The picture window framed the one who played the piano and the one who sat listening. Sylvia’s eyes were on Finch’s hands that moved quietly, as though conscious of their power. Finch’s back was toward the window but Sylvia sat facing it. Dennis threw the last of the peony petals toward her face against the pane. He threw them as though he wished they were stones.
They fell only softly against the pane but the movement of his arm caught Sylvia’s eyes. She moved them startled to the window. Now she and Dennis were face to face. She saw him raise his arms and extend them, as though on a cross. She saw his bloodstained forehead and the hair in sharp golden points, like thorns. She saw the red prints on the palms of his hands, and the blood on his side. When he was conscious of her look of horror he allowed his chin to drop and rolled his eyes upward to the night sky.
“Dennis!” With a strangled cry she repeated his name, then covered her eyes with her hands.
Finch sprang up from the piano, and he too looked out and saw the ghostly figure of the child. He ran out to him and Sylvia followed.
When Dennis saw them he said loudly:
“I’m crucified! Don’t you see? I’m crucified!”
Finch picked him up and carried him into the house and laid him on his bed. Dennis relaxed there, gazing up into Finch’s face with a possessive look.
“what do you mean,” demanded Finch, “by saying such a thing? where are you hurt?”
“Shall I telephone for the doctor?” Sylvia asked from the doorway.
“Wait till I find out where he is hurt.” He stared at the bloodstained figure of his son in perplexity and dismay. He went to the bathroom and returned with a sponge and basin of warm water. Sylvia, her face drained of colour, leaned against the side of the door for support.
Finch wiped the blood from Dennis and discovered the mosquito bite. “This is all play-acting,” he said. “He’s not hurt — but, by God, he deserves to be.”
Dennis lay looking up at them with an expression almost blissful. To be the focus of Finch’s attention, even though in anger, was enough to bring that look to his face.
“You got yourself into that disgusting mess,” said Finch, “to frighten us. You scratched that mosquito bite again and again, didn’t you? You smeared the blood over yourself purposely, didn’t you? You were out to give us a great fright, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” Dennis still wore that blissful half-smile.
“I’ll take that smirk off your face,” said Finch and roughly turned him over. He administered a dozen stinging slaps to the boy’s small round buttocks. At the impact of the first, Sylvia fled.
She stood, with wildly beating heart, looking out into the darkness of the trees. This house, she thought, which should have been so happy, so peacefully welcoming to Finch, was disturbed, unhappy, because of her presence. She turned a wan face to him when he came to her.
“Is Dennis — ” she began, but could not go on.
“He’s all right,” Finch said tersely. “He’ll not bother us again tonight. What a young viper he is! It’s a damned shame that you should have been so upset.” He put his arm about her. She could feel that he was trembling.
“It was terrifying to both of us,” she said, for she wanted to feel that they both were in the same boat. “And — crucified!However did he come to think of that?”
“I tell you he’s vicious,” said Finch.
“I won’t hear you say that about your child. But — I do think he is rather morbid — poor little boy.”
“Let’s go out into the air and forget about him,” said Finch. “It’s a lovely night. See where the moon has climbed. Above the treetops.”
They went out into the garden. Finch saw the bloodstained petals of the white peony. He picked them up, trying to conceal them from Sylvia, but she had seen them. “I don’t mind,” she said. They did not look in the direction of the window of Dennis’s room.
It was early daylight when the sound of crying woke them. It was a loud, wailing, unrestrained crying such as Finch had never before heard from Dennis. He sprang out of bed and — “You are not to come,” he said sternly to Sylvia. He laid his hand on her chest and pressed her back onto the bed. “You’ve borne enough from him. Stay where you are.” Miserably, and with the feeling that this was but the prolonging of her troubled dreams, she obeyed. She put her head under the bedclothes to dull the sound of the crying, but it went through her like a knife in spite of that.
Shortly afterward the telephone extension in Renny Whiteoak’s bedroom rang persistently. He might well have refused to wake, because he was at that moment in the midst of an enthralling dream in which he was judge at a show where all the entrants were unicorns. He was hesitating between a beautiful blond unicorn, with a horn of pure gold, and one which was striped like a tiger, with a lovely body and challenging eyes. He did not want to be waked but the little old cairn terrier lying against his back climbed over him at the sound of the bell and firmly pawed his face.
With a groan he reached for the receiver. “Hello,” he said.
“Sorry to disturb you so early,” came Finch’s voice, “but I’m wondering if you can tell me what to do for a mosquito bite young Dennis has. I guess it’s infected. It looks pretty bad. The leg’s swollen.”
“I have the very best remedy for that,” said Renny. “I’ll bring it right over.”
It was a marvel, thought Finch, how Renny could have got into his clothes and so soon appeared at the door. He went straight to the little boy’s room. Dennis at once sat up in bed. “Look,” he said, “how fat my knee is! It was paining like anything but my father heard me and he came to see, and now it doesn’t hurt so much.”
Finch sat down on the side of the bed. He said, “Feel how hard and hot the leg is.”
“Yes, feel, Uncle Renny.”
Renny examined the leg. “It’s infected,” he said. “We must have the doctor to it. I’ll bet you’ve been scratching it, young man.”
“Scratching,” Finch echoed bitterly. “He got himself into a horrible mess last night. Bleeding.”
Dennis, his possessive eyes raised to Finch’s face, put out his hand to press it into Finch’s, who quickly drew his away. As though to make up for this retreat, he said, “I’ll bring you a cold drink.”
The result of the doctor’s visit was that Dennis was kept in bed and treated for a serious infection. It was a painful time, but he was uncomplaining, gentle. Yet when Sylvia carried a tray to him or offered to read aloud he would turn his face to the wall and ask to be left alone. It was different when Finch appeared. Dennis would gaze at him with what seemed to Finch a calculated devotion, as though he strove, with all his small strength, to build a wall about the two of them. If Finch were present when Sylvia came to the sickroom, Dennis would meekly accept what she offered, meekly reply when she spoke to him, but always he kept those jewel-like green eyes of his, in which the whites were not noticeable, averted.
To be with him was enough to make Sylvia tremble. Small and suffering as he was, she felt in him a force dominant over her. She realized that he was aware of this, that he saw and savoured her trembling. In the days of his illness she gave up hope of winning him over. The long weeks of his holidays loomed as a threat. She might have borne his presence with ease, if she had not seen its effect on Finch. They could not speak of the boy without constraint. Try as they would they could not be natural about him, could not treat him as the child he was. Yet, when he lay sleeping, Sylvia would sometimes long to take him into her arms. At other times she was startled by her anger against him. Almost, she felt, she hated him. Once, she found to her horror that she was imagining him dead and the relief it would be.
All the family came at different times to see him, to relate their experience of insect bites and to give advice. Meg’s advice was the most pleasing to Finch. She said, “As soon as Dennis is completely recovered you must send him to camp. I know the very place for him and, as the owner of the camp is an old friend of Rupert’s and
a good churchman, nothing could be more suitable. The child will be made completely happy and your minds will be at rest about him.”
So it was arranged, and the day came when Meg and the Rector, themselves going in the direction of the camp, took the little boy with them. Dressed in grey flannel shorts and blue pullover he set out to say goodbye to the family. At Jalna the only one he found at home was Archer, who shook hands with him formally.
“Goodbye,” he said. “Have a good time, if you can.”
“why do they send children to camp?” Dennis asked.
“So they may have peace.”
“Is it better to have peace than children?”
“Children are always listening. Grown-ups like a little privacy.”
“I’ll have no privacy at camp.”
“You will have everything you need,” said Archer. “At your age you are not supposed to need privacy.”
“what I like,” Dennis said, looking up at two pigeons on the roof, “is to be with my father. And he wants me to be with him. It’s Sylvia who sends me to camp.”
“That is because she feels insecure when you are about.”
“My father belonged to me before he belonged to her.”
Archer regarded him judicially. “I foresee quite a struggle,” he said, “but I think you’ll come out on top.”
“Noah Binns says to organize.”
“You couldn’t have better advice.… Well — run along now and say your goodbyes. When you come back from camp I shan’t be here.”
“where will you be?”
“In England. I’ve been chosen as a Rhodes Scholar and I’m setting out in time to travel round a bit.”
“Will it make you different — being a Rhodes Scholar?”
“I’ve always been different.”
“Will it be fun?”
“I hope not. Your camp will be fun.”
Adeline and Philip now appeared, carrying tennis racquets. Dennis said goodbye to them and set out to visit the rest of the family. At the Fox Farm he found that Patience had the day before given birth to a daughter. Humphrey Bell was so pleased and excited by this that he tucked a five-dollar bill into the little boy’s pocket. “For you,” he said, “to spend at camp, to celebrate the coming of Victoria.”
“Thanks very much,” said Dennis, and he added, for politeness’ sake, “Is that what you’re going to call her?”
“Yes. Victoria, for my mother. She’ll be Vicky Bell. Don’t you think it’s a pretty name?”
Dennis thought it was, but thought a baby girl was a quite unnecessary addition to any family. Still he was pleased by her arrival, as it had produced such munificence from Humphrey. He found little Mary in the studio and showed her the crisp new banknote.
“I have more money than I know what to do with,” he told her. “My father said how much money did I want and I said just what he could afford and he said I can afford as much as you want and he took out his wallet and said to help myself and I did. My father makes a terrific lot of money. Do you know how? He makes it playing the piano, that’s how.”
“I knew that,” said Mary, “long ago.”
“Does your father make a terrific lot of money?”
“No,” said Mary. “He’s very poor. But he doesn’t mind. He likes it. Will you be long in camp?”
Dennis gave her a look that somehow was not comfortable. “I don’t think so,” he said. “My father will miss me. I’ll not stay long.”
“My daddy would miss me, if I went to camp, and so would my mummy, but she’d miss me even more,” said Mary, who thought Dennis was too boastful and even a little tiresome.
“I have no mummy,” he said. “Just a stepmother. And do you know what she is? I’ll tell you.” He put an arm about her neck and whispered into her ear: “She’s a she-devil — that’s what she is.” He drew back a little, laughing, his eyes close to hers.
His words — a combination new to her — sent a thrill of excitement through her nerves, but she only said, “why are your eyes that funny colour?”
Laughing at they knew not what, they sauntered along the country road together, for Mary was accompanying Dennis as far as the Rectory to see him off. At last she said, “I know what devil is but not she-devil.”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “when you have a stepmother.”
“I couldn’t have one, because my own mother is living.” No longer was she laughing. A flutter of apprehension brought the colour to her cheeks. “I couldn’t have a stepmother,” she added decisively.
An enigmatic smile curved his lips. “That’s what I used to think.”
“Till when?” she asked.
“Till one day my mother — died. Yours might die any day, you know. Then you’d get a stepmother.”
“I’m going home.” Mary spoke with vehemence. “You can go on alone.”
“All right,” he said tranquilly, “but don’t tell.”
“Tell what?”
“what I said about — anything. Goodbye.”
The Rectory was in sight, the car standing at the gate.
Meg saw the small figure coming alone down the road and called out, “Hurry up, Dennis! Uncle Rupert and I are waiting. Your father has brought your suitcase and your rubber sheet, and” — by this time the little boy had come close — “the strange thing is that I’m almost positive this suitcase belongs to me. I’ve been missing it for some time and I can’t imagine how he came to get hold of it. I don’t mind your taking it to camp, Dennis dear, but I do hope you’ll take good care of it, for I really think I must ask your father to let me have it back when you return.”
“Has he gone?” asked Dennis.
“Yes. He just left your things and then drove off.”
“He didn’t say goodbye to me.” Dennis stood looking wistfully down the road. “I hurried because I expected to find him here.”
The Rector was behind the wheel and growing impatient. “How long am I to sit here waiting?” he demanded. “We’re already late in starting. I don’t know why it is, but I used always to be on time.”
“Rupert, dear,” said Meg,“don’t fuss. It’s so bad for you.”
They were in. The car started with a jolt, for it was an old one and the Rector was not a very good driver.
VI
Father and Daughter
Renny Whiteoak was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet. Even though his mind was firmly fixed on circumspection in the planning of a marriage between young Philip and Adeline, try as he would to keep himself from urging it on her, he did not succeed. Sooner or later, she was bound to discover how ardently he hoped for it. Better speak now and exert his influence in the open. He was sure that Philip was agreeable to the union. Never a day passed but he came to Jalna on one pretext or another. Alayne had remarked this, but supposed he was drawn by the tennis court, the stables, and his affection for Renny as much as by the charms of Adeline. Though Renny had dropped hints to her of his desire, she had thought of it as fantastic and even dangerous. Both of Piers’s older sons (one in Paris, one in Ireland) were more congenial to Alayne than Philip. She would have preferred either, if she had been consulted, as a son-in-law.
No one knew what were Adeline’s feelings toward Philip — least of all Philip himself. He held himself aloof from sentiment, with adolescent aloofness. Yet in solitude he never ceased to toy with the idea of marrying Adeline, of sometime being master of Jalna. He never took Archer into account as a rival in its possession, dismissing him as one whose sole ambition in life was to pass examinations with the highest marks possible. He was immensely flattered by Renny’s choice of him as a husband for Adeline and by Piers’s optimistic agreement.
On this particular July morning Renny, discovering his daughter leaning on the fence of the paddock where a pair of two-year-olds were being schooled, took her by the hand and said, “Come into the office for a bit. I’d like a word with you.”
Indolently she turned with him. “How muggy
it is,” she exclaimed. “The colts are lazy. I’m lazy. The rain last night didn’t clear the air. All it did was to beat down the hollyhocks and delphiniums. Mummy is mourning over them.”
“Is she?” he returned absently and, still with fingers interlaced, they entered the little room, next the tack room in the stables, that was his office — the scene of many a deal in horseflesh, of much perplexity in the squaring of accounts, of interviews where privacy was important. Adeline loved this room. She could look back to the days of early childhood, when to sit opposite Renny in his shiny swivel chair, with the littered writing table between them, filled her with pride. She never tired of admiring and comparing the points of their most distinguished horses, the framed photographs of which covered the walls.
Renny offered her a cigarette which she refused.
“Thanks,” she said, “but I’ve given up smoking — for the time being.”
“Self-discipline?” he asked.
“No. Self-indulgence. I’m tired of it.”
“I find it very comforting,” he said.
“I don’t need comforting.”
She studied his face. His expressive eyebrows told her that something was in the wind. To help him out she asked, “what is it, Daddy?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“How extraordinary.”
“Don’t laugh. I was thinking seriously about you.”
Her eyes were earnestly on his, as without again speaking, she waited. “I’ve been thinking,” he repeated, “how hard it was on you — that disappointment in your Irishman, Fitzturgis, I mean.”
She tried to speak lightly. “For goodness’ sake, what put thatinto your head? It’s all in the past. I never give him a thought now.” But the quivering of her lips, the darkening of her eyes, rejected this quick denial.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 515