The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (556 page)

ARRIVAL

All passengers who were disembarking in Ireland were up early in the morning. It was fresh and fair and so chill that Adeline shivered in her light coat. As usual everyone had been roused far earlier than was necessary. They stood about in determinedly cheerful groups or sat resignedly in the lounge, waiting for the summons to show their passports. Fitzturgis joined the three Whiteoaks, casting a swift look at each in turn. Maurice tried to look friendly, to conceal his shock, his chagrin of the night before. Finch’s eyes, with their accusing glance, contradicted his cheerful “Good morning.” He fervently wished they had never become acquainted with Fitzturgis, though up to this time he had liked him very much. But Adeline had been given into his charge and what would he say to Renny if his daughter became entangled in some silly love affair? He thought of himself at her age and of his lovelorn thoughts of a girl whom he used often to see but never met and never did meet. He realized that Adeline was different.

Fitzturgis met their looks coolly. Then he let his eves rest for an instant on Adeline. He knew that both men were watching him and he gave her a tranquil smile. The lighting of her face and the happy sparkle in her eyes were proof enough of her feeling for him. She was too unskilled in deception, too ardent in nature to attempt concealment.

After the long time of waiting, the passengers filed into the room where the passports were to be examined. Finch and Maurice stood close to Adeline like two guards, giving her no chance to speak to Fitzturgis. She looked past them, smiling at him, not caring. There was plenty of time ahead. Feeling important, a traveller, she held her passport firmly. She opened it then and saw the stern young face pictured inside. Maurice glanced at her coldly, accusingly. He felt that she had spoilt his return to Glengorman. How often he had pictured their arrival, their first days, when he would lead her through all the dim old rooms, revisit with her all the hills and valleys, the cottages of the peasants he remembered so well.

The tender came alongside and they went aboard. Everyone was anxious about his own luggage. Irish-American voices called out loudly. Adeline had never seen so many suitcases and trunks in such a muddle. She said, with a tremble in her voice, — “I shall lose all my best things! I know I shall.”

Finch and Maurice began anxiously to scan the disorderly mass of luggage. Though it was May the wind blew icy. A stout man in uniform put his hand on Adeline’s arm.

“It’s too cowld here for ye,” he said. “Get ye into the war-rm.” Gently he pushed her toward the saloon. Finch and Maurice she had got rid of. Fitzturgis was just ahead. She pressed forward till she was beside him. She touched his arm and said, — “Hello, Mait.”

He turned sharply and looked into her eyes.

“I felt you coming,” he said. His low voice went through her like the sound of a bugle and all her nerves sprang to attention.

“Isn’t it glorious?” she said, and held up her face to the wind.

They saw people crowding into the saloon, stout women, men in stiff suits, nuns, a priest or two. They pushed their way along the narrow passage, through another smaller saloon, past people clutching bundles, out on to the foredeck. A thousand waves were playing about the ferry, as though wondering what they would do with her. Seagulls cried out, then winged swiftly, as though in a race, or sailed with wings as still as marble.

Fitzturgis put his body between Adeline and the wind. He said — “We’re almost at our journey’s end. It’s been …” he hesitated and then went on quickly, — “one of the happiest times in my life.”

“And
my
happiest.”

“No, no, don’t say that.”

“why not?”

“It couldn’t be … except for one reason.”

The warm colour flooded her face. “And that
is
the reason, Mait.”

Finch came out of the saloon toward them, his brows drawn together in a frown, his sensitive mouth embarrassed.

“I’ve located your luggage, Adeline,” he said.

“Oh, thanks, Uncle Finch.”

“I suppose you’ve been worrying about it,” he said grimly.

“Oh, yes — I mean, oh, no — I knew you’d find it. Thanks so much.”

Fitzturgis said, in his tranquil voice, — “Quite a crowd on board. Two hundred they say.”

“Yes.” Finch put his arm about Adeline. “If you’re determined to stay out here, I must try to keep you warm.”

“We shall soon be there,” said Fitzturgis.

“We are to be met by a car. What about you?” asked Finch.

“I go by train from Cork.”

Adeline put in, — “Can’t you come with us in the car?”

Well, that was forward of her, thought Finch. If she were going to behave like this he wished he’d been in charge of someone else.

“There’ll be lots of room. It’s a big car, Maurice says.”

“Of course, it’s Maurice’s car.” Finch looked hard at her.

Fitzturgis said, — “I have business in Cork. And, in any case, I’m not convenient to Glengorman.”

“I thought you were quite near,” she cried, disappointed.

“No, not very near,” he returned, as though indifferently.

She gave him a mischievous look. (“He is not going to let Uncle Finch see what there is between us.”) She could not discover from Finch’s expression whether Maurice had told him anything. They stood looking at the approaching island, clothed in the pastel freshness of spring.

Maurice now joined them saying — “We’re about to land.” He gave an accusing look at all three, as though they made a conspiracy among them against him. There was a general movement toward the stairs.

Adeline’s fingers touched Fitzturgis. His hand grasped them a moment and held them fiercely.

“Mait,” she whispered, “we’ll stay together as long as we can.”

“Yes. As long as we can.”

Soon they were in the confusion of the customs sheds. The letter W was far from the letter F, yet they soon discovered that the porters were not slaves to initial letters. As some of them could not read they set down the luggage where it was convenient and left the distraught passengers to discover it. So it turned out for Adeline, pressing through the crowd in search of the immense brown suitcase which Ernest had lent her (“I would gladly give it you, my child, but I may need it myself, at any time.” As though he, poor old dear, would ever take another journey!) She searched most diligently in the vicinity of the letter F, and there by the counter that ran the length of the shed, she espied Fitzturgis standing with his belongings opened up in front of a customs officer.

She heard him speak and the sound of his voice drew her like a magnet. She stood beside him, looking eagerly into his face. “Oh, Mait, Uncle Ernest’s suitcase is lost. Have you seen it?”

“No, but I’ll help you search. Where are the others?”

“At the far end. They’ve lost things too.”

The officer was chalking something on the cases. Fitzturgis set them on the floor and took Adeline by the arm.

“We’ll soon find them,” he said.

They pushed their way among the baffled throng, dodged porters pushing harrows of luggage or carrying loads too heavy for them. One was very old for such work, one was very young and thin and ragged, but everyone was so good-humoured it made Adeline happy. The group of nuns had been met by a small, very efficient Mother Superior. She marched here and there giving orders to porters like a diminutive sergeant-major. The youngest nun was small too and extraordinarily pretty. It was plain that she had never been away before. She clung to the hand of one of the other nuns with the look, half-frightened, half-pleased, and wholly trusting, of a little child. When the older nun moved she led her so, a pace behind, glancing down at her with a proud protective look, like a mother with her little one.

“That little nun,” thought Adeline, “knows nothing of the happiness I feel or how amazing it is to be me.”

The cold draught that swept through the shed was beautiful to her. She thought no more about the suitcase but gave herself up to watching Fitzturgis as he intently examined one heap of luggage after another. She wanted to impress his every feature on her memory — the way his crisp curly mouse-brown hair grew on his forehead, his deep-set eyes, high cheekbones and full-lipped mouth. She had no plans, no feeling that could be called desire, only a wild wish to live and to exult in living.

At last the suitcase was found. Again Finch and Maurice joined them. Maurice was too much concerned about his trunks to give a thought to Adeline. One by one the trunks were swung up by a derrick and of them all his were the last. Before he had recovered them Fitzturgis said goodbye. There was regret in his eyes as he shook hands. He was conscious that their attitude to him was not as friendly as it had been. However, Finch said vaguely, —

“I suppose we shall see you before long. You don’t live too far away, do you?”

“About fifty miles. That’s quite a way in Ireland.”

They hesitated, looking doubtfully at each other. Finch raised an enquiring eyebrow at Maurice. (Adeline was willing, — “Oh, Mooey, please, please, please ask him to come to Glengorman.”)

“There’s my smallest trunk!” cried Maurice, and pressed to the platform’s edge.

The stout man in uniform who had driven them back from this narrow platform half-a-dozen times again complained, — “It’s not allowed. Ye must get into the shed. Come, now, young lady —” and he took a pinch of Adeline’s sleeve and himself led her back. How willingly she went! Anything to be separated from her two guardians.

Fitzturgis and Adeline stood alone together in the crowd.

“Goodbye, Mait,” she said and gave him her hand.

He took it and held it. “I will come,” he said.

“How soon can you come?”

“I’ll let you know.” He paused irresolute, as though he tried to say something, then repeated his goodbye and turned away.

But she would not yet part with him. A space had cleared ahead of them. Suiting her step to his she walked beside him toward the main door.

“How soon?” she asked.

“Very soon.”

“We’ve said goodbye, haven’t we?” she said when they reached the door.

“Yes.”

A porter had engaged a car for him and it stood waiting, his suitcases inside.

“My darling one,” said Fitzturgis quietly, “I must leave you now.”

She held up her face to be kissed. He put his arms about her and their lips met. Then he sprang into the car and was gone.

She was in a daze till she found herself in Maurice’s old Armstrong-Siddeley, driven by the same Patsy who had come to meet him when he was a small boy.

“You’re not a bit changed, Patsy,” exclaimed Maurice.

“Och, I’m the same ould Patsy,” he agreed, showing a number of black teeth under a shaggy grey moustache, “but the place is not the same — with the masther dead and gone and you away off in Canada. It’s glad I am ye’ve come home, and everything clane and tidy for your welcome, though me missus says the curtains is like to fall down and the cairpets to break under yer feet, what with the moth and the rot.”

Adeline whispered to Finch, — “Listen to him — calling this ‘home’ to Mooey.”

“And so it will be, from now on. What a pity his mother could not have come to see him in it!”

“Yes,” she agreed, then added happily, “but we’re here to enjoy it and we shall tell her all about it … Look, Uncle Finch, a cart with a darling little donkey! I remember them so well. You know, the time when I was in Ireland before doesn’t seem very long ago, but what a difference! Now I’m grown up.” She added to herself, — “grown up — a woman — deeply in love!”

She mused on herself, at the change in herself …

When they reached Cork the streets were busy. But women with black shawls over their heads moved slowly in an ancient leisure. Over all hung the canopy of a clear blue sky and bright pale sunshine. They went into a restaurant and had buns and hot coffee to warm them. Adeline talked of everything she saw, yet her eyes were in constant search of that one figure. The family at Jalna were proud of their well-shaped bodies. They noticed, more than they should, the proportions, the carriage of other men. So Adeline had noted with admiration that Fitzturgis, though not tall, was admirably proportioned. Now where was he? Hastening along the road toward his home or somewhere in Cork? what would she not have given for just one more glimpse of him!

Maurice avoided her eyes. He would not be friends with her — not yet. Perhaps never again would their relations be the same. And yet, what was this little infatuation for Fitzturgis? Nothing more, in all probability, than a shipboard affair that would be forgotten after a week on land. But try as he would to be philosophic about it Maurice was much disturbed. Never before had Adeline shown a preference for any man. The callow love passages of most girls were not for her.

As the car moved along the country road toward Glengorman Maurice ceased to make response to Patsy’s recital of all that had taken place during his absence and gave himself up to the disappointment of his return.

“She has spoilt it all,” he thought, remembering how he had lain awake most of the night. “Last night — the night before landing — and today — the day I have so long looked forward to — she has spoilt them both. I’ll never forgive her for this.” He was conscious, in every fibre, of her sitting in the seat behind. He could hear her voice and imagined how, the evening before, that same voice had said loving things to Fitzturgis.

Perhaps too easily he felt himself living in the midst of uncertainty, felt himself slighted. He who should have been the proud eldest son, like his uncle Renny, was the son his father liked least. Nothing he could do, he felt, was congenial to his father. Even his mother, whose love for him was so palpable, had let him be sent away to Ireland when he was a small boy, to live with an old man she had never seen. She had, not long ago, confessed to him that it had nearly broken her heart — she had been persuaded by others to give him up. Maurice had not forgiven her. Even though the visit had brought forth the planned-for fruit and he had inherited Glengorman he had not forgiven her. Even though his years in Ireland had been the happiest of his life he would never forgive her. She should not have let him go.