The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (574 page)

ADELINE

Alone in her room, Adeline was undressing. She was thinking of the play and more especially of the scenes between the lovers. They had been moving to her, yet most unsatisfying. Did Wakefield really know what it was to suffer in love? She had heard, though vaguely, of an unhappy affair of his own. But — did he know what it was to suffer?

As she brushed her hair she saw her reflection in the looking glass — that glass which for so many years had reflected the chestnut hair and dark eyes of her great-grandmother — she noticed how large and luminous her own eyes had become, how pale her cheeks. “No wonder,” she thought, “for I ‘let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, feed on my damask cheek’ … what a fool I am to grieve so I’m sure he doesn’t long for me or his letters would be more of a comfort. They’re not a comfort. They’re a torture. What is he trying to do? Cool me off with accounts of his everyday doings, of his mother’s doings, of his troubles with Sylvia — when he must know so well what I want to hear?” She tried to think like a grown-up woman in love — not as a yearning child.

She brushed her hair fiercely, as though she would tear it out. She shut her eyes, so she might not see her reflection. She saw instead the face of Fitzturgis, so clearly that she stood petrified, the brush poised in mid-air, devouring those loved features with her inner longing.

But the sound of his voice, which she had thought the most beautiful in the world, escaped her. And, as she desperately tried to recall its tones, the memory of his face became obscured. Then, when it reappeared, it was distorted and wore an expression of such sneering scorn that her eyes flew open in her astonishment and pain. She had no photograph of him, not even a snapshot, with which to refresh her memory. “How horrible,” she thought, “if I must carry that sneering face in my memory.” Deliberately she recalled the few times when they had embraced, when they had lost themselves in the depths of each other’s eyes. But, when she tried to recall his eyes, they were glaring at her in anger.

She took her towel from the rack and crept upstairs to the bathroom. Up there it was dark and the darkness was rounded by the snoring of Nicholas. She went into the bathroom and turned on the light. Someone had left the window open and the night air was coming in, heavy with the smell of falling snow. It came down thick and wet, clinging heavily to everything it touched. Now the bad time for the birds would begin. Before she closed the window she stood looking out into the whiteness. There was no crisp gaiety of winter but only the melancholy warning of its approach.

She shivered as she washed her face and hands. Her bare feet showed, pink with cold, on the bathroom mat. She always was forgetting to put on her bedroom slippers. She washed her face with warm water, then with cold, and felt somewhat comforted. Kneeling by her bed she said her prayers half-aloud, quickly, the same prayers she had said as a child, but that time seemed far away.

To be covered up, head and all, was what she longed for these nights. No matter how lively the evening had been, there came this longing, this loneliness at night. She would shut herself away from it, the bedclothes over her head, breathing in the warm sweetness of her body. But even in this seclusion she could hear the night sounds of the house, a creaking on the stairs, a sound of movement in walls and roof. The old house was saying to her, — “I have known tears before these you shed, and heard long-drawn sighs. Yours are not the first and will not be the last. Your grief is no more than the soft snow lying on my roof. But I have witnessed grief sharp and glittering as the sword-like icicles that hang from my eaves in midwinter.”

Oh, if only she could hear his voice!

Suddenly, like a shout in the darkness, the idea of a telephone talk came to her. She remembered how Pheasant had telephoned Mooey on his birthday. If Pheasant could do that, why not she? She would do it! She would ring him up in the morning.… But it would cost twelve dollars and she had not that much money. From whom could she ask such a sum? Uncle Nicholas. He would surely give it her. But no — she made up her mind that she would charge it to her father’s telephone account and she would, before the account came in, tell him what she had done. It was a frightening decision, but do it she would.

Now, in her excitement, she threw the quilt from her shoulders and lay wide-eyed in the darkness, imagining what the conversation with Fitzturgis would be.

In the midst of it she fell asleep and in the midst of it she woke.

She was full of purpose. Her opportunity came right after lunch. Nicholas was taking his afternoon rest and Alayne too was lying down. Finch and Wakefield were gone to see the progress of the new house. Renny was in the town making the final arrangements for the showing of his horses at the coming Horse Show. In the tenseness of waiting, Adeline recalled, she knew not why, her rides with Pat Crawshay in Ireland. How gay he had been — how almost tender! How happily they had trotted along the roads among the grey-green hills! How mild had been the sunshine on his fair head and the glittering hide and mane of his mount! And how few happy recollections of Fitzturgis — moments of delight, yes — but no sustained happiness of an hour! And yet — with all the fervour of her spirit she reached out toward their troubled love.

At the first she was too excited to make clear her directions to the telephone operator, but finally they came to an understanding and she was told to wait for a ring. While she waited, she paced up and down the room. Wragge opened the door and looked in.

“Anything you want, miss?”

“No,” she answered curtly, then added, “thanks. I’m making a long distance call. I don’t want to be interrupted.”

“I’ll see to that, miss.” He gave her an inquisitive look and closed the door.

After a moment she opened it and looked up and down the hall. It was empty. She closed the door and locked it.

Her mouth was dry, her palms moist, her heart thudding so that she was conscious of it through all her body. Time passed. It seemed interminable. Her mother would be up, her father returned from the city. What would she say if they tried the door? Had either of them, she wondered, been through anything equal to this? Had her great-grandmother? Surely they had married the people they wanted, and that had been all there was to it.…

The shock of the telephone bell startled her. She took up the receiver.

“Hello!”

“You are calling a party in Eire?”

“Yes.”

“Here is your party,” said the nasal voice.

She waited. There were noises. Several times she said “Hello.” There was silence. Then, —

“Here is your party,” repeated the voice. “Go ahead.”

“Hello,” she said shakily.

“Hello,” answered the voice of Fitzturgis, as clear as though he were in the room.

“Oh, Mait, is it really you?”

“what is the matter?” he demanded.

“I” … oh, how dry her mouth was! “I had — to speak to you.”

“Has something happened? Are you in trouble?”

“No — no. I just
had
to speak to you.”

“But why?”

“Because … I love you so and I want to hear you say you love me … that’s all.”

He was silent. Surely he could hear the beating of her heart. What a thing that would be — right across the ocean!

“Maitland!” she cried. “Are you there?”

Still silence.

“Maitland! Speak to me.”

Now his voice came no longer clear, but harsh and broken. “My darling.”

“Are you sorry I called you?”

“No — no — I’m glad. Why — to hear your voice — so unexpected — it is unbelievable.” His own voice shook.

It was too much for her to bear. She broke down and began to sob into the telephone.

“Adeline — my darling — if only I had you in my arms …”

“Oh, Mait …” She could say no more.

Again his voice came, rough and shaken by emotion. “If you wanted to hear me say it — hear me now — I love you and only you and always shall.”

She could say nothing.

“Adeline? Are you there?”

He could not make out her incoherent reply.

“Listen.” He spoke sternly. “You rang me up. You wanted to talk. Are you going to waste all our time in crying?”

“No.”

“Then tell me that you’re going to be brave and happy. You know how I feel. Even though my letters …”

“Your letters are so …” She could not go on.

“My letters?”

“Y — yes.”

“what about them?”

“Oh — never mind … Maitland, darling, are you crying in Ireland?”

“I am not.”

“But you were!”

“Well … almost.”

“Oh, say you were. I can bear everything — if I think you’re crying too.”

He gave a short, uncertain laugh. “Very well. I’m crying too.”

“No — you’re laughing! You mustn’t laugh at me, Mait.”

Now his voice had great tenderness in it. “I only laugh because I … Oh, darling, how narrow the ocean seems! I feel that I can gather …”

The warning signal came. She tried to speak. She tried to cry out, — “Go on … don’t stop …” She heard his muffled goodbye. “Goodbye!” she cried, and bent her forehead to the receiver.

It was over.

She went outdoors into the new world that the snow had made. She crossed the lawn and walked toward the orchard. The trees still held their leaves, and one old tree, the apples of which had not been gathered, still displayed them boldly red, though each was capped by snow.

On the road to the stables some grain had been spilt and the pigeons were collected there. Whether because they had had enough, or for love of her, they now left the grain and winged through the grey air with grey and white and puce and buff wings to where she stood. She remembered how Noah had put out his hand from the ark and drawn in the dove. She put out her hand and caught the willing white pigeon, her favourite, and set it on her shoulder. The others circled about her head, their coral feet held close, the jewels of their eyes shining. They curved, they floated, they dropped, as though to alight on her, then again swept upward, the white one on her shoulder cooing in pride. She felt the movement of its feet through her thin blouse.

She saw her father in his riding clothes returning to the house from the stables. He saw her also and turned toward the orchard. At his approach, the birds, with a heavy whirring of wings, rose and flew back to their grain. As he drew near, her heart was bursting to tell him all. It was so hard for her to deceive. She would be forced before long to confess that she had telephoned to Ireland. Better tell him everything now, try for his sympathy. She called out:

“Hello, Daddy. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“No? Well, everything is arranged. It’s going to be a grand show. What have you been up to?”

Been up to!
If only he knew! what would he say? Now is the moment for telling him … He put his arm about her. The white pigeon swept upward and soared lonely above the ravine. The sun came out and the clots of soft snow began to fall from the trees. Soon winter would again retreat.

“why are you outdoors in that flimsy thing?” he demanded.

“I’m not cold.” She looked up into his face.

Never could she love any man better than him. If she had to choose between the two, which would she choose? She would die, she thought, before making that choice. But there was no need to choose. Brace yourself she thought, and tell him all — he will understand. Never had she asked understanding of him in vain. Yes, she would pour out to him the story of her love. She tried to choose the right words from the tumult in her brain. It should be easy, for she had been talking to Fitzturgis and now the ocean seemed so narrow. But no words came. She twisted a button of his jacket.

He repeated, carelessly curious, — “Tell me, what have you been doing?”

“Nothing,” she answered, smiling.

She was so close to him that the fine check of his homespun jacket was magnified and she saw it as a miniature countryside of little fields, green and brown and mauve. He guessed that she had something on her mind, and he pressed her against his side, in encouragement.

“Come,” he said, “what’s up?”

“I’ve been telephoning,” she got out.

“Yes?”

“To Ireland.” Her knees shook and she clung to him for support … “To a man I love.”

She raised her eyes to his face, eyes so like his own.

“Yes? And what did he say?”

He felt her body tauten. “Oh, Daddy,” she cried. “You
know!
And I made Uncle Finch promise he wouldn’t tell. He gave me his word.”

“Wakefield told me.”

“Are you angry?”

“I should be,” he thought. “I should be the arrogant outraged parent, ordering her to put this rascal out of her mind forever. But …” He looked down into her face, tracing in the pink-flushed marble of its contours the resemblance to the proud portrait of old Adeline. He had been waiting for this moment. He was glad now that it had come. He drew her along the path toward the house.

“No,” he said, “I’m not angry.”

In the porch, where her outgoing footprints stared up at them, he halted. “I’ve been in love myself,” he said, smiling.

“I suppose you have. With Mummy.”

“Yes.” The back of his hand went to his lips, as though to conceal the smile. “Yes — with your mother. And I had to wait, you know.”

“Oh, I’m willing to wait. I’ll wait for years — if I must. Though waiting comes hard to me.” Then she added, almost defiantly, — “I’ll never love anyone else … not in this way.”

“Of course not.” He touched her hair soothingly. “One never loves two people in the same way. It’s always very different.”

She laid her hands on his chest. “Oh, if only you could meet him,” she cried. “You’d understand everything. He’s so sensitive, so proud —” She hesitated and then added, almost in a whisper, — “so
poor
.”

“Yes. I gathered that.”

Now her eyes flashed in pride of her lover. “But he’s so clever. He can change everything, if only he’s given a chance … what I want is to see you two together. You’d be sure to like each other.”