Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Adeline looked from her reflection to the child in the picture. That other child looked so real, so living, that her breast seemed to rise and fall with her breathing. Surely the little heart was beating fast in happiness. Surely her voice would break the silence of the room. But Adeline was not afraid. She waited, with parted lips, for a sign.
Renny and Dermot Court had come into the room. It was Renny’s voice that broke the silence.
“To think,” he said, “that she lived to be over a hundred!”
Adeline turned and faced them.
“Well, young woman,” said Dermot, “and what have you to say for yourself?”
She put on her sweetest, most cajoling expression and came to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I could not help it.”
“I know, I know. But the next time you come I shall let your father take you in charge.”
Ceremoniously he offered her his arm and led her to the dining room.
Across the table she asked, “Who is the white-headed boy named Pat?”
Dermot chuckled. “I saw the two of you racing and hallooing. That’s young Pat Crawshay. Sir Patrick, to give him his title. His father was killed in a hunting accident when Pat was only three. He’s a fine little fellow.”
Adeline thought long about Patrick. She made up her mind that, when she returned to Canada, she would send him a picture postcard of Niagara Falls.
The next day they left for England.
It was a wild and stormy crossing. Adeline kept her legs under her but she was not herself. Her face was pale and there was a pessimistic look about her mouth as she stared at the tumbling grey waves. For the first time since leaving Jalna she felt homesick. When she thought of her mother a tightness came in her throat. Seeing her expression, Renny put his arm about her and drew her into the chair with him. With a look of mingled misery and gratitude she snuggled close and fell fast asleep.
They had just a day to spare before the Grand National was run. And what a day it was! They went early to Aintree. It was cool, windy, and sunny. Renny knew several of the racing men there and had letters of introduction to others of them, from Dermot. Everywhere they went there were horsy-looking men and women.
They walked the four and a half miles round the course and inspected every one of the thirty jumps. They stood in rapt speculation by Becher’s Brook. Would Johnny the Bird clear it? They both said they wished the race were tomorrow instead of in another year.
Adeline ate an enormous tea and developed hiccoughs. Neither sucking of sugar nor nine gulps of water, without taking breath, cured her. She sat facing Renny in the hotel bedroom, hiccoughing. Suddenly, with a look of horror, he pointed under the bed.
“A gorilla!” he gasped.
The fright completely cured her.
Next day they saw the Grand National run and, that night, in a train packed with people, set out for London.
LONDON
I
T WAS MORNING
, it was spring, there was a feeling of gayety in the air, even in the railway station. Wakefield had gone into the café and had a cup of coffee, for he had been told the train was late. Now he stood by a bookstall looking over the titles of magazines and weeklies: the
Illustrated London News
, the
Taller
, the
Sketch
,
Punch
, the latest novels, the huge best-sellers. Should he buy something for Sarah to read? But she bought such masses of reading for herself it seemed quite unnecessary. No, he would buy chocolates for her. How her digestion stood all she ate puzzled him, but it did and she put on no extra weight. He moved to the sweet stall and bought a pound of chocolate creams. Then he remembered young Adeline. She would, of course, think the sweets were for her. Dash it, he thought, kids are a nuisance! He bought a
Sketch
and wrapped it round the telltale box. A train had just arrived. The people poured out of it on to the platform: businessmen strolling along, their bowler hats a little to one side, dropping a cigarette and feeling for their ticket; women leading children, women leading dogs, the dogs looking self-important, as though the train were theirs and they only tolerated human beings on it. One carriage was crammed with young fellows in the uniform of the Air Force. They were laughing and jolly. Wakefield stared at them and wondered if he would like to be a flier. A girl in a white overall pushed a tea wagon, the big urn glittering, the little glass case full of buns and sandwiches and plum cake. Wakefield was jostled first by one, then by another person. He was in everybody’s way. He felt rather sorry for himself. He decided that, as he had bought sweets for Sarah, he should have some for Adeline. He went back to the stall and bought a box of chocolates with hard centres. He lingered by the imported fruits and dates. It would have been more wholesome if he had bought them instead of all that sweet stuff. He had a mind to exchange them. Then he heard another train arriving and ran out to the platform.
“Is that the train from Liverpool?” he asked a porter.
“Yes, sir. Number five platform.”
Wakefield hurried through the crowd. He reached the iron gates of number five and looked right into his eldest brother’s face.
It was so extraordinary to see him here, yet so natural to see him anywhere, that Wakefield stood smiling and saying nothing. Renny kissed him as naturally as though he were a little boy again.
“Hullo, Wake! Here’s Adeline.”
Wake bent and kissed her.
“How she’s grown! What about your luggage?”
“That fellow over there.”
They found a taxi. Renny looked his young brother over approvingly.
“You look fine, Wake. How’s Finch? Why didn’t he come?”
“Practising. Lord, I get tired of it! But the recital is in a few days and our first night is next week. So you’re in for an exciting time. I don’t know whether or not Finch and I are glad to have you for those occasions.”
“Well, it will put you on your mettle.”
Wakefield gave his gay laugh. “Renny, you’re just the same! You never change. If ever you do, I shall feel that my world has come to an end.”
“Lots of sailors and soldiers. A Colonel Somebody in Ireland says war is bound to come soon. What do they think here?”
“Everybody asks everybody else what they think. No one knows. But I don’t believe we shall. I hope not. It would be too irritating with our play on.”
Renny gave him an amused look. He put his hand on Wake’s knee and squeezed it. “It’s good to see you looking so fit. How are Finch and Sarah getting on?”
“So far it’s a success. Finch isn’t so nervously tired as he was. But he works too hard.” He glanced toward Adeline. “I’ll tell you more later.”
Adeline was staring out of the window of the taxi.
“Look, Daddy, isn’t it splendid? Far better than Liverpool. What place is that?”
She asked questions so fast it was not possible to answer them. They went straight to Brown’s Hotel where the family was well known. Wakefield would have liked to have a long talk with Renny. He wanted to tell him all about the play and, even more, about Molly Griffith.
“Couldn’t we stay here,” he asked, “and send for Finch to come over? Then you needn’t see Sarah at once.”
“I may as well get that over with,” returned Renny. “Anyhow I want to see what sort of place you’re in.”
“But I think Adeline ought to rest.”
Adeline declared she was not tired. In truth she could scarcely hold her eyes open but she was determined to see all that she could, and with no delay.
Renny sent her to the bathroom to wash.
“She’d better come to us,” said Wakefield. “You can’t play nursemaid in London.”
“That is what Alayne worried about.” It had all seemed so easy in Ireland. Now he thought doubtfully of a small daughter on his hands. “Who would look after her?”
“Well, there’s Henriette. She’d do anything for a little extra money. I think Sarah would take Adeline out and she could come to rehearsals with me sometimes.”
“Good!” said Renny. “The very thing.”
They set out for Gayfere Street.
Renny had managed it all with such expedition and authority that Wakefield, once again in a taxi with him and Adeline, felt no older than the little girl. He sat relaxed, smiling, expectant, sunning himself in the moment’s recapture of the childhood he had so relished.
Henriette opened the door to them and achieved a wan smile, for she had been assured that the visitors were only temporary.
Finch was practising. They had had a glimpse of him from the window, bent above the piano, his hands chasing each other across the keys. When he turned on the seat at their entrance, his face was flushed. He had to make an effort to keep his lips from trembling. But Renny greeted him with reassuring warmth, then glanced about the room somewhat disparagingly.
“Rather a stuffy little place,” he observed. “But I suppose you couldn’t do better.”
“We love it,” said Wakefield. “And Henriette too. She’s a treasure. I must go and tell her you’re staying for lunch. Come along, Adeline, and I’ll show you the kitchen.”
Finch knew that Wake was giving him an opportunity for a word alone with Renny but he did not want to be alone with him. He had no words to justify what he had done, in Renny’s eyes. Renny had gone through a great deal to free him from Sarah’s hold and he had returned to her of his own will. It would take a lot of explaining. In truth he could not explain it to himself. There were moments when he still shrank from Sarah’s nearness, when the clasp of her arms made him shiver and turn away his head. But there were other moments of a deeper ecstasy than he had ever before known with her. She was two women, he felt, the one whose very touch repelled him and the one who had so woven herself into the fabric of his life that to be separated from her was to be torn and bleeding. Or was it perhaps that he was two men, the artist who could not endure the violation of his own secret world and the sensualist who willingly sacrificed his flesh as fuel to passion? To have spoken to Renny of either of these states would have been to embarrass him. How lucky Renny is not to have such feelings, Finch thought in spiritual arrogance, knowing nothing of his brother’s inner life or that his emotions might be equally piercing, though less complex.
He gave Renny a troubled smile. “I suppose you think I’m a fool,” he said.
“Yes, I do, rather. But then I’ve never understood your relations with Sarah. If you want to live with her again it’s your own affair. I hope it will turn out better than the first time, that is all.”
“It will. I’m sure it will. I’m not like I was then. I’m stronger. Don’t you think I look stronger?”
“I think you look very well indeed.” He smiled rather maliciously. “Can Sarah be civil to me, after the encounters we’ve had?”
“She said only this morning that she was willing to forget.”
“She may be willing but I’ll bet she doesn’t!”
Sarah had entered unheard.
She asked, “Is the
she
you’re talking about, me?”
“No — Henriette,” answered Renny. He held out his hand.
She laid her soft cool one in his. She looked at him out of her eyes, which were set like jewels, with no white showing about the iris. She gave him a long, searching look, but found nothing to reward her search. He was invulnerable where she was concerned.
“I ought to hate you,” she said, “but I don’t, because keeping Finch and me apart has made us love each other all the more.”
“That’s good news,” he returned coolly.
A silence hung between them which none of them could break. Then Adeline and Wake returned to the room. Wakefield talked volubly, the strain passed. There was so much to talk about. The play, Finch’s recital, the visit to Ireland. Adeline was encouraged to be forward by her uncles, then put in her place by her father. But nothing could keep her in her place. She overran boundaries as the wind.
Henriette was approached on the subject of Adeline’s visit. The remuneration offered by Renny for her services seemed princely. Wakefield had never seen her so vivacious.
“She’s positively bouncing!” he exclaimed. “Whatever have you done to her?”
“Been just moderately generous. How does the poor old thing live down there?”
“Buys her own food and lives on buns and tea. She’s as honest as the sun. I love her.”
“So do I!” cried Adeline. “When can I go to a rehearsal?”
Wakefield leaped to his feet. “Good God, I ought to be off now! Renny, when shall I see you again?”
“Aren’t you having lunch here?”
“I haven’t time. I had coffee and a sandwich at Euston while I waited.”
He gave Renny a coaxing look and his elder followed him into the hall. While putting on his coat Wakefield said: —
“I’ve made a friend, Renny. I want you to meet her. I think I’ve spoken of her in letters. She’s an actress — Molly Griffith. When and where could I bring her to meet you?”
“To dinner at my hotel tonight, you blasted little fool.”
“Why do you call me that?”
“Well, I can see that you’re gone on her.”
“No, no — it’s just friendship, pure and simple. But you’ll like her. She’s just the sort of girl you’d like. She’s as different from Sarah as a mountain is different from …” he hesitated, then added — “a slug!”
“A neat comparison,” said Renny. “If you feel like that about Sarah it must be hard living in the house with her.”
“Oh, I’m getting used to it.”
Sarah appeared in the doorway.
“Talking about me again!” she exclaimed. “I knew how it would be, Renny. I knew as soon as you arrived there would be talk about me.”
He was lighting a cigarette and looked at her across the flare of the match. “Wake was just comparing you with a girl he’s gone on.”
“To my great disadvantage, I’m sure.”
“No — he was just saying that you are softer and more clinging.”
She stood rigid, her head turning from one to the other, her mouth thin and small. “By George,” thought Renny, “that girl’s nose and chin will meet by the time she’s fifty! She said: —
“I wish I could know what is in your heart.”
He inhaled the smoke of his cigarette. Their eyes met in a swift encounter.