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

by Mazo de La Roche

  Piers had gone into the farmhouse to inspect the painting and Mary was standing on the unkempt grass of the lawn, with Ernest in her arms. Just to stand there and hold him tightly was bliss. His first tooth was making itself felt. The gum about it was sore and an excess of saliva gathered in his mouth. He would thrust his round white fist into his mouth and, when he brought it out wet, he would wipe it on Mary’s pink cheek or on her straight fair hair. But whatever Ernest did was charming to Mary.

  Now she was trying to draw his attention to a quite perfect spider web on the grass where three captives waited to be devoured. The fact that two of them were honey bees, bound round with glittering gyves, did not excite her pity. She was completely on the side of the spider and, when she saw him joyously descending on a gossamer thread from a briar rose to his web on the grass, she laughed in pleasure. “Look, Ernest, look — look!” But Ernest only stared wide-eyed at her.

  She kissed him on the mouth and cried, “You’re better than a spider — prettier — prettier — prettier!”

  Now she discovered that the briar had a pink rose on it. She tried to make Ernest see the rose but he saw only her. “Look — look — smell how nice!” But he just snuffled on her cheek.

  She hugged him in delight. “You’re better than a rose,” she cried. Now, in a loud chant, quite unlike her usual voice, she repeated: “Prettier than a spider! Sweeter than a rose! Better than a spider or a rose!” She swayed with him in her arms, dipping him to see the spider’s web, raising him to smell the rose. But he would neither look nor sniff.

  Now she became conscious of another presence. Dennis was coming round the corner of the house.

  “what’s that you’re saying?” he demanded.

  She hung her head, speechless.

  “I heard you,” he said. “You were saying, ‘Better than a spider. Sweeter than a rose.’ what nonsense!… Give me the baby.” He tried to take Ernest from her, but she would not let him go.

  They struggled.

  Just then Piers came out of the farmhouse.

  “what’s going on?” he asked.

  “I’d like to hold my little brother for a bit,” said Dennis, “but she won’t give him up.”

  “Mary,” said Piers, in an admonishing tone.

  She let Ernest be taken from her.

  “when did you come home, Dennis?” Piers asked.

  “Last night. I’m ten days early because of chicken pox at school.”

  Piers looked at him thoughtfully. “where did you spend last night?” he asked.

  “At Jalna.” Dennis spoke eagerly. “Wright met me at the station and took me straight home” — Now his voice took on an argumentative tone — “but my father wasn’t ready for me. My room wasn’t ready. Well you couldn’t expect him to want a boy in the house when he was composing a concerto, would you? And my room was not ready. He said for me to go to Jalna temporarily. It’s different at Jalna. You can always go there because no one’s ever doing anything important there.” Dennis spoke fast, excitedly. He was proud of the word “temporarily,” and repeated it under his breath. He kept his eyes on Piers’s face.

  “Your father,” said Piers, “doesn’t take much interest in his children.”

  “Oh, he’s interested in us all right,” Dennis said eagerly, “but he’s an artist and you can’t expect them to be like other people, can you?”

  “You’re coming on,” said Piers, “but you haven’t grown any taller this term.”

  Dennis hung his head and Mary stood up as tall and straight as she could. Ernest looked sweetly pensive, as he did when about to wet himself.

  Piers put all three children into the car. He said: “I’m going to drive you to your father’s, Dennis. When we get there I want you to go to him, with the baby in your arms. Let him see that you expect to be taken in — as you have a right to. Do you understand? I’ll wait at the gate.”

  In front of the house Dennis stood, with Ernest in his arms, while Piers drew off with Mary. She was crying a little.

  Dennis moved to where the snowman had stood, in front of the picture window. He could see Finch in the music room. He held Ernest up, in front of him, as high as he could, and waited. His arms were aching by the time Finch discovered them.

  Against the green outdoors Finch saw the two sons he had begot. One by Sarah. One by Sylvia.

  Finch came through the front door.

  “what are you doing?” he called out.

  “Waiting for you,” said Dennis.

  “Go away,” called out Finch, trembling from the emotions that shook him. “Go — and take that child with you.” He went back into the house.

  But Dennis did not go away. He stood, holding up Ernest, like a beggar soliciting help through his child.

  Finch, looking through that hateful window, was shaken by anger at the boy’s persistence. He rapped sharply on the pane and motioned to Dennis to go. Ernest chuckled and blew bubbles. Everything was a joke to him.

  Piers was waiting by the gate, as had been arranged.

  “Well,” he asked, taking the little one from Dennis, “did you see your father?”

  “Yes,” said Dennis, with a smile. “He took us into the room where he was working. He was so glad to see us. He said what pretty hair Ernest has, and how big and bright his eyes are. He said how nice it is to have me home again.”

  Mary, in the back seat, was listening. “Better than a spider,” she muttered; “sweeter than a rose.”

  XXX

  The Christening

  As the car passed New Farm, Piers slowed it down that he and the children might watch the entry of eight show horses, through a gate into fresh pasture. They were being led by stable boys, who were in such high spirits as they came down the road that they whistled and sang. The horses were on their way from Jalna to this new field, and seemed to feel a certain distrust of the change. They moved warily and even shied a little at sight of the standing motor car. The rich locks of their well-groomed manes lay on their massive necks. They lifted their feet delicately, as though it would take only a little to make them sprout wings and fly. When they were on the pasture they disdained to crop the grass but, once their halters were removed, galloped whinnying to the other end of the pasture, where they stood immobile as a group in bronze.

  The head stable boy slammed the gate and called out to Piers, “They’ll soon settle down, sir.”

  “Yes,” agreed Piers, “they’ll settle down.”

  “The grass here is first rate,” said the boy and bent and plucked a handful and examined it, as though he had a mind to eat it himself.

  Piers drove on. When he reached home he handed over the baby to Pheasant, with a look of satisfaction on his tanned face. “I’ve good news about Finch,” he said. “Dennis took Ernest to see him and apparently Finch was pleased and made quite a fuss of him.”

  “Isn’t that splendid?” she cried. “How could he help being pleased by him? Such a darling baby.… But Ernest, my pet, you’re just as wet as possible.” And she carried him off.

  There were many preparations being made for the three events shining on the horizon. New arrivals added to the excitement. Archer from Oxford … Wakefield from London … Roma and Fitzturgis from New York.

  Archer, in spite of his youth wearing an air of chill distinction, came early to The Moorings to see his relatives there. Not that he appeared glad to see them. The sight of them seemed to give him pain, rather than pleasure. He didn’t even smile at Ernest, but remarked to Pheasant:

  “I suppose that charity of this sort is its own reward.”

  “Ernest is a pet,” cried Pheasant.

  “Then I suppose,” said Archer, “that you keep him, for the reason that we keep all our pets, because we can’t help ourselves.”

  “Finch is very generous to me,” said Pheasant.

  “I should think,” said Archer, “that it would seem cheap to him at any price to get an infant off his hands.”

  “You’ll be a parent yourself
one day,” said Pheasant. “Then you’ll understand.”

  “Parentage,” he said, “is hidden behind the marriage ceremony. A dream come true. A nightmare you can’t be woken out of.”

  Pheasant was ready to argue with him but Piers came into the room and, after greeting Archer, asked:

  “Have you seen New Farm?”

  “I’ve seen it all my life,” said Archer.

  “I mean since your dad bought it.”

  “Is it permitted to ask why he bought it?” asked Archer.

  “Well,” said Piers, “your dad thought, and I thought, it would help to round out the estate. There are so many insignificant little places going up all about.”

  “A Triton among the minnows, eh?” said Archer.

  Piers said proudly, “It’s been our tradition, Archer, to follow in the footsteps of our forebears. To be like them and even more so, if you know what I mean.”

  “Plus royaliste que le roi,” said Archer.

  Christian came in to invite Archer to go into the studio.

  When they were there, in the midst of the young artist’s paintings, Christian inquired, “what do you feel about life in England?”

  “I found nothing there that tempted me to remain permanently,” said Archer.

  “Then you’re glad to come home?”

  “I should scarcely say that,” Archer replied distantly.

  He looked with a dissatisfied air at a painting of the three willow trees by the stream.

  “You don’t like it,” Christian exclaimed, a little hurt by the look on Archer’s face.

  “Don’t mind me,” said Archer. “I just go on in my own natural way. I never have liked trees. They take up too much room both above and below. Particularly I don’t like willows. They remind me of depressing things — like Gilbert and Sullivan — ‘Willow, tit willow,’ you know.”

  “My brother Maurice.” said Christian, “is buying this picture to take back to Ireland.”

  “I can’t think of a better thing to take to Ireland,” said Archer. “Weeping willows and wailing Irish. They can mourn together.”

  Christian began scraping a palette. He concealed the chagrin which he despised himself for feeling, and inquired, “Did you make many friends at Oxford?”

  “I made friends of sorts,” said Archer. “But when I discovered that they all hoped to visit me in Canada I dropped them. Friends are too great a responsibility.”

  “Not even a girlfriend?” probed Christian. “Not one on shipboard?”

  “There was one I liked,” said Archer, “but she became too demanding. I was forced to drop her. I had thought my youth would protect me. But no — she was out to marry me.”

  “You do well,” said Christian, “to hang on to your freedom. It’s the best thing in life — for a man. It’s different for women. If they can grapple a willing slave, to work for them till he drops, they don’t need freedom. For example, look at Patience and Humphrey Bell.”

  “I prefer to look the other way,” said Archer.

  He moved critically about the studio, examining sketches.

  “why, here,” he almost exclaimed, “are two quite good attempts at portraiture — Adeline and Philip.”

  “They were a ghastly failure,” said Christian. “Uncle Renny wants portraits of the pair to hang opposite the portraits of our great-grandparents, and commissioned me to do it. Of course I know I couldn’t — not to satisfy him — but I took it on because I need money.”

  “why?” asked Archer. “You have a perfectly good home here.”

  “A fellow likes some cash in his pocket.”

  Archer studied the portraits. “I think they are very good,” he said.

  “Uncle Renny called them caricatures,” Christian said bitterly.

  “I will buy them,” said Archer, firmly, “as wedding presents for Adeline and Philip. As they are only sketches, I suppose you’ll not ask a high price.”

  “I’ll give them to you,” said Christian, “free, gratis, for nothing.”

  “I couldn’t agree to that,” said Archer. “I’ll pay you ten dollars apiece, if you’re willing.”

  “Okay,” said Christian. “I’ll be glad to get them out of my sight.”

  Archer looked lovingly at the sketches. “It will be amusing,” he said, “to see my father’s face when these portraits appear among the wedding presents.”

  The morning of the christening dawned pink and gold. The mercury, as though in celebration, flew up twenty degrees. It was summer. Ernest had not only got his tooth through, but another pearl-like point now was starting beside it. On the slightest provocation he laughed, exhibiting them in pride. His tucked and embroidered robe lay waiting on Pheasant’s bed. He had had his bath and lay sleeping in his pram on the lawn, near a honeysuckle in bloom that drooped from the porch. Everything was in delightful order — that is, until Dennis appeared on the scene.

  He trotted in from the road, round the corner of the house, and bent over the sleeping baby, with a feeling of enchantment, a rapturous feeling of possessiveness. Uncle Piers and Aunty Pheasant behaved as though the baby were theirs, but it was his. It was his very own. He had been there when it was being born. He would be beside it all its life.

  He felt a sudden anger because he had not been consulted in any way about the christening. This aunt and uncle did not realize that the baby was his. But he would show them. He would prove to them that it would be well for them to consult him before arranging ceremonies for Ernest.

  Dennis lifted him out of the pram. He lifted him gently and cautiously, and carried him round the corner of the house, through the gate, into the road. Nobody saw him go.

  When they had progressed some distance along the road, Ernest woke. He laughed out of the pure pleasure of finding himself awake. He showed his two teeth in pride.

  “Little brother — little brother,” said Dennis. “who’s running off with you, little brother? who’s going to take you away and never bring you back, little brother?”

  A tiny convulsion of joy ran through Ernest’s plump body. He kicked and laughed, and then looked pensive, as he wet himself.

  “This is your christening day, little brother,” Dennis said. “There’ll be presents for you — if you’re there to get them. I’ll bet you that our father doesn’t give you a present, because he doesn’t love you. But I love you and I’m taking you away, so you’ll be late for your own christening — the way I was late for my confirmation.”

  They had now reached the gate that led into New Farm. They were where the three willows grew by the stream. Where the willows drooped was a good hiding place. There Dennis carried Ernest and lay down beside him, as in a green grotto. They were completely hidden, and there was no sound but the whispering of the stream. It was very warm.

  Dennis began by taking off Ernest’s knitted booties, watching with delight the curling and uncurling of the sensitive toes. Then, suddenly, with a rdful air, he took off the rest of his clothes, leaving him a completely naked baby on the mossy ground beneath the willows.

  At first Ernest was surprised by this. He lay staring quietly up, as though watchful. He appeared to discover that he was still he, though outdoors without any clothes on. Another small convulsive movement shook him. He was like a fish suddenly swept from pool, out on to the grass. But when Dennis laid a hand on his round white stomach, he laughed.

  “‘Prettier than a spider. Sweeter than a rose,’” said Dennis. “That’s silly girl’s talk. But we know what’s true, don’t we, little brother? Our father doesn’t want us. He hates us, little brother.… But he doesn’t know what we know.… If he did, he’d kill me.… It would serve him right … serve him right … If I killed us both.…” Dennis said, with sudden savagery, “what he needs is a terrible fright.”

  He took Ernest into his arms and clutched him hungrily. Ernest hiccoughed and then cried a little.

  “Don’t cry, little brother,” said Dennis. “No more crying for you or for me.… We’ll be happy
together.… No mother … no father … Do you know who I am? I’m Esau. My hand against every man’s, and every man’s hand against me.”

  Now Ernest chuckled and tried to push his fist into his mouth.

  “How nice and cool you look,” said Dennis. “We’ll both be cool. Esau and Little Moses among the bulrushes. We’ll be naked and happy, little brother.”

  Dennis took off his own clothes and lay down beside Ernest, one arm thrown possessively about him. The two lay lost in pleasurable sensations, breathing the June air through every pore.

  After a while Dennis got up and, taking Ernest into his arms, went down into the pool where rushes, in their new greenness, grew and whispered.

  Dennis raised his clear, treble voice and said, in a kind of chant:

  “We’re Baptists, little brother.… I’m going to totally immerse you, and baptize you.… I baptize you Moses … in the name of the father — Finch Whiteoak … the son — Dennis Whiteoak … and the holy ghost — Sylvia Whiteoak.”

  In the meantime a frantic search was taking place. Pheasant had dressed little Mary for the christening ceremony, then herself; she had left Ernest to the last because he was the central figure and his costume was the most important. Then she ran down the stairs and to the pram where he had been sleeping. When she found that he was missing she was not frightened but a little annoyed. Mary had taken him up, she was sure, and it was really naughty of her to be so officious.

  Pheasant called loudly, “Mary! Mary!”

  Mary came running from the studio.

  “where is Baby?” demanded Pheasant.

  “I don’t know, Mummy.”

  “But you must know. You took him up, didn’t you?”

  “No, Mummy. He was asleep.”

  “For goodness’ sake,” said Pheasant, now really annoyed. “It must have been your father.” And she went underneath the bathroom window and called up: “Piers! Piers!”