Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  Nineteen members of the family were present in the house. 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.�
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  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.

  “Would you like a hot drink?” Finch asked her.

  “Yes, please. I’m ashamed to say it, but I’m rather hungry.” How suddenly, thought Finch, Sylvia could look pale and wan. Over his shoulder he said to Dennis:

  “If you want to make yourself useful, heat some milk for Sylvia. And bring biscuits.”

  “Do you know where to find things, Dennis?” called out Sylvia, as the boy went toward the kitchen.

  “Oh, yes,” he answered cheerfully, but his spirit was heavy with resentment.

  He heated some milk, filled a glass and neatly arranged biscuits on a pretty plate. As he carried the tray to her, he was repeating to himself words he had heard on a record of Under Milk Wood:

  Here’s your arsenic, dear. Here’s your ground glass.

  He was so inwardly amused he scarcely could restrain his laughter. To Sylvia he appeared gently solicitous. When he had gone to his own room she remarked to Finch:

  “Don’t you think Dennis is developing greatly? He’s outgrowing those little-boy clinging ways.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Finch. “I hadn’t noticed any difference in him.”

  “He was sweet when he brought my tray.”

  “Was he?”

  “I do so want to be friends with him.”

  Dennis, standing in the doorway of his room, strained his ears to hear Finch’s reply but could not. He shrank from closing his door, shutting himself away in that room, leaving those two happy people together. His father’s long, lean figure, Sylvia’s bulk, were silhouetted against his closed eyelids as he lay stretched out small and straight in bed.

  Two days after the New Year, it was necessary for Finch to go to New York, in connection with the publishing of his sonata. It was to be a flying trip. He would be only two days away. He did not want to leave Sylvia, for even so short a while, but she urged him to go, promising that she would arrange to keep the daily woman overnight. The time of her confinement was not yet imminent. She was surrounded by the houses of relatives. Dennis was at hand. They two, she laughed, trying not to mind that Finch was going away, would look after each other.

  “We’re a pretty pair, aren’t we,” she said to Dennis — as they stood at the window, watching the car disappear along the drive — “we’re a pretty pair, aren’t we — afraid to keep house while your father is away?” She put her arm about him.

  Dennis withdrew a little. He asked, “why do you say we’re afraid?”

  “I was joking,” she said hurriedly. “what I mean is — we’re not used to responsibility.”

  If Finch had left Sylvia, as it were, in his charge, flattering his sense of power, he might have felt differently, but such a thing had not occurred to Finch and, if it had, he would have dismissed it as ridiculous. As it was, Dennis moved from room to room, savouring the thought that, with Finch away, he was rd of the house; that there was no one here to control him. All that day he kept longing to come to grips with Sylvia, not only to show her that he could do as he liked but that he would force her to do his will.

  Meg and the Rector spent the evening with them. They were a comfortable pair. In their presence Sylvia felt relaxed. She slept well. In the morning she discovered that there had been a heavy snowfall. She was astonished by the great white drifts which she had never seen equaled. Every branch and twig bore its breast-white burden.

  “I’ll tell you what I shall do,” Dennis said at breakfast. “I’ll build you a snowman. Ever had a snowman?”

  “Never,” she said, her eyes on his face, trying to read his thoughts.

  He laughed. “Never had a snowman? That’s funny. I make one every winter. You can watch through the window.”

  After breakfast he lounged in Finch’s chair in the living room, his legs stretched out, reading the paper in Finch’s very attitude. Then he sat down at the piano and played a little piece, bending his head to listen to the music.

  “That’s pretty,” said Sylvia, when he had finished. “what is it?’’

  “I don’t know.” He got up from the piano and went to the window.

  “when are you going to build the snowman?” she asked, trying not to feel rebuffed by his curtness.

  “when the right time comes.”

  She paid no further attention to him, and, after a little, he got a sweater from his room and went out. Sylvia peeped through the window and saw him rolling a large snowball across the white expanse of the lawn. He was conscious that he was being watched. He spied her, as the window curtain moved, and called out to her, his voice suddenly friendly and childish:

  “Come on out. It’s fun.”

  She was so eager to make the most of this mood of friendliness, to draw near to him, that she fairly flew to put on jacket and scarf. Outside, the air was marvelously light and crisp. A small bird, springing from a branch, sent down a dazzling shower of fine snowflakes.

  “why, it’s lovely,” cried Sylvia. “It’s not at all cold.”

  “The snow is getting solider,” said Dennis. “It’s in good condition for a snowman. Want to help me?”

  The ball he rolled was growing fast. Together they bent their backs and propelled it, as it accumulated more and more snow. Now the base was complete — now the body of the snowman. Now his head was firmly set on his shoulders. Sylvia and Dennis were positively overheated by the exertion. Her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes bright. She looked with pride on the snowman.

  “His nose is good,” said Dennis, “but now we need coals for his eyes and a pipe and a hat. You go into the house and get them.”

  She did not like the authoritative tone he used. He was plainly giving her an order. Yet so happy she was, in this newfound harmony with him, that she could not bear to strike the faintest note of protest. She hastened as well as she could to get what he wanted.

  Dennis stood looking after her, his arms folded, his lips compressed. He had a delicious sense of power. He felt capable, as never before, of drastic action, utterly to subdue her, but he did not know what the action might be. He watched her with cool pleasure, as she came plodding back through the snow, with a pipe, an old hat of Finch’s, and two coals in her hands. She was panting from the exertion.

  “Now,” she said, “let’s put on the finishing touches, and he’ll be quite a handsome fellow.”

  Dennis inserte
d the coals, stuck the pipe in the mouth of the snowman, put on the hat at a jaunty angle.

  Sylvia clapped her hands.

  “Splendid!” she cried, and felt that never before had she known what strength and joy could be born of outdoor exertion in the sunny cold of a northern winter morning. Then there was this new companionship with Dennis. She had dreaded Finch’s going away. It had been almost frightening to be left alone in the house with this odd little boy. Yet how well it had turned out! Never before had those two been on such good terms.

  She smiled into his face. “Aren’t we clever?” she exclaimed.

  He returned her look sombrely. “Clever?” he repeated. “I don’t see anything very clever about making a snowman.”

  He pulled off his mittens and stuffed them into his pocket. He began to make snowballs with his bare white hands. He threw them with surprising force against the side of the house. Sylvia was suddenly tired. “I think I shall go in,” she said.

  “No, don’t go,” said Dennis. “Let’s make another snowman. This man needs a son. Let’s make him.”

  Full of energy he began rolling another snowball. Quickly it gathered more snow, grew in size.

  “Come on and help,” shouted Dennis, and, as though hypnotized, she bent her back over the increasing snowball and pushed and pushed.

  “Come on — come on,” he would shout, as though encouraging a team of horses.

  But suddenly she could do no more. “I’m going in,” she said, and with difficulty straightened her aching back.

  “If you’re going in,” Dennis said casually, “you’ll not need your scarf. You might leave it for the snowman.” He began to draw it from her and, when she gladly relinquished it, he wound it about the snowman’s neck and meticulously tied it.