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Fitzturgis had come to Jalna with mingled feelings of apprehension, self-distrust, and remembered love. In what was he involving himself? As an Irishman, the close-knit family life was not new to him. But life at Jalna would be different from any he had known. Somehow he could not picture himself as resident son-in-law (so he grimly put it) to the man who figured so largely in Adeline’s letters. How deeply in love was he? He could not have said. Certainly he had felt an ardor for Adeline never before experienced by him. But was it enough? He realized that there was within himself a desire for almost melancholy retreat from the closest human relations. And the events of his life had strengthened this—his life in these last years with his mother and sister—his sister’s mental illness. Yet, the remembrance of Adeline in his arms, of her trust in him and her joyous confidence in the future, was a sunshine to burn away these mists of doubt. Standing on the rustic bridge with her, the darkling stream scarcely audible below, he felt a passionate upsurge of desire and a determination to be steadfast in his love.

On the following morning Renny mounted him on a peppery gray gelding and took him on a tour of the estate, showed him the fields with the wheat tall, golden and stately, soon to be reaped; the orchards where Piers was spraying the apple trees; the cherry orchard where pickers were filling their baskets with the glossy red fruit; the old apple orchard, planted by his grandfather, where the fruit would rot unpicked, where the old trees leant to the knee-high grass.

“These apples,” said Renny, “are no longer marketable. Their varieties are forgotten, but I say they are better flavored than the showy sort they sell in the shops today. I’m sure you’ll think so.” He took it for granted that Fitzturgis would remain at Jalna.

On his part the Irishman was not sorry to dismount at the stable door. The gelding in his irritable shyings had shown an invincible desire to throw him and Fitzturgis disliked the thought of such an ignominious exhibition. He made no pretence of being an accomplished horseman. He preferred going about in a motor car. He had a disagreeable suspicion that Renny Whiteoak had mounted him on this particular horse to test his powers. Well, thank God, he’d stuck on him.

“Good,” said Renny, with his genial grin which Fitzturgis found somehow disparaging.

Inside the stable they found the elderly ruddy-faced head groom, Wright, directing a new hand in his work.

“Wright,” said Renny, “has been with me for over thirty years. In all that time he has scarcely taken a holiday—unless you call going to the Horse Show in New York a holiday. Eh, Wright?”

“I call it hard work, sir,” said Wright, “but it’s holiday enough for me.” He stood squarely, sizing up Fitzturgis out of his round blue eyes.

Renny went on—“He’s been to Ireland, too. It was he who took Maurice over when he was a little fellow.”

“And a nice little boy he was,” said Wright. “I’d no trouble with him. I guess it was a lucky trip for him, though it seemed hard at the time.”

“He’s coming here later,” said Fitzturgis, without warmth. “Home he still calls it.”

“I should think he would,” exclaimed Renny. “This is always home to all of us.”

Wright asked—“Would you like to see the foal, sir?” He led the way to the loose box where it stood, proud in its infant strength, beside its mother. “It has her head,” said Wright, “and its sire’s body. I believe it’ll be a good one.”

“Is the sire well known?” Fitzturgis asked, for something to say.

“I’ll say he is,” said Wright. “He won the King’s Plate once and might have done wonders but he has one fault. As long as there were fences in front of him he was O.K. but the moment the run-in was reached he lost interest and wanted nothing but to get off the course. His rider could never tell when he might run out to the left.”

The three men stared at the foal which stared as though in challenge.

Renny said to the foal, caressing it—“See to it that you inherit only your dad’s virtues.”

“That’s easier said than done,” said Wright. “I think we’re all inclined to inherit faults.”

“You say that, Wright,” laughed Renny. “Yet you call Miss Adeline perfect.”

“She’s the exception, sir,” Wright turned to Fitzturgis and added in his old-fashioned way—“I hope I may make free to congratulate you, sir. I’ve known the young lady all her life. I carried her about these stables in my arms before she could walk and she never knew the meaning of fear.”

“I agree,” said Fitzturgis, “that she’s perfect.”

In the passage they were joined by Patience, wearing a blue overall, a bottle of liniment in her hand. “I’ve been rubbing Frigate’s leg,” she explained. “It’s much better this morning.” She joined them in an inspection of the stables, showing a pride even in excess of Wright’s. Their order, their modern comforts, were indeed something to be proud of and Fitzturgis said so.

“Where is Adeline?” asked Patience.

“I wanted Mait’s strict attention,” said Renny, “so I left her at home.”

“Uncle Finch is coming,” Patience announced. “Mother had a letter from him this morning. Isn’t that good news?” She turned to Fitzturgis. “You will be getting confused with us all, I’m afraid.”

“Not at all,” he answered. “For one thing, I’ve met Finch. For another, Adeline has kept me en rapport with the doings of the family for the past two years.”

“When is Finch coming?” asked Renny.

“In three days. It’s sooner than we expected. The funny thing is that he doesn’t want us to prepare for him. He just wants to be left alone.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Nothing, he says. He’s just tired and wants to be left alone.”

“He couldn’t come to a better place,” Renny said cheerfully. “You must know—” his eyes were now on Fitzturgis—“we don’t bother much about the outer world, aside from the activities of our professions—if one can call the breeding of show horses a profession.”

“I do,” said Patience, “and a mighty exacting one.” She added, not without pride—“I breed dogs too. Fashionable ones. Want to come and see my kennels?”

“A little later,” said Renny. “I’d like to show Maitland my office first.” He found it difficult to call Fitzturgis by his Christian name, for the Whiteoaks were not accustomed to bandy first names till acquaintance had ripened. Yet how could he “mister” the man Adeline was to marry?

In truth he found it hard to feel at complete ease with his guest. The man was still a mystery to him, in spite of his air of frankness. He realized, a little wryly, that he might have felt nearer to him if he had not been engaged to Adeline. As he looked at Fitzturgis he could not help thinking—“Here is the man who will supplant me.”

Now, leading the way into his office, he said—“You would not think that girl had lately had a disappointment in love, would you?”

“Indeed no. She strikes me as being very serene.”

“Oh, she’ll get over it,” said Renny. “The fact is, she’s well rid of him. He seems a poor creature. Unluckily young Roma is now engaged to him. Have a drink?”

“Thanks.” Fitzturgis settled himself in the chair facing the shiny desk. His deepset eyes took in the pictures of horses on the walls.

“Later,” said Renny, “I’ll show you the tack room and our trophies.”

“I’d like that,” said Fitzturgis, and added: “Roma’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? Innocent and rather wistful-looking.”

“She is,” agreed Renny. “She’s a nice girl at times. At other times I should like to take a stick to her back. Her father, my brother Eden, died a good many years ago. I sometimes wonder what he would have thought of her.” He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one and unlocked a cupboard. Fitzturgis glimpsed a strange assortment of objects, from among which Renny selected a bottle half-filled with Scotch and a siphon of soda water.

Their drinks in their hands they regarded each other across the desk, in an odd, forced intimacy, having nothing to build on but their love for Adeline, each a little suspicious of the other’s love for her. Had Renny the intention of managing their lives for them, Fitzturgis wondered. He looked capable of trying it on—rather a hard customer, one might guess, sitting there, his dark red head bent above his glass, his dark eyes wary. In his turn Renny wondered whether this Irishman’s love were of the enduring sort—whether he would settle down comfortably at Jalna—and also, with concentrated interest, how much money he had. Well, surely a man had a right to know what were his future son-in-law’s prospects. He said:

“I hope you did well in the sale of your property.”

Fitzturgis gave an audible sigh. “Not too well. Not as well as I’d hoped. Still, there is enough to support my mother and my sister. Later on, my sister hopes to get work in New York.”

“You could find no better investment for your money,” said Renny, “than the stables at Jalna. I’ve done very well in the past few years but I need more capital. There is a good deal of money to be made from show horses and race horses. They have become the rich man’s plaything. I have a friend named Crowdy who owned just one race horse but it turned out to be a good one. He not only made a lot of prize money but he lately sold the horse to a millionaire for a fancy price.”

“I warned you,” said Fitzturgis, “that I am a poor man. But I look forward to working for Adeline.”

“Good,” said Renny, and a silence fell, broken by the incessant lowing of a cow. “They’ve taken her calf, poor thing,” he added.

Fitzturgis said—“My brother-in-law can get me a job in New York, in advertising.”

Renny Whiteoak looked blank, then repeated—“In advertising,” as though he wondered what that might be.

“Yes,” said Fitzturgis. “He thinks I could get the hang of it before long.”

“What makes him think so?”

“Well ... I suppose I have average intelligence.”

Renny said, with severity—“I am surprised at your brother-in-law, for I can tell you from the little I’ve seen of you that you wouldn’t do at all.”

Fitzturgis looked stubborn. He said—“My brother-in-law ought to know.”

“Yes. That is why I’m surprised that he doesn’t.”

Amber light flickered in the glasses they raised to their lips, as sharp antagonism flickered for an instant in their eyes.

Fitzturgis spoke first, and with warmth. “You must understand, Mr. Whiteoak, that I should like to come to Jalna but I don’t want to come as a sham horseman. I know little about show horses. I know nothing of farming in Canada. I don’t want you to be disappointed in me, that’s all.”

“If that’s all,” exclaimed Renny, “we have nothing to worry about. You’ll learn. And let me tell you—if Adeline hasn’t—she would never go to New York. She hates city life.”

“I know.”

“She was born and bred in the country. She was in the saddle almost as soon as she could walk.”

“I know.”

“If money is a little scarce, we still shall have plenty of room. We used to have a family of ten at Jalna and all very happy.” He bent his expressive brows in reminiscent thought.

“Adeline has told me. But—I’m certain of one thing and that is that, when we marry, we must have a place of our own. That’s something I have set my heart on.”

“Has Adeline set her heart on it?”

“I think so.”

“She’s never mentioned it to me. I think she certainly would have mentioned it to me if she’d set her heart on it.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, we have not talked of that.”

“I see. Then supposing we decide nothing till we find out what she feels.”

Fitzturgis broke out—“No matter what she feels, I must have a roof of my own.”

“In that case,” Renny said cheerfully, “I know the very house for you. Nice small houses are difficult to get, you know. But my sister, Meg Vaughan, is going to move and I’m sure she’d let you have her house—either to buy or rent—very reasonably. She and Patience are going to live with my brother Finch who has built himself a house, just beyond the ravine. He’s built on the site of one that was burned down and there was so much delay in getting the rubble cleared away and getting a builder to undertake the job and in Finch’s not being able to decide on the sort of house he wanted, that it is only now it’s ready for him. I don’t like the looks of it myself—a sort of Californian design that isn’t suited to our northern country—but it’s what he chose and he’s got to live in it. Now to-night we’re going to dinner with Meg and you’ll find out what she thinks about your taking her house. When do you and Adeline want to get married?”

Fitzturgis answered defensively—“We haven’t decided on a time yet.” Then he added—“So far as I am concerned the sooner the better.”

As he returned to the house he had the feeling that his affairs were being taken out of his hands. In a way this suited him, for he was inclined to indolence; he was in a strange country; he was committed to a new and different life. On the other hand he resented what he felt to be the somewhat arrogant tone of the master of Jalna. He wondered if it was a good combination, this combining of father-in-law and employer in the one person.

Adeline came across the lawn to meet him, carrying roses she had just been cutting.

“Aren’t they sweet?” she asked, holding them to his face. “They’re just the old-fashioned crumply sort, without a name, but I love them.”

“It’s wonderful to see you,” he said, “here in your own setting, with flowers from your own garden in your hands.”

“It is your garden too,” she said, conscious of something in him that needed reassurance.

He took her hand and they walked together to a seat that encircled an old silver birch tree. The sun beat down hotly on the grass.

“The grass,” he said, “is a different color.”

“Yes, I know.” She spoke apologetically. “It’s not so green.” Then, her eager eyes on his, she asked—“Did you enjoy your morning with Daddy? And what do you think of Jalna?”

“Oh, I like it.” He spoke warmly but he did not go into the details she wanted. They sat silent a space, watching a squirrel dig a hole in the grass, find something to its liking, then deftly extract it and sit up nibbling it.

“The wild things here are so tame,” he said, then added—“I had a talk with your father—in his office.”

She laughed gayly. “Oh, I wish I’d been there!”

“Why?” he asked abruptly.

“Because you are the two men I love best in all the world. It fascinates me to see your reactions to each other.”

“They might not have been altogether pleasing to you,” said Fitzturgis. “My ideas are different from what he seemed to expect and I find it hard to understand him.”

“Once you do you wouldn’t want him different. I think we all feel that way about him—except perhaps Mummie.”

“I can imagine she would.”

“It’s funny you’d feel that—so soon.”

Fitzturgis said sombrely—“Your father and I should have arranged everything before I came out.”

Her eyebrows flew up. “Why, I thought you and I had. We corresponded for two years.”

“What about?” he demanded, seeing his reflection in the dark depths of her eyes, noticing a tiny mole near one of them.

“About how we wished we might be together and I told you all the news from Jalna.”

“And I have made it clear that I am a poor man. I mean that I have nothing to invest. You know that my mother and sister are dependent on me.”

She heaved an exaggerated, child’s sigh. “Of course I do. But don’t worry. Daddy always hopes people will have money to invest in the stables but—if they haven’t—it doesn’t really matter.”

“But I’m not just ‘people,’ Adeline.”

“You’re too sensitive, Mait. There will be plenty for you to do. Daddy’s always wishing Uncle Piers had more time to help with the horses. And he’s so generous. He’ll give you a good share, you may be sure.”

He took her hand and kissed the palm. “You make me feel middle-aged and disillusioned,” he said. “But perhaps I’ll get over it in the air of Jalna where you all have a sort of born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-the-mouth look and a Victorian confidence in the future.”

He told her of Renny’s suggestion that they might arrange to have Meg’s house and she was delighted. She strained toward the evening when they could inspect it. She said:

“It will be splendid for when your people come from New York to visit us. Of course, when they come to the wedding they’ll stay at Jalna.”

“Couldn’t we get married without any fuss? Just your family here—and we two?”

Adeline was astonished. “Why, Maitland, don’t you want a proper wedding?”

“Not particularly. I hate fuss.”

“But don’t you want your family to come to see you married?”

“Not particularly. We could go down to New York to see them on our honeymoon.”

“Oh, I thought we’d go to one of our lakes in the north or perhaps to Quebec.”

“All right, dearest, whatever you want.”

At Meg’s all was preparation for the dinner party. Patience stayed at home that day and she and her mother became involved in intricate preparations for a meal to rival those at Jalna. Meg felt that when Renny came to her house he must be offered cooking equal to Mrs. Wragge’s. Patience, with little experience to help her, had a passion for trying new recipes. The result was that every utensil in the kitchen was in use and by the time the guests began to arrive they were both in a state of confusion, heat, and almost despair. It had been Roma’s part to lay the table but the setting of twelve places about the table, even with the extension leaf added, had been too much for her patience. She showed a flushed face at the kitchen door.

“I’d like,” she said, “to throw all these dishes and knives and forks on the floor.”

“If you were doing what I’m doing,” said her cousin, “you might talk.”

“I’d never do it. There’s no sense in it.”

“Can’t you set the table without getting in a temper?”

“There’s no room for twelve. Why did Auntie Meg have to ask Philip and Archer?”

“I don’t know,” shouted Patience. “If you can’t lay the table, leave it to me. I’ll do it.”

“Why can’t we have a buffet dinner like other people?”

Meg called from the pantry—“I never have set my brother down to a buffet dinner and never shall.”

“You don’t sit down, you stand,” grumbled Roma.

“Not in this house you don’t,” said Meg.

At this moment Piers and his family arrived and Pheasant at once took over the setting of the table, Christian drifted away with Roma, Piers undertook the sharpening of the carving knife, Philip began to mow the lawn and little Mary went into a corner and cried.

By the time the party arrived from Jalna, all was in order. They were welcomed by Meg wearing a dark blue dress with white belt which somehow made her plump waist appear even plumper; Patience in frilly pink, with not at all the fashionable silhouette; Roma, in pale angelic blue. All regarded Fitzturgis with unstinted curiosity. He, on his part, looked over all three with a practised eye.

As soon as possible Renny drew his sister aside.

“Meggie,” he said, “I have a prospective tenant or buyer for your house.”

“Oh, splendid,” she cried. “Who is it?”

“Fitzturgis. He is determined that he and Adeline shall have their own house and I daresay he’s right. I haven’t been able to find out what means he has but I guess not very affluent. Still he should be able to pay a fair price or rent.”

“Oh, he must! Of course, if I were not a widow, with two young girls to support, it would not matter so much but—with times what they are—”

“I know,” he said sympathetically, not reminding her that he paid her for Roma’s support and that Patience earned her own living.

“I shall love to think of Adeline in this house and that sweet Irishman too. And with me keeping house for Finch it seems almost too—”

“Too true to be good,” said Archer, just entering.

Renny looked with some sternness at his son. “Were you listening?” he demanded.

“I suppose I was,” answered Archer. “I find it so hard to draw the line between being not interested enough and being too interested.”

“I’ll draw it for you,” said Renny. “When you come upon two people talking in low tones together that’s the time to keep out.”

“But wherever I go I find two people talking in low tones. There seems to be no place for me.”

There now came a smell of burning from the kitchen and Meg flew to it in panic. However no mischief had been done and shortly a pair of fine plump capons were placed on the table. Pheasant found her little daughter, comforted her, and the family drew about the table.

“Depressor extollor,” remarked Archer, then, for the benefit of the company, translated—“Having been depressed, I am now exalted.” Alayne gave him a repressive look. Renny took up the carving knife and fork.

He had barely disjointed a wing when there was the sound of a car on the drive. From where she sat Roma could see the arrival. “Do you know what?” she said to Christian who sat next her. “It’s Uncle Nicholas. You’d think he’d know enough to stay home at his age.”

Now everyone had discovered him. There was a general standing up and craning of necks, Renny still gripping the carving knife and fork. He exclaimed:

“The dear old boy said he wanted to come. I told him I thought it would be too much for him. He looked disappointed and now, by the Lord, he’s had his own way. Philip and Nooky, you two go and help him in.” The boys obeyed.

“Who brought him?” Alayne asked in the voice she used when she was prepared to endure some fresh evidence of family wilfulness.

“Wright. In his own car. Now Wright has got him out. Why—he’s walking strongly!”

“Bless his heart,” said Meg. “Patience, will you lay a place for him?” She looked hopefully about the already crowded table.

“He had his dinner before we left,” said Alayne. “I saw to that.”

“I know,” Renny agreed. “But he ate very little. He’ll be hungry by now. Archer, you could let Uncle Nick have your place, couldn’t you?”

“Mercy,” said Archer. It was his latest favorite in words and he uttered it on a high complaining note.

By this time the old man was in the room, smiling his triumph. “Thought you’d got rid of me, didn’t you? But I enjoy a party as well as anyone.”

“And we’re delighted to have you,” cried Meg, going to him and kissing him.

“Now don’t trouble about me,” said Nicholas. “I’ll just sit at this little table and gnaw a bone. How pretty everything looks.”

But they troubled a good deal, the boys bringing a comfortable chair, Patience laying a cloth and dishes on the little table, Renny cutting his favorite parts from the chicken.

Little Mary said—“I want to bring flowers for his table.” And she had to be lifted from her chair and when she reappeared with three short-stemmed daisies a vase must be found for them. Luckily the night was warm and the food not too chilled as Fitzturgis had feared. He listened to, rather than joined in the loud animated talk, now and again meeting Alayne’s eyes, in an amused interchange. He saw Roma’s cool gaze on him and wondered what she was thinking.

What splendid strawberry shortcake, what thick yellow cream, what angel food, with eight eggs in it! Meg beamed when he praised it. After they had had coffee she said to him privately:

“Renny tells me you are anxious to find a house and that you’d like to consider this. Now would be a good time to go over it.”

“Very well,” he agreed placidly.

Meg expected more enthusiasm than this.

“Are you sure you want to?” she asked.

“Yes, indeed,” he smiled, “I’d love to.”

Meg led the way and Renny joined them. He said: “Meg and I have known this house all our lives. We used to come here to tea as children. After the first war it was made into a two-family house but Meg restored it to its original form when she bought it.”

“Some strange people have lived here,” she recalled. “Do you remember Mrs. Stroud, Renny? And the Dayborns?”

He looked thoughtful. “Yes—I remember.”

In every room Meg had some memory of its past to relate. Adeline, who had been helping Patience, now joined them. “Oh, Mait,” she breathed, tucking her hand into his arm, “won’t it be lovely?”

At the end of the tour Meg asked—“Do you think you’d like to buy it or rent it?”

“It would suit me better to rent,” said Fitzturgis.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Adeline. “It would suit us better to rent.”

Downstairs Patience was saying to Roma—“Do you think you could give me that fifty dollars you borrowed from me?”

Roma looked faintly surprised. “Yes,” she said, “I’ll pay it—when I can get hold of some money.”

“But, Roma, you said Uncle Nick was making you a present of some quite soon.”

“I thought he was.”

“Mother would be very annoyed if I told her this.”

“Then don’t tell her.”

“Roma, do you expect to pay me back?”

“Why, yes. Some day.” She was bored by the family party. She wanted to get away somewhere with Norman whose car was waiting for her down the road a little way. But she went dutifully and kissed Nicholas good-night, lingered a little on the lawn with the three boys, before drifting through the gate into the dusk.

“Mercy,” exclaimed Archer looking after her.

Norman moved a book on psychoanalysis out of the way to make room for her on the seat of his car. He offered her a cigarette, lighted it for her.

“How’d the party go?” he asked.

She let the smoke drift down her nostrils, making a wide gesture with the hand that held the cigarette. “Like hell,” she said. “Uncle Nick arrived without warning just as we sat down at the table.”

“Hmph. How is he?”

“He’s all right—the old miser!”

“How’s your Aunt Meg behaving?”

“Oh, she’s been pretty bitchy for days. I suppose she’s tired. But who isn’t? I know I am. Patience has been bothering me for the fifty dollars I borrowed. Fifty dollars! You’d think it was a thousand.”

“What became of the fifty dollars, Roma?” Norman was really curious.

“I don’t know,” she said crossly. “All I know is that they’re always after me.”

“Never mind, darling.” Norman’s arm slid about her. “We’ll soon be married and you’ll be safe with me, where your family can harm you no more.”

Roma did not answer. She could see her reflection in the little looking-glass and she was gazing at it rapt.