Inside the music room Finch turned on the piano seat to face Dennis, who stood, still holding the violin.
“The next time,” said Finch, “that you persist in playing, don’t ask me to accompany you. I want to be free to leave the room.”
“I didn’t ask you,” said Dennis.
“I asked you,” said Sylvia, and in agitation rose to her feet. “To me,” she added, “it seemed that Dennis played very well.”
“Then you weren’t listening,” said Finch. “It was atrocious. There is nothing so devilish as the squeaking of a fiddle can be. I refuse to listen to it.”
Dennis stood transfixed. Beyond the window he could see the masculine darkness of the group of pines; set against them, inside, clear and heavy, the terribly female bulk of Sylvia. Rage surged within him, from bowels to brain. He raised his arm, and, pointing the bow of the violin at her, he said to Finch:
“You used to like to hear me play till she came on the scene.”
The formidable weight of the words, the smallness of the speaker, might have made the scene almost ridiculous, but the effect on Sylvia was as of a blow. “No, no, no,” she gasped and clung to the back of her chair for support.
Finch strode to her side. “Come,” he said, “you must lie down.” Keeping his eyes off Dennis, he supported her into their room and closed the door.
There she drew on all her strength. She stood upright. “what a fool I am,” she said, “to let something said by a child upset me! He couldn’t know how it hurt.”
“He’s a little devil,” said Finch, “and I’ll go out to him and break that damned violin over his back.”
Between him and Sylvia he had a sudden vision of his dead wife, Sarah, playing on her violin — that same instrument which Dennis cherished today. Sarah was gazing at him with possessive intensity, gazing at him as though every inch of him were of extravagant importance to her.
“Let’s not take this too seriously,” Sylvia was saying. “Dennis was upset because — ”
Finch interrupted, “I’ll teach him a lesson. I won’t have him insulting you.”
She sank to the bed. “No, no,” she sobbed. “I can’t bear any sort of scene.”
“You’ll know nothing about it.”
“I can’t bear it,” she repeated. “Please, please don’t punish him.”
“what do you want me to do?”
“Say nothing more. Dennis will be sorry.”
“It’s not in him to be sorry.”
“Oh, Finch, he adores you, and it makes him madly jealous. We should not have let him come home and see me — like this.”
“I’ll send him away.”
“You can’t. Not just at Christmastime.”
“I’ll send him to Jalna.”
She snatched at the relief of that. “Yes, yes,” she said, “but don’t tell them — everything. I should be ashamed for them to know. I’d look such a failure.”
What she did look, to Finch, was infinitely touching. To give her peace he agreed and, making her comfortable on the bed, returned to the music room. He did not close the door after him because he wanted to assure her that he would not so much as raise his voice when with Dennis.
When Finch went in to his son he found that the violin had been put away neatly in its case. Dennis, in his grey flannel suit, stood with bowed head, like a prisoner awaiting sentence. He held his clasped hands in front of him, as though they were manacled.
Finch said, in a controlled voice: “I should take you to Sylvia and make you apologize before punishing you. What I am going to do is to send you to Jalna, if Uncle Renny will have you, for the rest of the holidays. You are to understand that you are banished from here. Don’t show your face about home. You’re getting off very easily.”
“But I don’t want to go away,” Dennis said earnestly. “I want to be with you.”
“If you thought half as much of me as you pretend to think, you would realize that Sylvia’s happiness is the greatest thing in life to me.”
“I’ll be different from now on,” said Dennis. “Please let me go and tell — ” He hesitated a moment, then brought out the word “Mother” in a still lower voice. “Let me go and tell Mother I’m sorry, I won’t do anything like that again, I promise. But please let me stay at home.”
Sylvia must have been straining her ears to hear. Now she called out, “Let him come!”
Finch stood undecided, dreading another scene.
Dennis looking up into his face said, “She wants me to go to her. May I go?”
“Very well,” Finch said. “But be careful what you say. I’ll be listening.”
The small figure moved lightly past him and into Sylvia’s room. She was on the bed, but leaning on her elbow. Dennis had the power of making her feel that a crisis of some sort was at hand. Now she was aware of this sensation as he came to her bedside. She noticed a bruise on his smooth child’s forehead.
“You have hurt yourself,” she said.
He gave a little laugh and put up his hand to feel the spot. “I don’t even remember how I bumped it.”
His eyes moved from her face and came to rest on the protuberance at her middle. Then he averted them and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said what I did about you. I know it isn’t true. Will you please forgive me and let me stay at home?”
“Of course, I shall — if your father agrees.” She put out her hand to him. He caught it, bent over it, as though in curiosity to examine the delicate blue veins in its thinness. Then he wheeled and ran from the room to Finch and caught him by the arm.
“She wants me to stay at home,” he said eagerly. “She says so herself. Please don’t send me away, Daddy. I’ll be different. I’ll behave the way you’d like me to. I won’t play the violin, or be cheeky — or anything. Please.”
“what I should like,” said Finch, “is to see you behave more like other boys.”
“I try,” said Dennis, “but somehow I can’t. At the camp they said I’d been spoiled at home. Do you think that’s the trouble with me?” He looked ready, thought Finch, to discuss his disposition at length.
Sylvia was now calling from her bed, and Finch went to her.
“Have you told Dennis he’s not to be sent away?” she asked.
“No. I think it would be better if he went.”
“I can’t bear it,” she said. “A child sent away at Christmastime. No — no.”
Finch returned to the boy. “We,” he said, stressing the we, “have decided to let you stay here, if — ”
Dennis interrupted — catching Finch’s arm in his hands.
“How good you are, Daddy — how kind to me — both of you.”
XXI
The Snowman
Ninety-nine Christmases had been celebrated at Jalna. In its first Christmas Philip and Adeline Whiteoak had been young people and their three children infants. Now all those five were in their graves and the youngest to join in the celebration were Victoria Bell, who arrived in her father’s arms, and the unborn Whiteoak, still curled up in his mother’s womb. Victoria Bell, strong of back and bright of eye, sat upright, enthralled by all she saw. Boughs of spruce and hemlock made every doorway seem the entrance to a bower. Evergreens and holly were entwined on the banister. Mistletoe was not forgotten.Victoria bore with patience the dandling from one pair of arms to another, the compliments on her complexion and on her dimpled knees. The smell of roast turkey with sage-seasoned stuffing that rose from the basement did not make her mouth water. The only smell that interested her was the warm milky smell of her mother’s breast. But she enjoyed being the centre of interest on this, her first Christmas. What were the thoughts of the unborn Whiteoak in his slumberous retreat, it would be difficult for the most fervent imagination to guess. Did those thoughts ooze darkly through his brain, causing no stir, or did they strike as a blinding blow, making him twitch and bound in his effort to escape what they portended?
Nineteen members of the family were present in the ho
use. They were in drawing room and hall, for the library (which Renny persisted in calling the sitting room) was where the massive Christmas tree was enthroned. No one must enter there till came the hour of present giving. In the meantime they were a talkative, rather noisy gathering, and when Finch sat down at the piano and played a carol the singing was hearty, and especially that of the Rector, who had already that day conducted three church services.
Alayne sadly missed the rather chill presence of her son, which could, at a time such as this, warm to a tolerable cheer. Archer had sent no presents because, so he wrote, he could not afford them; he had lost count of the number of relatives; and he believed that the celebration of Christmas should be made in solitude. However, he had sent a card to each of his parents — to Alayne a picture of a pale, sad Madonna and child; to Renny, three emaciated Wise Men on camels. These cards Renny had placed in a position of honour on the mantelshelf. Unfortunately when Piers was adding logs to the fire he knocked them off and they fell into the blaze and were burned. At the time, no one but himself noticed the mishap. He stood, with dropped jaw, staring ruefully at the tiny conflagration. Then, taking from a table a card with a fat Santa Claus, and another showing rosy-cheeked choirboys, he placed them where Archer’s cards had been.
Maurice and Patrick Crawshay were sadly missed, but they sent affectionate telegrams from California, of which balmy land they appeared to think they were the discoverers. As for presents, they had sent souvenirs of California to everyone. Little Mary, in particular, was pleased with these, and felt friendlier towards the young men than ever before.
Philip, in his becoming cadet uniform, showed — as the Rector declaimed, in his second glass of sherry — “‘Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, an eye like Mars, to threaten and command; a station like the herald Mercury new-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill.’”
“Listen to the man,” whispered Pheasant to her son Christian — “He’ll make Philip more vain than ever.”
“Impossible,” said Christian. “Since this match has been made for him, he’s like a young peacock.”
Adeline that very morning had stood in the paddock watching while Philip schooled a nervous young show horse. Also there was Renny mounted on East Wind. East Wind was not a jumper but a racer. Still he could take these moderate jumps with ease. He showed an angular devil-may-careness. Nothing affected his nerves. He attacked every hurdle with a joyous stride. Not so the colt, who trembled with excitement, tossed his stark head in anger, champed his bit, and sought to throw young Philip, his rider. Adeline’s eyes were bright with pleasure as she watched Renny on East Wind, critical of Philip on the dancing colt. Yet when, in a violent swerve, the colt threw Philip and he lay still, she gave a gasp of dismay, ran and bent over him.
Renny rode up.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“The ground felt a bit hard,” said Philip. He got to his feet and ran limping to the colt who stood a little way off, making a grimace of disdain. Philip mounted him, and they again circled the paddock, this time taking the jumps with ease.
“Good man,” called out Renny.
Philip bent to pat the colt’s shoulder, then rode with casual grace to where Adeline stood. She saw a smear of blood on his forehead. “It’s nothing,” he laughed.
“I quite like you,” she said. “I can’t help myself.”
As she watched the two horsemen she saw her life stretching before her bound up in these two men. They were comrades, in accord, prisoners of the traditions of Jalna, as no outsider could ever be.
It would have been strange if Philip had not been pleased with himself. Those of his elders whose opinion he valued most did not hide their enormous pleasure in the engagement. Those who were not pleased concealed their disapproval. Adeline chose on this occasion to make a felicitous picture with her fiancé. Wearing a new dress of shot mauve and gold taffeta, with a bouffant skirt, and leaning in Victorian fashion on Philip’s arm, she looked happy indeed as they moved among their kin. Possibly the presence of Fitzturgis added something to her smile, made it a little fixed, for she could not forget the passion he once had inspired in her. He and Roma stood side by side in the corner by the china cabinet. Roma, with her cool appraising glance, looked the affianced pair over and remarked, “My, you look elegant. Almost too good to be true.”
Philip tried, and failed, to think of something else to say. He could only caress the down on his upper lip and look haughty. Fitzturgis’s intent eyes were on the cluster of auburn hair that lay on the whiteness of Adeline’s neck. He said, “My congratulations. I hope you will be very happy.”
“As happy as we are,” added Roma.
The constraint of this meeting was overcome by the addition of Wakefield to the quartet. He was now fully recovered and in good spirits. In fact his spirits were more than good: they were in high hope. His play was to be produced by a repertory theatre in London and he intended to leave for England in the New Year. Twice had he written to Molly, but the first letter he had been ashamed to send, so full of self-pity was it. He had torn it up and later had written to her gently, saying that what she had done, though it had seemed cruel to him at the time, was possibly the right, the noble thing for her to do. Molly’s reply had been so friendly, so free from the contrition he was sure she would and should be feeling, that he glared at her letter in anger, then laughed out loud, and, hearing that hollow laughter, thought he had never heard laughter better done on the stage. He felt himself able to make the tremendous effort of putting Molly out of his life. Safe and loved in the bosom of his family, he was as a boy again — an experienced and worldly boy, but still a boy.
He was conscious of no embarrassment among the quartet he now joined. At the moment he forgot that Adeline and Fitzturgis ever had been engaged. He forgot all complications connected with the four. His own clear conscience, his bright prospects, were sufficient unto this Christmas Day. His mood was contagious. Chaffing and laughter turned to unrestrained high spirits. Wakefield put his arms about Finch and Christian and declaimed: “Make way for the artists of the family!”
The three, interlocked, executed a polka down the drawing room. With scornful laughter for the artists, Renny, Piers, and Philip clasped one another, and, in spite of Piers’s artificial leg, did a sort of gallop. “Make way for the horsemen of the family!” commanded Piers, who was panting.
Two faces remained unsmiling. One was the face of Patience, who was hurt because her dear Humphrey was not included among the “artists” of the family. The others might forget that Humphrey had had short stories in print, had had stories produced on television; never would she forget, and she was hurt for his sake. But Humphrey did not in the least mind. He was swept along by the high spirits of the Whiteoaks. He could not have told which trio he admired the more. To him they all were fine fellows.
The other unsmiling face was that of Dennis. He watched his prancing elders with an expression of cold aloofness. Yet, all during the day, whenever he found that either Finch or Sylvia was looking in his direction, he gave a little smile, as though dutifully. It chilled his small face throughout the present-giving, when Piers, for the sake of him and Mary and Victoria Bell, appeared in the Santa Claus costume brought down from the attic and smelling a little of mothballs. From the towering resinous-scented tree, Piers handed down presents for everyone, at the same time making jocular and highly personal remarks that, partly because of the champagne at dinner and the liqueur afterward, were considered witty.
Sylvia was tired when all was over, yet the exhilaration of the evening still upheld her. She decided that she would like to walk home. There had been a snowfall. A full moon was searching out the whiteness of the silent land.
“Are you sure the walk won’t be too much for you?” asked Finch anxiously.
“Nothing is better for her,” said Meg, “than walking — in moderation, of course. Sylvia must have no overexertion.”
Sylvia’s snow boots were put on, and her new fur
coat. She felt excited, well. She, Finch, and Dennis set out. They left their Christmas presents behind, to be called for on Boxing Day. So crisp was the snow beneath their feet it made a cheerful crunching sound. Tiny moonlit particles floated on the dark blue air, there were icy patches on the road and Finch held Sylvia close by the arm lest she should fall, but Dennis ran ahead sliding on the ice. Suddenly he was laughing, full of life.
“Come and slide with me,” he shouted.
“Go on — slide with him,” urged Sylvia.
Finch objected to leaving her, but she insisted. In a moment father and son were running and sliding wildly together, while Sylvia in her bulk plodded after. Dennis was sparkling with delight. Never had he and Finch so enjoyed themselves together. They forgot everything but their pleasure in running and swooping in long slides over the glitter-ice.
“Don’t let’s go in,” shouted Dennis. “I’d like to stay out all night.”
But Sylvia was tired. Once, unseen by them, she had nearly fallen and, in righting herself, had strained her side. She began to long for bed and plodded ever more slowly. She spoils everything, thought Dennis, and a black wish that she would fall and kill herself sped like a hawk through the brightness of his mind.
Now they had left the road and were at their own gate.
Carefully Finch supported Sylvia along the snowy path and into the house. It was deliciously warm inside. Finch turned on the lights and she sank, with something like a groan of relief, into a deep chair. Finch, kneeling, took off her snow boots and stockings and chafed her cold feet. Dennis, at a little distance, stood watching them.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 527