Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“It’s about a chap named Galbraith — a newspaper man whom we met on shipboard. He fell in love with Sylvia. He asked her to marry him, as soon as he got his divorce which was pending. Very well. Sylvia liked Galbraith. Very much indeed. She saw him every day after we arrived in New York. As I said, she liked him. They were congenial. My older sister and my brother-in-law urged her to accept him…. She did accept him. But not in marriage…. She was afraid of marriage — till she could be absolutely certain of her feelings. And there was another thing. Since her illness Sylvia has never taken life for granted. All she has taken for granted is that there will be suffering. But she will get over that, I’m positive. Give her the right man — the right marriage — and she’ll be as sound as ever.”
“And — this Galbraith — he wasn’t the right man.”
Finch, the flush still reddening his forehead, spoke in a cool, detached tone.
“He was not.”
“You are telling me, I suppose, that she lived with him. How long did she live with him?”
“Oh, it was just a matter of a few weeks. Possibly less. Actually I don’t know. There is one thing I want you to understand. Sylvia is a moral woman. I am her brother. I can truthfully say I’ve never met a more virtuous one.”
“what do you mean by saying she takes suffering for granted?”
“Well, she’d been through a hell of a time. Her nerves had gone to pieces. She was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of marriage. She had to find out how her nerves would behave before she settled down. She wanted to make sure that she wasn’t going to saddle Galbraith with a wife who was liable to breakdowns … I know I’ve put this badly. I wish to God Sylvia could have told you herself.”
“It seems to me you’ve put it very well,” said Finch thoughtfully. Then he asked, “And how did the experiment turn out?”
“There was no emotional upset. Sylvia simply discovered that she did not care enough for Galbraith to marry him.”
“And now she is ready to experiment with me,” said Finch.
“If you can call marriage an experiment — yes.”
“Well, I’m afraid I am not willing.” As Finch spoke the colour receded first from his forehead, then from his long, lean cheeks, lastly from his lips, giving them a drained look.
“You don’t want to go on with this?” asked Fitzturgis.
“No.”
Fitzturgis felt as though he had made a considerable journey by the time he had returned to Jalna. His steps lagged as he mounted the stairs. He could hear Archer talking in a haughty voice to someone and wondered if it were Adeline. He was deeply disappointed in the outcome of the interview with Finch. He was very sure that had he been in Finch’s place such a disclosure would have made little difference to him. He dreaded the effect of what he must tell her, on Sylvia. It had been arranged she should wait for him in her room.
Now he tapped on the door.
She opened it at once, saying, “I saw you coming. What did he say?”
There was no need for him to speak. His face told the tale. He said, however, “I’m surprised and disappointed. I could not have believed he was so narrow-minded, so intolerant. I think perhaps if you had gone to him yourself it would have been better. I’m sure it was a mistake — my going. In the first place he doesn’t like me. It was harder to take from me.”
She stood twisting her fingers together. Her face was undefended before him. It had no conscious expression for its defence. He scanned it, feature by feature. Even more than pity he was feeling anxiety for her power of self-control.
She eased that by saying, “It is no more than I expected. Don’t worry. I shall get over this.”
“what about the picnic?”
“I’ll be there,” she answered with a faint smile.
“You’re a good girl,” he said, and stepped inside the door and kissed her.
Downstairs Adeline was waiting for him. She caught him round the waist and whirled him in an impromptu dance. Rather she tried to whirl him and then stood stock still staring at him.
“what is the matter?” she demanded.
“Nothing.”
“No work for anyone today and a lovely picnic! Aren’t you pleased?”
“I’m delighted.”
“But you look positively glum.”
“It’s the heat.”
“Surely you don’t call this hot! No — something is wrong.”
“Well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “Sylvia is a bit upset. She had bad news. I can’t tell you, but please be especially nice to her, will you?”
“Of course I shall…. But we are one family now. I think we should share our troubles.”
“This is something she cannot share.”
“Except with you?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps the day will come when I shall be as close to her as you are.”
To Adeline he appeared to draw back. “That could hardly be possible,” he said.
Alayne, coming up from the basement kitchen, now joined them. She said, “The hampers are ready. Whose idea was it to have a picnic right on top of a dinner party?”
“Mine,” said Adeline.
Again That Night
W
HEN, AFTER DINNER,
Maurice and Adeline had returned from their stroll along the drive she had joined Roma and Fitzturgis but he had returned to the house. He entered at the front door and could see groups on either side, in the drawing-room and in the library. The folding doors between library and dining room were closed. The dining room was empty. The table had been cleared, but there were decanters and clean glasses on the sideboard. Maurice stood gazing, as though in admiration or perhaps indecision, at the imprisoned sparkle in the amber depths of a particular decanter. He always had admired the graceful bell-like shape and he regretted that the stopper had apparently been broken and replaced by one that did not quite match.
He picked it up and poured himself a drink. He took but one sip and then stood, with eyes raised reflectively to the portrait of his great-grandfather hanging above the sideboard. It was a tranquil face, he thought, the face of a man who knew what was the decent thing to do — his duty he would have called it — and did it with determination and zest. His expression was one of good-humoured boldness. He had not lived to be old and weak but had died quite suddenly from the kick of a horse — died in that room just across the hall where Adeline now slept, where Fitzturgis looked forward to sleeping with her. Again Maurice took a sip of the Scotch.
What would great-grandfather have thought of Fitzturgis, he wondered. He probably would have had a low opinion of him. Any man who was Adeline’s kin, who had her welfare at heart, would have a low opinion of him. Whether or not Captain Whiteoak would have had a high opinion of himself Maurice did not consider. He drank his glass of Scotch and poured himself another, feeling deeply in accord with that pictured officer in the uniform of a Hussar.
Rags came in with a tray of clean glasses to put in the cabinet. He looked weary and gave a noticeable sigh as he remarked, “Everything went off nicely, I ’ope, sir.”
“Very nicely,” said Maurice amiably.
“There’s nothing like a nice family party, I always s’y.” One never knew whether or not Rags was being a little sarcastic. There was a mocking note in his voice, yet his face wore an expression of sincerity.
“You ought to know,” Maurice said. “You have had plenty of experience.”
“I have that, sir. More than thirty years I’ve worked in this ’ouse.”
“That’s a long while to stick in one job.”
“You’re right, sir. It is a long while. When I came ’ere the old lady was alive and none of you young ones was born. I didn’t know nothing about domestic service, but I thought a lot of Mr. Whiteoak, and I still think a lot of him…. I’ll be sorry to leave.”
“Surely you are not leaving, Rags.”
“Not permanent, I ’ope. But my missus and me, we’re taking a year off. We’re going to London.”
“If you spend a year there you’ll never come back,” exclaimed Maurice in consternation. He could not picture Jalna without the Wragges.
“We ’ave saved a bit. We may start a small pub on our own.”
“You’ll never come back,” reiterated Maurice.
“That’s as may be, sir,” said Rags with a lofty air.
“Does my uncle know this?”
“I told ’im this morning. I am not aware if ’e ’as broke the news to the mistress.”
“How did he take it?”
“Quite philosophic. ‘You’ll be back,’ ’e says. ‘You couldn’t stay away from me,’ ’e says. ‘Besides,’ ’e says, ‘your wife ’as become pure Ontario. She talks Ontario. She thinks Ontario. You’ll come back.’” He gave Maurice a searching look. “If you ’ad your choice, sir, would you live over there in the Old Land or over ’ere in the New?”
“I think that life over there suits me best.”
Rags’ eyes were on the glass in Maurice’s hand. “You get a bit depressed over here, do you, sir?”
Maurice emptied the glass. “A bit depressed, yes.”
“But you mustn’t be depressed, sir. Not with two weddings coming on.”
“Neither of them is mine, Rags.”
“I don’t want to put my opinion forward,” said Rags, “but what I should ’ave liked to see was a match between you and Miss Adeline.”
“Well — she’s getting the man of her choice.”
“She don’t” — Rags made a grimace of skepticism — “know what’s good for her. W’y don’t you take things into your own hands before it’s too late?” He stood staring at Maurice, giving him the uncomfortable feeling that he was sorry for him. Then a great yawn of weariness opened the little man’s mouth, made his eyes water. He murmured some sort of apology and disappeared. Maurice heard him descending the basement stairs. He was glad to be left alone. He turned off the light, the better to secure his privacy. He sat down in the armchair at the head of the table. He could not remember whether or not he had again filled his glass, but it was full and he sat sipping the whisky, listening to the voices that came from the other rooms. A feeling of benign peace settled over him like sheltering wings.
He was not aware how long he had sat there, when Philip came into the room. He had been wandering about, not quite belonging anywhere — not with the players at the card tables, not with the young lovers beneath the trees, not with Christian and Patience engaged in earnest conversation in the porch.
“Hullo,” said Philip. “I didn’t know you were here, Maurice.”
“I came here to be alone,” said Maurice pleasantly.
“Oh. Would you like me to go?”
“Stay or go. It’s all one to me.”
“Thanks.” Philip sat down on a straight-backed chair facing Maurice. After a little he remarked, “It’s nice in here.”
“what do you mean — nice in here?”
“Well, I don’t care to play cards and I don’t want to spoon. I like sitting here with you.”
“who is spooning?”
“Oh, the engaged couples.”
“Have you
seen
them?”
“Seen them spooning?” A mischievous devil in him made Philip answer, “Not Roma and Norman.”
“The others then — were they spooning?”
Philip began to laugh. “Don’t ask me,” he laughed.
Maurice gave a groan. His peace was shattered, and in its place the sharp sword of jealousy pierced his heart. His dignity, his reticence were gone. He allowed tears to wet his cheeks. But he was clear-headed enough to realize that he could not walk steadily to the sideboard. He said, “Bring that decanter, Philip, the one on the left, and pour me a glass.”
The boy turned on the light. He looked curiously down into Maurice’s face as he filled his glass. He had an odd mixture of feelings. He was the obedient youth, serving the older brother, the man of the world, and at the same moment he was the superior observing with critical eye the pantings, the flounderings of this fish out of water, this dejected lover. Yet he was sorry for Maurice. As he saw him holding the glass with shaky hand to his lips he wished he could do something for him.
Maurice drew the back of his hand across his eyes. After the Scotch he felt firmer, steadier. A feeling of pure anger ran through his nerves — justifiable anger. This was centred on two people, his father and Fitzturgis. Their two faces swam before his eyes, jeering at him. The longtime, half-conscious resentment toward Piers merged with the resentment toward Fitzturgis. He had a desire to show them that he would not be defeated. He was as good a man as either.
“How long have I been here?” he asked.
“Quite a time, I should guess,” said Philip, eyeing him judicially.
“where are Adeline and Fitzturgis?”
“They have just come into the drawing-room.”
“where is Dad?”
“He’s there.”
Maurice, as though deeply reflecting on these remarks, stared into his glass. Then he drank the last drops from the glass, set it carefully on the table and rose, with the air of a large, solid, mature man, rather than a very young, very slender one. He was quite steady on his feet, but Philip watched him with a good deal of apprehension as he walked firmly through the door and stood looking in at the gathering in the drawing-room.
“Perhaps you’d better not go in there,” said Philip.
“why not?”
Philip gave an uneasy laugh. “Well, I think perhaps you are not quite in the right frame of mind.”
Maurice did not trouble to reply to this but stalked darkly into the room. Adeline and Fitzturgis were standing by the card table watching the finish of a game. Maurice came and stood between them, putting his arm about Adeline’s waist, and at the same time giving Fitzturgis an almost threatening look.
Adeline smiled teasingly into his flushed face. It was more than he could endure. His arm tightened about her. He said, “Adeline and I have settled everything tonight. We’re going to be married.”
“Shut up,” said Piers out of the side of his mouth, and went on stolidly with his play.
For a moment Maurice looked dashed, but he still clasped Adeline to him.
“You are an old silly,” she said. She laid her hand against his cheek, but whether as a caress or to hold him off it was impossible to say. Fitzturgis deliberately moved away from them and went and stood in an open french window.
The game was finished, in a victory for Pheasant and Renny. He, after a swift look at Maurice, remarked, “You’d better take that boy home, Piers. He’s tight.”