The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (565 page)

She interrupted, — “Do you know what I call you?”

“No.”

“The half-hearted lover.

“
Half-hearted?
”

“Kiss me then. Just one little kiss, Mait, and I shan’t feel so lonely.”

He put his hand beneath her chin, raised her face to his, and their lips met and the wild leaping of their pulses met and the yearning of their two beings urged them on. Incoherent phrases were spoken, as though they were learning a new language, as though they were foreigners with the necessity of understanding one another in some grave matter.

“Is this a parting?” she asked, as she leant back against a tree wreathed in ivy, as though in weakness.

“If I had my way,” he said, “we should never be parted again.”

She put all her longing into the wish, — “If only I might take you back to Jalna.”

He gave his short laugh. “what a picture! what a prize! Oh, my darling …”

She cast herself from the support of the tree, against his shoulder. She clung to him, as though she would never let him go. “You must not say such cruel things about yourself, Mait. It hurts me, because you’re so splendid, so …”

He silenced her with a kiss, then put her from him. She saw how pale he was. Shyly she put her hand on his mouse-coloured hair. “I’ve always wanted to touch it,” she said. “And your eyelashes are curly, too.” And then added, — “My, but you’re beautiful.”

That made him laugh outright. “what distortions love can make!” he exclaimed. “I wager I’d look a satyr to your dad.”

Before she could answer, her quick ear caught the sound of voices. “They’re coming,” she cried. “I won’t move! I will sit here with both my arms about your neck.”

But before she could touch him he was on his feet, facing the direction from where the voices came. Now Finch and Maurice were appearing round the bend in the drive. Adeline exclaimed, on a despairing note:

“Oh, why did we stay here — to be found! I know the loveliest spot by the sea where we might have been. I’d say goodbye properly and sweetly, Mait, if you’d come there tomorrow. Do say you will.”

He scarcely heard her. His frowning defensive gaze was on the advancing figures. Maurice’s eyes were, on him, Finch’s, in concern, rested on Adeline’s emotion-swept face.

Maurice broke out, — “So you did come, Fitzturgis.”

“Yes. To say goodbye to Adeline.” He turned to Finch. “You don’t mind, I hope.”

“That depends,” returned Finch.

“On what?”

“On how you say it.”

“We said it with a kiss,” Adeline’s voice came clearly. “There’s nothing wrong in a kiss, is there, when you love a man?”

Maurice said to Fitzturgis, — “You know what my uncle and I think of this.”

“I cannot prevent my feelings toward Adeline,” returned Fitzturgis. “Having those feelings, I came to bid her goodbye. But goodbye it is. I shall not see her again — not till I’m able to offer her marriage.”

The word marriage was to Maurice a challenge from an opponent, a coming into the open with a drawn sword. To Finch it was solidifying feelings that had been mercifully fluid. Now there was no escape, except to get Adeline out of Ireland as soon as possible, return her to the authority of her father.

To Adeline the word gave her a new status. She could face those male relations, shoulder to shoulder with Fitzturgis. She rose and stood beside him. A line from a history book came into her mind: “Don’t shoot till you see the whites of their eyes.” She stiffened her spine, looking into Maurice’s eyes.

Finch said to Fitzturgis, — “I’m glad to hear you speak as you do. You see, Adeline is in my care. I’m accountable to her parents.”

“Eighteen is of age in a girl,” put in Adeline. “Not that I intend to be defiant to you, Uncle Finch, for no uncle could have been sweeter to me than you, but I know what is in my heart and I don’t see any use in hiding it.”

“That’s a good girl,” said Finch, trying to cajole her back into childhood.

“There’s nothing more to be said,” added Maurice.

Fitzturgis looked from one to the other. “I may as well be going,” he said.

“Much better,” agreed Maurice.

A flush crept up from the Irishman’s neck and suffused his face. He turned away, as though he could not trust himself to speak. Finch held out his hand to him. He said, — “Goodbye, and I hope that, when we next meet, the atmosphere will be more serene. Please don’t think I haven’t enjoyed meeting you. It’s just …”

“I understand,” Fitzturgis returned coolly. “I was all right so long as I kept my distance.”

“Just that,” agreed Maurice.

Adeline turned fiercely on her cousin. “You are enough, Mooey,” she said, “to make me throw myself right at Mait’s head.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“You’re horrible.”

“Thanks.” He turned away and strode toward the house.

Finch stood irresolute. Should he leave Adeline and Fitzturgis alone, for a last goodbye? It would be only kind. Yet he was responsible for her. What if she ran off with her lover? She had Gran’s wild blood. It might lead her to some passionate exploit for which Renny would never forgive him.

Fitzturgis was regarding him with an ironic smile.

“I’ll settle it for you,” he said.

He came to Adeline and put his hand on her shoulder. “Goodbye, Adeline.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

“Write to me.”

Her eyes were large and dark in her pale face.

“No,” he answered. “It will be better not.”

“But you can’t leave me like this,” she cried.

“Yes, I can — and must.”

“If I write, won’t you answer my letter?”

Fitzturgis looked at Finch.

“I think you might answer,” said Finch. “I certainly think you might.”

“Thanks.” A light came into Fitzturgis’ eyes. “Then I will.” He went quickly to his car.

Finch put his arm about Adeline. She stood rigid while Fitzturgis backed his car and turned it. He waved his hand from the window.

Adeline broke from Finch. She ran a few yards after the car, called out “Goodbye, Mait,” in a strangled voice, then halted. She watched the car pass through the gate, then, with a dazed look in her eyes, came back to Finch.

“That was kind of you, Uncle Finch,” she said quietly.

Finch, expecting a despairing outburst from her, was grateful for her self-control. “Good girl,” he said. He stopped himself from adding, — “You’ll get over this.” Instead he asked, — “Should you like to go for a walk?”

“Yes,” she answered. “But — do you mind if I go alone? I want to think.”

Finch was relieved. “Of course. It would be better. Take the dogs with you.”

“Uncle Finch.”

“Yes?”

“I want to leave.”

“Well, we are leaving in a week.”

“I want us to go now. Tomorrow. I can’t bear being here any longer.”

Finch was willing. To go to London, to have the excitement of meeting Wakefield, of the theatres, the crowds, would do Adeline good.

“Very well,” he said, “we’ll leave as soon as I can get passages for us. But there’s one thing you must promise. You must make friends with Mooey before we leave.”

“I promise.”

They walked side by side along the drive, Adeline with dignity refusing the weakness of another backward glance. In front of the house Maurice was playing with the Labradors, ostentatiously at ease. He flung a stick for them and they hurled their muscular fawn-coloured bodies after it in an abandon of pursuit. The mother secured it but her son gave her no peace. He rollicked beside her, jostling her, growling and at last caught the stick in his mouth also, and so united they galloped gracefully to their rd’s feet.

Maurice did not look at Adeline but again threw the stick. This time the son captured it and Bridget, the mother, as though disgruntled, lowered her tail and slipped out of sight among the rhododendrons. When Adeline reached the path that led to the sea Bridget was there beside her, trotting through the bracken, its unfolding fronds tickling her sides.

They moved on together, trees close on their right, and on their left the path falling away to the black rocks below. The tide was moving in, pressing with resonance through glistening clefts, rippling, muttering, plashing with faint but inexorable urging against seaweed and sand. Now and again Adeline paused to look down on it, then walked swiftly on. She must be out on the stony headland, alone. In a tiny cove she saw two boys draw in their boat. They had been gathering seagulls’ eggs from the cliffs. She saw the great basketful of them and for a moment pictured the young gulls that never would be hatched. She saw the bare brown feet of the boys and their long windblown hair.

She gained the open. The path led to a low stone wall and beyond it wound among grey boulders upward to the headland. She looked about her. There was no one in sight, no living creature but Bridget at her side. She climbed the stile over the wall. With a leap Bridget passed over it and seemed to move with a new grace and a new meaning, as though an invisible leash had been taken off her.

Adeline walked steadily along the path, among the boulders. No one could hear her now and she cast off all restraint and cried openly. At first the painful tears stung her eyes, then they came more freely. She cried out loud, hearing her own voice, now hoarse, tearing at her throat, now high and clear like a weeping child’s. Bridget gave her one look askance, then no more.

Where the path ended at the cliff’s edge, she stood looking out on the open sea where no sail was to be seen, only endlessly moving waves. She grew calmer and, at last, she sat down on the brink, quiet except for the heavy rise and fall of her breast. She picked up a small stone and cast it over the brink. She heard the faint noise of its falling but it made no sound when it disappeared into the sea. “I shall disappear out of his life like that little stone that’s been swallowed up by the sea.” She felt her helplessness in the immense movement of the world. She was used to thinking of herself as a strong character, in contrast to Roma whom she thought of as weak. She had had no experience of life to prepare her for the emotions that had stirred her since the birth of her love for Fitzturgis. She found herself battling in a world she could not comprehend. Now she was alone, her heart aching with the love she could not tear from it, and with the consciousness that Fitzturgis was rd of himself, hardened by life, able to face with fortitude what he had to face. She felt a kind of anger at him for his strength. If he would have sat down and wept with her, she could have borne it. But this loneliness, this desolation …

She threw herself on the hard ground, and again crying aloud, she clutched at the harsh dry grass and tore it. She rolled to the very brink of the cliff and lay looking down at the tide grappling at its base. As she lay watching the insurge of the waves, she grew quieter. She lay still for a while, watching the dim sun lose itself in the dim horizon.

At last she sat up and looked about for the Labrador. Bridget had left her to explore the ciffside, trotting among the grey boulders, discovering in that barrenness scents that woke instincts long forgotten. She was lost to view among these prehistoric forms for a time. Now Adeline saw her returning as though in fear. As she drew nearer her fear grew. The hair along her spine stood upright, her mouth hung open, and her eyes rolled in terror.

“Bridget! Come!” called Adeline, and the dog all but flung itself on her for protection. It looked back toward the more distant boulders, watchful for the source of its panic. Adeline too was afraid. She rose and went toward the spot where Bridget had been. But when she was there she discovered nothing on the hillside but the stark boulders. Now she saw in them grotesque resemblances to idiotic or distorted human heads. Bridget had refused to follow her but sat with pricked ears, statuesque and watchful against the sky.

Adeline found nothing but the emptiness of the stony land, the emptiness of the sky and the emptiness of the sea. The wind dried the tears on her cheeks. She returned to Bridget and they went homeward along the path. All the way, Bridget kept close behind her. Every now and again Adeline would feel the touch of the sensitive muzzle against her leg.

She had made up her mind to be friendly with Maurice. It was easier when she found Pat Crawshay having a drink with him and Finch. The three men looked at her with concern. It was plain that she had been crying. Blades of grass clung to her hair. One of her stockings was twisted. Addressing Pat Crawshay rather than the others she poured out the story of Bridget’s fright.

Pat heard it with gravity. “No one can tell what she saw,” he said. “Queer things have happened among those hills.”

“why, surely,” exclaimed Finch, “you don’t believe Bridget actually
saw something?
”

“She may not have seen it as we see. Perhaps she just felt it. It’s not the first time I’ve heard of strange frights on that bit of land.”

“Oh,” said Adeline, drawing a long breath, “no wonder I was afraid.”

“You did well to run home,” said Pat, “or we might never have seen you again.”

“Don’t frighten her,” said Maurice, on a protective note.

“I’m just warning her.” His eyes embraced her, from her twisted stocking to her rumpled hair.

She moved to stand beside him, as though to show her confidence in him.

Maurice brought her a glass of sherry. “This will steady you,” he said.

“Thanks.” Their hands touched and she gave him a little smile.

Two days later, she and Finch were on the packet on their way across the Irish Sea.

It was a nice new packet glistening with fresh paint. They sat, side by side, in the lounge, unnoticed by the group of Irish people, mostly women, who sat solidly and wholesomely in the middle of the room, discussing in loud practical voices the affairs of their village. The women held their baskets and bundles on their knees as though they would not risk parting with them, even for a moment. On their own knees the men laid their hard-worked hands that looked large and resigned.

Finch was glad to take Adeline away from Ireland. The last thing he had expected when they had set out on their voyage from Canada was such complications as had arisen from her meeting with Fitzturgis. Looking back, he blamed himself for not having discovered the way the wind was blowing and seen to it that Adeline and Fitzturgis were not left alone together. But how he would have hated to interfere. It was not in his nature to dominate or even to guide others. He had found the circuitous turnings of his own spiritual path quite enough. Now he looked at her sitting composedly beside him, her eager eyes absorbing the oddities of the group before them, and he wondered how deep the wound had been.