Renny's Daughter. Mazo de la Roche
any time now. The change would do you good.”
“I hear,” Ernest said, “that travelling is most uncomfortable. I even hear the word austerity used in connection with it — a word I have always disliked.”
“I wasn’t aware you knew the meaning of it,” said Nicholas.
“It is extraordinary,” Ernest spoke with severity, “that you should choose to belittle what I endured during the war. I did without many comforts to which I was accustomed, didn’t I, Alayne?”
“You did indeed, Uncle Ernest.”
“Once you arrive in Ireland,” said Maurice, “you shall have everything you want.”
“That is very kind of you.” Ernest leant forward to pat his great-nephew’s knee. “Very kind indeed. Well … I’ll consider it. But, you know, I shall be ninety-five in the spring. It’s pretty old for travel. Still — if you’d like to have me, Mooey.”
“I should indeed,” said Maurice. He was particularly fond of this old uncle who always had shown kindness to him and understanding of the traits in him which were irritating to Maurice’s father, had sympathized with his preference for books above horses, had encouraged his attachment to Adeline.
“Go ahead, Ernie, and have your last fling!” Nicholas’ voice, singularly robust for his age, boomed into a laugh. “Go ahead, and take my love to the gals we used to know there — if any of ’em are above ground.”
Adeline laughed across the chasm of years that separated her from Nicholas.
“I’ll bet they are, Uncle Nick,” she said. “I’ll bet there’s many a lonely old lady in Ireland who would like to get a nice message from you.”
“Well, well,” he said, “I’ll never see ’em again.”
“We gave a pretty good coming-of-age party for you,” Ernest remarked to his great-nephew. After a pause, he added, — “The last Whiteoak to inherit a fortune on his twenty-first birthday was Finch. How well I remember the party we gave for him! We had a dinner party and a dance. Finch made a speech. He was very nervous. After all the guests were gone he and Piers, you and I, Nicholas, sat up for a long while talking and drinking. It was then that Finch suggested that Nick and I should go to England for a visit at his expense. And now here is this dear boy, Mooey, offering to take us to Ireland.”
“You four got pretty tight that night,” said Renny. “Do you remember? I was waked by your singing and I came downstairs and took you off to bed.”
The two old brothers laughed, as at the recollection of a good joke. Young Maurice regarded them anxiously. The thought of paying their travelling expenses to Ireland had not occurred to him. Adeline, seeing his discomfiture, gave him a teasing smile. He ignored it and said to her:
“I have some rather good new records. Like to come over to our place and hear them?”
“I’d love to.” She got up, gave herself a small stretch and asked, — “Does anybody want me for anything?”
Nobody did and she and Maurice went into the hall.
“Did you come in a car?” asked Adeline.
“Yes.”
“I thought you would. Lazy dog.”
“Surely you wouldn’t expect a fellow to walk through slush to his ankles.”
“You could wear rubber boots.”
“Don’t you like a car?”
“Certainly I like a car. But I think a walk would do you good. You’re soft.”
“You’re always criticizing me,” he said, resentfully.
Adeline laughed. They jostled each other as they passed through the door into the porch. Antagonism and attraction struggled between them. “If only she were different,” he thought, “I could love her with all my heart.” “If only he were different,” she thought, but she did not think of love. He wanted her to be like the girls over whom he brooded in his solitude. Physically she was perfect to him. Her smile enchanted him. Why should she be so careless of those charms, bestowing her smile where it was not appreciated, for Maurice felt that no one but himself appreciated her! Yet on him she looked critically. She wished, he was sure, that he were more like her father. Once he had told her so.
“Goodness, no,” she had said. “One of him is all I can cope with.”
“Still you’d like me better if I were,” he had insisted.
“One of him is all I want,” she had repeated.
Now he said, — “Aren’t you going to put on a jacket or something? You’ll freeze.”
“I suppose I’d better.” She darted back into the house and returned with a jacket.
A flock of pigeons flew from the roof toward her. They sought to alight on her head and shoulders. Holding up her arms to protect herself from this demonstration of their affection she ran to the car and scrambled in. Maurice sprang in after her and slammed the door. The pigeons circled above the moving car, then were about to return to the roof when a long glittering icicle fell from the eave to the steps, with a sound of splintering glass. The pigeons swept away in the direction of the stables, their plumage shining in the sunlight.
Maurice was happy to have her in the car with him. In its isolation he had a feeling of possessiveness over her. She sat acquiescent in the seat beside him, her burnished chestnut hair waving close about her head, the formation of her nose and chin, which, in middle age, would show the strength of her great-grandmothers profile, was now softened by youthful curves. Her lips, Maurice thought, looked unusually sweet-tempered. Conscious of his scrutiny she turned to him and smiled.
The car bumped over a rut in the snow-drifted road. The two were bounced on the seat.
“I hate the winter,” he exclaimed.
“I thought you liked skiing.”
“I do. It alleviates the monotony of cold and snow outdoors and dry heat indoors. I was made for a temperate climate, moist and gentle and green. I like tranquil people.”
“People like me?”
“I don’t like you, Adeline.”
“What do you think of my going to Ireland?” she asked hurriedly.
“I’ve always intended you should come.”
She gave a little grunt of surprise and exasperation.
“You are the most supercilious person I know,” she exclaimed. “You look so gentle and you speak so gently, yet you’re terribly superior inside. I guess it was your life in Ireland with that old Cousin Dermot. He spoilt you terribly. Everybody says so.”
“What about you? You’re a spoilt child.”
“Me? I’ve been very strictly brought up.”
Maurice turned the car into the driveway of the grey stucco house.
“Mother and Dad are out,” he said.
He glanced sideways at Adeline to discover whether she were pleased or disappointed that she was to be alone with him. She showed neither feeling. Simply she wore an expression of pleasurable anticipation at the prospect of hearing a new record. They went into the comfortable living room which clearly showed one woman’s struggle against four males to preserve the freshness of its chintz, the plumpness of its cushions, the firmness of its upholstery. She had not quite succeeded or quite failed. It was a long narrow room, and in one corner stood the radio-gramophone and record cabinet.
Adeline whistled. “Goodness, you have a lot of records. They must have cost a pretty penny.”
“I’ve made rather a hobby of collecting them,” he said. “It’s something to do.”
“I