But his freedom was cut short by the barking of Wright’s Scotch collie. It bounded toward Dennis with furious barking, then, recognizing him, uttered loud cries of delight. Dennis ran in panic back to the stable, the collie leaping beside him, and climbed the ladder into the loft. For a short while the collie whined at the bottom of the ladder; then, satisfied that it had done its duty, trotted off.
The following midmorning little Mary Whiteoak happened to be picking flowers near the stable when a small door leading into the loft was opened and Dennis’s voice called her name, but softly. She looked up.
“Is that where you are?” she asked without surprise, for nothing he did surprised her.
“Yes,” he answered. “And I want you to come right up here. Don’t let anybody see you.” He directed her how to find and ascend the ladder. Soon she was sitting beside him on the hay, looking anxiously into his face. Certainly he looked odd, for his eyelids were swollen and pink, and his lips dark and feverish. His hair looked stiff and dry like straw.
“I’m hungry,” he said, “and you are to bring me something to eat. You’re to bring it right away.”
“But I can’t.” Now she looked really frightened. “I don’t know where to get it.”
“Today is our woman’s day for going to shop for us,” he said. “She’ll be on her way now. You’re to go into the kitchen and find something for me to eat. Anything will do. I’m so hungry I could take a bite out of you. I could take a bite of Ernest. Would you like to see me take a bite of Ernest?”
Mary stared at him fascinated, the flowers she had gathered wilting in her hand.
“Make sure,” he said, “that nobody sees you; but if my father should see you, tell him you’re hungry. Whatever you can get hold of, bring to me here. If you don’t — shall I tell you what will happen?”
She nodded, gripping the flowers.
“I’ll kill Ernest,” he said. “Nothing can stop me.” That ruthless sense of power which sometimes gripped him now swept through all his nerves, to his very marrow. “when I make up my mind to kill somebody nothing can stop me. Now run and find me something to eat and be quick about it.”
He sprang up and flourished his arm in menace above her.
The kitchen was, as he had foretold, empty. She stood looking about her, not knowing what to do. A pineapple lay on the table, and she wondered if she should take that. Then she heard steps and Finch, in shirt and trousers, appeared from the passage.
“Well, Mary dear,” he said gently. “what do you want?”
“That,” she said, pointing to the pineapple. The wilted flowers fell from her hand to the floor.
“But — why?” stammered Finch, astonished, because she was usually so shy.
“I’m hungry.”
Finch put the pineapple into her hands. “Ask your mother to cut it up,” he said. Then he added, “We still have no word of Dennis. I’ve called in the police to help.”
Mary turned and ran out of the kitchen.
She ran along the path in the direction of home. Then she hid behind some currant bushes, whose glossy red berries hung in bright clusters. Remembering her flowers she shed a few tears. The sharp spines of the pineapple hurt her hands.
After a little while she came out from hiding and cautiously climbed up the ladder into the loft. Dennis was waiting for her, his hungry eyes on her timid face. Then he saw the pineapple. He stretched out both hands to snatch it. With her face expressing both patronage and disgust at his greed, Mary watched him take out his pocketknife, cut a thick slice from the pineapple and devour it. He seemed not to notice the juice that ran down his chin and over his front. But the fruit put fresh heart into him.
“Oh, how good,” he said. “How good! You know, Mary, I was starving, and my head aches. Have you ever had a headache, Mary?”
“No,” she answered distantly.
He threw himself on his back on the straw. “Mary,” he said, “lay your hand on my head and feel how hot it is.”
She laid her hand gently on his forehead. “Oh, how nice,” he murmured. “Keep it there — keep it there till I tell you to move it.…” After a little he said, “Do you know what, Mary? when we’re grown up, I may marry you. Would you like to marry me?”
“No,” she said, with decision.
He broke into laughter. “You’re just an ignorant little girl,” he said. “You don’t know anything.”
“I don’t want to know,” she said.
He turned his face away from her hand and rolled over in the hay, as though in anguish.
“I know everything,” he moaned. “I know everything there is to know. It’s a terrible burden on my soul, Mary.”
She understood nothing of what he said. She looked at him with distrust.
Inspired by a new vitality he sprang to his feet and held an imaginary violin above his extended arm and under his chin. “I’m a great genius,” he boasted. “I’m going to run away to Europe with my violin. Perhaps I shall run away this very night.”
Mary sincerely hoped he would.
“My father is a great genius,” he went on. “You can’t have two geniuses in one house. That’s why I’m running away. I have to make room for him.”
“Then you’ll not want me to bring you anymore food,” she said.
“Yes — you must bring me some tomorrow morning — in case I don’t leave tonight.” And he added, savagely, “Don’t forget — because, if you do, I’ll come and steal Ernest. I’ll take him to Europe with me and I’ll play the violin and he’ll be a little monkey for me.”
“All right,” she said.
“Cross your heart and hope to die.”
She promised and escaped, leaving him again attacking the pineapple.
How frightening seemed the rest of that day to Mary, with tomorrow a threat like doom. She hung over Ernest in foreboding. She followed her mother like a thief. All she found to steal was a biscuit, a bun, and a banana. With these in a paper bag she deliberately ran away from home and made her way unseen to the stable, where Dennis was hiding. As she climbed the ladder up to the hot dusty hayloft, she hoped and prayed that he would by now have set out on his travels. “Please God — don’t let Dennis be here.”
But he was there, lying in the hay, looking strange to her and frightening in a new way.
He sat up straight, as soon as he saw her.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, in a husky voice. “I don’t want anything to eat. I’m going to kill myself. You are to go to my father and tell him you’ve found me, and that he will never see me alive again.”
“All right,” said Mary, eager to carry this message. She began to go down the ladder.
“Wait!” he shouted savagely. “Come here — see this rope!” He pointed to a thick rope hanging over a beam, dangling, with a loop at the end.
“I found that rope downstairs,” he said, “and I am going to hang myself by it.”
“Oh,” said Mary. “Can I go now?”
“Yes. Go into the house and find my father and say to him, ‘Dennis is in the loft over the stable. You will never see him alive again.…’ Have you got that straight?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Then repeat it.”
“I’m going to Uncle Finch and say you are in the loft and he’ll never see you alive again.”
“Right. Now get a move on. I’m sick. I’ve been sick all night. The pineapple made me sick. I vomited it up.” This was true. The air was heavy with a strange, sourish smell.
“Goodbye,” said Mary.
“Goodbye.” He flung himself back on the hay.
“Are you going to begin soon?” she asked.
“As soon as you go.”
“I don’t want to see you do it.”
“You’d better not. It will be a horrible sight.”
“Goodbye,” she said again, then asked, “what shall I do with the food I brought you?”
He sprang up and took the loop of rope in his grimy hands. “Wil
l you go?” he shouted. “I’m going to hang myself this minute!”
Mary went into the house and heard Finch moving restlessly about the living room. When he saw her he said: “They’ve not found Dennis yet. Where do you suppose he’s gone, Mary?” His eyes searched her little face, as though for help in the troubles that had befallen him.
She did not answer him at once because she was not sure that Dennis would be ready to be found. She was looking at a little vase with a few flowers in it.
“Those are the flowers you dropped the last time you were here. I put them in water to save for you.”
“Thank you, Uncle Finch.”
Surely Dennis was ready now.… She raised her gentle blue eyes to Finch’s haggard face. She said, “Dennis is in the loft over the stable. You will never see him alive again.”
“Mary,” shouted Finch. “what are you saying?”
“what he told me to. Come and see.”
She led the way and he followed in a daze of bewilderment. Outside they met Archer, who had discovered footprints leading from the strawberry bed to the stable. He said, “I believe I’ve discovered him. I think he’s hiding somewhere about here.”
“He’s in the hayloft,” said Mary, and repeated with relish, “You will never see him alive again.”
“Dennis is dead,” Finch said hoarsely. “You must go up, Archer, — I can’t.” The blood had drained from his face, leaving it grey. He was shaking all over.
His expression imperturbable but his body brilliantly agile, Archer darted into the stable and up the ladder to the loft. They heard him exclaim, “Mercy!”
Dennis had been standing on a box with the loop of rope about his neck. When he heard Finch’s voice he kicked the box from beneath him. The noose tightened. His face was congested when Archer caught and held him in his arms. The rope was not well tied. It was easy for Archer to free him. But he struggled.
“Let me go,” he gasped. “I will hang myself! I will — I will.”
He was bitterly disappointed. He had fully expected he would be discovered by Finch.
Now Finch, hearing his voice, climbed the ladder and appeared, followed by Mary.
Dennis held out his arms to Finch. “I’m dying,” he cried melodramatically. “Forgive me — I’m dying.”
He did indeed look terribly ill.
“I think I’ll go home,” said Mary. “Ernest will be wanting me.”
A few hours later Finch walked through the ravine to Jalna. He found Alayne cutting blue delphiniums in the flower border. Even with his mind troubled as it was, he thought how becoming the graceful blue flowers were to her.
“Alayne,” he said, and put out his hand to touch her.
She caught his hand in both hers and held it.
“You’ve heard?” he asked, in an unsteady voice.
“Yes, I’ve heard. Are you sure Dennis meant to — do what he did? Archer says not.”
Finch made a grimace of pain. “I’m sure he meant to. My God, Alayne, the rope was there — round his neck. He looked terrible.”
“what does the doctor say?”
“He’s put him to bed with a sedative. He’s to stay there for a couple of days. He fell asleep gripping my hand. I should have felt deeply touched, but — I simply shrank from his hand. The doctor says he’s very sensitive — very young for his age.”
“Yes, yes — very young for his age — that’s what I think,” said Alayne. “The way he clings to your sleeve — the way he boasts.”
“And yet — ” Finch turned away from her, as though he could not trust himself to speak of this — then turned again to her — “and yet there are times when he seems to me capable of anything. Alayne — often he made Sylvia unhappy. Consciously, I think, he made her unhappy. I never can forgive him that.”
“Surely you imagine that, Finch.” Her pitying eyes looked into his. She was seeing him again as the unhappy boy she remembered. “You have a troublesome imagination, you know.”
“I wish it were imagination,” Finch said bitterly. “But — it was terribly real. And — another thing — I have a feeling that something happened — on the night Sylvia died — something Dennis feels responsible for. When we found him in the loft he kept repeating ‘Forgive me — I’m dying!’ But I have been haunted by a feeling — not explainable — when he and I are alone in the house together.”
“You must put such thoughts out of your mind,” Alayne said. “You must think of Dennis as an odd boy, but not as you are picturing him.”
“He’s so terribly like Sarah.”
“He may seem so to you, but he is really just himself, and there is no doubt about his love for you.” She gave a wry smile. “I should be glad if Archer showed a demonstrative love for either of his parents.”
At this point Piers came on the scene, crossing the lawn toward them, from the direction of the stables. It would have embarrassed Piers to speak of the near-tragic happening of that morning. Instead, he remarked to Finch in a genial tone:
“If you were a racehorse at stud, Finch, you would soon have no reputation as a sire, for you can’t get an offspring that bears the slightest resemblance to you. Look at your two boys — Dennis, who is the very spit of Sarah, except for his yellow hair; and Ernest, who is going to be the image of Sylvia, and has her lovely nature too. There’s the lad that’s going to be the comfort of your old age, Finch. Come along over to my house now and meet him. I can tell you I wish he were mine. You come along too, Alayne.”
“Shall we?” she asked eagerly of Finch.
But he turned away. “Thanks very much,” he said. “But I’ve things I must do at home.”
They watched his tall figure disappear down into the ravine.
XXXIV
The Wedding
The three sons of Piers and Pheasant were, on this July morning, passing an agreeable hour in Christian’s studio. The young artist himself was intently scrutinizing a mixture of blues that he had on his palette. A midsummer landscape stood on the easel before him, but he was not satisfied that he had captured the exact blue of the sky.
“It must be fun to puddle about with paints all day,” said Philip, rather patronizingly.
“Much more fun than getting married,” Christian said serenely. “You must be growing rather nervous, old fellow.”
“Me?” laughed Philip. “I leave nerves to the bride.”
Maurice, from where he sat on a windowsill, gave a groan.
“what’s that groan for?” demanded Philip.
“For your youthful exuberance,” said Maurice.
“when you come to think of it,” said Philip, “it’s odd that I, the youngest, should be the first to marry.”
“In the fairy tales I used to read as a child,” Christian returned happily, “the youngest son invariably married the princess — thank goodness.”
“Tell the truth,” said Philip, “neither of you would object to being in my shoes.”
“We’re green with envy,” said Christian, squeezing green paint out of a tube.
“You remember those very modern portraits you did of Adeline and me that Archer bought?” asked Philip.
“I do indeed. I quite like them. Better than the second pair.”
“Well, Archer is determined to display them with the rest of the wedding presents, but I tell him that Uncle Renny will never allow it.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“Like so much else,” put in Maurice.
“where is Pat Crawshay this morning?” asked Philip. “You’re seldom without him, Maurice.”
“He’s off to buy you a wedding present.”
“Gosh, I wish I knew what he has in mind,” Philip said, from the bottom of his heart.
“Probably a clock,” said Maurice, “or table silver. There’s so little of that sort of thing at Jalna.”
“That’s our trouble.” Philip looked rosily serious. “Adeline and I have everything we need for the house. But there are other things we should appre
ciate.” Suddenly he asked, without embarrassment, “Look here, Maurice, do you mind telling me what you are giving us?”
“A cheque,” Maurice said curtly.
Philip was delighted. “Nothing could be better.” He spoke with warmth. “For if there is anything we’re likely to be short of — it’s cash.”
“I’m so glad,” said Maurice, but did not say of what.
“It’s a pity” — Philip still addressed Maurice with great affability — “that you and Pat are leaving for Ireland so soon. You’ll be gone when we come back from our honeymoon.”
“Please God,” said Maurice.
“what about young Dennis?” asked Christian. “Will he be able to travel so soon? He’s been pretty ill, hasn’t he?”
“I’ve quite given up that idea,” said Maurice. “He doesn’t want to leave home, and I don’t want to take him — not after what happened.”
“what actually did happen?” asked Christian.
“Archer says that Dennis tried to hang himself, but I never believe what Archer says. He talks just to hear himself.”
“I’m afraid it is quite true,” said Maurice. “It’s been a shock to me and terribly disappointing.”
Archer appeared in the doorway just in time to hear this. He advanced into the studio and spoke as a professor delivering a lecture from a platform.
“Disappointments,” he said, “are generally pleasurable in the end. It’s the rewards that are hard to take. Now I have in me the power of joyous abandon, yet I never find anything that moves me to more than a wistful smile. I have in me the faculty for great suffering, yet I am never moved to exclaim anything more heartfelt than ‘Mercy!’ That’s what I said when I took the noose off Dennis’s neck.”
“How is he?” asked Maurice.
“I’ve just seen him,” said Archer. “He was in bed doing a crossword puzzle. He’ll be up and dressed tomorrow and as troublesome as ever.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 539