hurt.”

“Do you remember her?”

“Oh, no. But in our house they don’t let her memory die. We never seem to forget anything in our house.”

“Do you like that?” he asked quickly.

“Yes, because if you let things die that belong to your family, your life has no meaning.”

He looked at her in astonishment.

“what a strange thing for a young girl to say!”

“Don’t you feel that?”

He closed his eyes for a moment before he answered. “No. I like to forget.”

“Do you? Of course, I haven’t much — not really anything to forget — yet. But there’s been handed down to me a lot to remember.”

“All pleasant, I’ll wager.”

“No, indeed. Some of it very sad.”

He frowned down at her, as though angry that there should be anything to cloud her happiness. “And you actually want to hold in your memory what was sad?”

“Yes, because it’s a part of me, though I wasn’t there to see.”

“Do you know,” he said, “I tremble for you. I think you have a great power of suffering … what are you going to do when things happen to you — bad things, I mean?”

“Bear them, I suppose, like other people do.”

“No, not like other people,” he objected. “You’ll never do anything — just like other people.”

She gave a little laugh. “You seem to know a great deal about me, considering that we’ve just met.”

“I don’t feel as though we’d just met.”

“That’s funny. I feel as though I’d known you quite a long while. I guess the truth is we don’t know anything about each other.”

“Sometimes,” he said, rather dictatorially, “one finds out a great deal in the first meeting.”

“I suppose that means I’m easy to see through!”

He answered quickly, — “No, not at all. I think it means that there’s a good deal in you to see, to know, and you’re so unaffected. I’ve met girls — since the war especially — who spend their time leading you on and when you arrive — there’s nothing there.”

There was silence for a time, then Adeline asked abruptly, — “Won’t you tell me about your life in Ireland? To judge from what my cousin says, there are only two sorts of people — the rich ones who do nothing and the poor ones who do nothing.”

“I’m neither.” Fitzturgis spoke rather sombrely. “I raise Kerry cattle. That is, I’m beginning in a small way. I’ve a rather nice house, with a lot of rhododendrons round it. Very secluded. Mountains all about — I suppose you’d just call them very high hills.”

“It sounds nice but — rather lonely, for a young man.”

He laughed. “I thought you’d look on me as almost middle-aged.”

She drew back from that idea. “Oh, no. You see, I live in the house with my two great-uncles who are past ninety. I call them old. I don’t call a man middle-aged till he’s sixty. That’s what my father is.”

She went on to talk of all her uncles, telling their ages and what she considered their dispositions to be. She told him proudly of Finch’s achievements as a pianist, of Wakefield as an actor, of Eden’s great talent as a poet. She was obviously surprised and a little hurt that he had not heard of one of them. She thought the less of him for that.

“But, you see,” he explained, “I was away in the East for years and since I came back I’ve been buried in a rustic spot in Ireland.

“Have you no one to look after you?”

“I’ve a woman who comes in daily. She looks after me very well.” Abruptly he changed the subject to say, — “Tell me about yourself. Have you any special talent?”

“Me? Oh, yes — if you call riding a talent. You should see the rows of cups and ribbons I’ve won. I’ve inherited that from my father. There’s no better horseman in the Dominion. As for high-jumping! I don’t suppose there’s a bone in his body that hasn’t been broken at one time or another.”

“Well …”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, if you like! I’ll go to my cabin and bring up a photograph of him on horseback to show you.”

“It’s too far.”

“No, no, I’d love to. I can’t sit still for very long. Just a minute!” Before he could answer she was gone.

He lay on his back on the deck, watching from narrowed eyes the black streamer of smoke that spread, at first dense, from the funnel, then wavered and was lost in the blue.

Considering the flights of steps she must have descended and mounted she was back in an incredibly short time. Her breath came quickly. A brightness, as of the morning at sea, shone from her. She proudly put the photograph in his hands. Now he was standing beside her.

“what a fine-looking man,” he exclaimed, “and what a lovely horse!”

“Isn’t she? Don’t you think I’m like my father?”

It was plain that she wanted to be told that she was the image of this hard-featured, bony, weather-beaten parent. She — so lovely and with such a tender curve to her cheek! But, if she wanted it, she must have it.

“I see a striking resemblance,” said Fitzturgis.

She smiled happily. “Oh, yes, it’s there. And the funny thing is that he is the image of his grandmother. He and she and I all have red hair. His has never turned grey and I hope it never will.”

“Have you ever cared for any person outside your family?” he asked abruptly.

She gave this serious thought and then answered, — “No, I don’t think I have. There were school friends, of course, but I forgot them as soon as I was away from them. I don’t exchange reams of letters with other girls.”

“Your mother,” he said, as they leant against the rail, looking down at the tumbling jade-green waves, “tell me about your mother.”

“She is beautiful and clever. I can’t compare with her in either way.”

“And you’re an only child?”

“I have a small brother. He’s thirteen and he is clever too, but — well, I can’t explain Archer. You’d have to know him to believe in him. He’s cold and hard and yet he is sort of clinging. Now tell me about you. Are you an only child?”

At once he withdrew behind the barrier of the years between them. He could not pour out descriptions of his family as she did. In fact he shrank from talking of himself. All he could say was:

“I have a sister, married and living in America. I’ve just been over for a short visit. Three weeks. I hadn’t seen her since before the war.”

“All those years,” she said, “and you stayed only three weeks!”

“It is impossible for me to be away for long,” he said, a little stiffly.

“I suppose it is the livestock,” she said sympathetically.

“Yes. The livestock.”

That set her to talking about the livestock at Jalna, the horses in particular. Never before had she met anyone in whom she had wanted to confide, for, as the days of the voyage went on and they saw more of each other, she told him of her thoughts, of her unsophisticated ideas about life, in conversations that were absorbing to them both; to her because of this new experience of having a man friend — a man, not just a boy like Maurice; to Fitzturgis because of the pleasure, half-tender, half-sensual, of watching her vivid face, of glimpsing the woman who was coming into being. There was something in the Irishman’s intense face that captivated Adeline’s fancy. When she was alone in her cabin, his face would come before her, when she woke in the night to the sound of the waves, she saw him — now looking at her with those intent eyes — now gazing tranquilly out to sea.