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

by Mazo de La Roche

  A few large drops of rain fell.

  A little tired, but certainly not tired enough to go to bed, Renny Whiteoak was the last to stand before the house that night. A great stillness had fallen. A distant roll of thunder only accentuated this deep nocturnal stillness. Where he had kept his supply of fireworks he found one last rocket. This he set off; with a smile watched its swift, hissing ascent, its explosion into a bouquet of stars, and raising his hand said: “A salute to you, Gran.”

  All the long evening the dogs had been shut in their room at the end of the hall. Now he strode in to release them. They came tumbling out — the bulldog, the spaniel, and the little cairn terrier. They rejoiced to be with him. He had a ham sandwich for each of them and one for himself. Together they ate them under a few pale stars that now appeared, and a brightness of dawn in the east.

  XXXIII

  Dennis

  Finch was the first to leave the party. He had not waited for supper, nor did he feel that he could endure the spectacle of the champagne-exhilarated crowd hilariously watching the fireworks. He was on his way when he remembered Dennis and turned back. Where was the boy? he wondered. He had had no more than a glimpse of him since their arrival. Archer was standing alone with a cup of coffee in his hand. Finch went to him and inquired whether he had seen the boy. “He’s at a table over there, with Aunty Meg and another elderly lady, eating chicken salad. How wretched he will feel tomorrow! Yet tonight it gives him confidence to sit with those two stout ladies, and it gives them confidence to sit in the company of one so young and greedy who can gobble all the food put in front of him without fear of getting fatter.”

  “I’m leaving,” said Finch. “He’d better come.”

  “He’d miss the fireworks. He is just the right age to enjoy the fireworks. I well remember when I loved to set off a firecracker — on the twenty-fourth of May it was, I seem to remember, somebody’s birthday. Boadicea’s, was it?”

  “I’m leaving,” repeated Finch.

  “Have you said goodbye to my mother and father?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they let you go without a struggle?”

  “They understood.”

  “She would understand,” Archer said thoughtfully. “She’s probably wishing that she herself might leave, but I can’t picture him as understanding. To him the pleasure of a party consists in draining the cup to the dreary dregs.… But I’ll tell you what I shall do — I’ll run Dennis home in our car when he’s ready to go.”

  “Perhaps he could spend the night here,” said Finch hopefully.

  “Scarcely,” said Archer inhospitably. “We are pretty full up. The spare rooms are taken by Maurice and Patrick. My mother’s insomnia will be troubling her, and my father has already three dogs in his room — ”

  Archer would have continued but Finch abruptly said good night and left.

  But there was no need for Archer to take Dennis home. He set out independently when the display of fireworks was over, taking a shortcut through the ravine. It was inky dark down there, for the moon had set and the few stars were powerless to penetrate between the luxuriant leaves of early summer. Now the voice of the stream could be heard in its dark communion with reeds and undergrowth. Dennis must go slowly, for the path was rather overgrown and sometimes not easy to find. Ever since the terrible night of Sylvia’s death Dennis had felt a shrinking from the hours of darkness. He was actually afraid of the dark, as he never had been before that night. No longer had he the sense of power which had then malignantly whipped him. He knew what fear was. He had frightening things to remember. Yet he wanted to go home alone — to go into the house by himself and find Finch there.

  He found him sitting in his favourite chair with a book in front of him, but he was not reading. Dennis stood looking in at him through the picture window, his heart swelling with possessive love. Yet he was fearful of Finch, and started and flinched as though rebuked when Finch, becoming conscious of his presence, looked out at him. Then he came quietly into the house.

  “who brought you?” asked Finch.

  “Nobody. I came by myself — through the ravine.”

  “Did you tell them that you were leaving?”

  “I forgot. I wanted to come alone.”

  “why?” Finch fired the question at him, angered, he knew not for what reason.

  Dennis hung his head. “I didn’t want to be brought home like a little kid,” he said, and added, “I didn’t want to give trouble.”

  “It’s the first time I’ve heard,” Finch said coldly, “of your minding giving trouble.”

  The silence that followed this remark was broken by the ringing of the telephone. Dennis sprang to answer it, then halted, with an enquiring look at Finch, who said, “I’ll answer it.”

  Alayne’s voice came over the wire. “Have you seen Dennis? Archer was going to take him home but can’t find him.”

  “He has just walked in, by himself,” said Finch. “He wants to apologize.” He held out the receiver to Dennis.

  “I’m sorry,” said Dennis in his treble voice. “I should have said goodbye. Thanks for a lovely party.”

  When he had hung up the receiver he inquired:

  “Was that all right?”

  “It will do. Now get to your bed.”

  Dennis stood up straight in front of Finch. He had the look of an almost too well disciplined child, but he had something he must say. “I want to know” — he spoke as though with difficulty — “how soon I am to go to Ireland.”

  “Right after the wedding.” Finch strove to put cheerful reassurance into his voice. “Maurice has booked your passage. I wonder if you need some new clothes. Perhaps you will begin to grow very fast.”

  “Did you?” asked Dennis.

  “I believe I did.”

  “Then I likely shall.”

  “In any case,” said Finch, “there are good clothes to be had in Ireland.”

  There was a moment’s constrained silence, then Finch said:

  “Come now. Get ready for bed. I’m going too.” He rose, put out the lights, and went to his room.

  A gentle rain was beginning to fall. Dennis was soon in his bed and, like the rain, gentle tears ran down his cheeks. He made no sound of weeping but lay flat on his face, his tears wetting the pillow. He felt unutterably lonely. He could not return to his school. He had been too wicked to be confirmed. If his father knew all, he would probably kill him. Half-awake, half-asleep, strange feverish dreams tortured him. Thoughts of violence at times made him tremble. He would surrender himself to trembling, with every inch of his prone body.

  At last he slept, but was again awake at dawn. The air was vibrant with the song of a cardinal that, like an unseen flame, poured forth its consuming joy. Dennis, at the first moment of awakening, was conscious of this joy; then he remembered his own unhappiness and burrowed into the pillow, trying not to hear the bird’s song.

  He did not know what to do next. There was no one who could help him out of his plight. His future had been settled for him. He was to be sent far away from home — from everything that was familiar to him — to a strange country — with Maurice, who himself had been sent to that same house in Ireland when he was a boy, and had never come home again except as a visitor.

  At the thought of the inevitability of grown-up decisions a pang of panic shot through Dennis’s nerves. He found himself standing in the middle of his room, possessed by one idea — the idea of flight from what threatened him, flight from what the grown-ups were going to do to him. If only Sylvia were here she would have protected him. Sylvia was kind — but he had killed her.

  In silence he drew on the few light garments he needed; then, passing Finch’s closed door, he stole out of the house. He knew where he was going, where he would hide, and where no one would look for him. There was an unused stable in the grounds which had been untouched when fire had demolished the former house.

  Dennis gently opened the door, shut it behind him; then climbed the
ladder leading up to the loft that felt airless and heavy with the stuffy smell of hay long lying there. The sun had risen, and a ruddy beam slanted like a dagger across the loft. He squatted on the hay. He felt safe here. Nobody missed him till that night, when his bedtime came.

  Finch came into the house expecting to find the boy in bed. When an hour had passed, sensing trouble — for he was suspicious of Dennis and longed for the time when he would be the responsibility of somebody else — he rang up the other family houses and, in a voice that he tried to keep calm, inquired for him. No one had seen or even thought of him that day. He had disappeared.

  “He hasn’t been here,” said Pheasant, over the telephone. “Piers forbade him the house, after what he did to darling little Ernest. You will probably find him up to some mischief.”

  He was not to be found. Finch was composing a sonata. It was torture to him to break the current of this effort. His capacity for suffering was heightened. He found himself actually walking in a circle in his bewilderment.

  “He is hiding somewhere,” said Renny. “He’ll turn up in the morning when he’s hungry.”

  But he did not turn up through all that day. In its intense heat they searched for him. It was the height of the summer season, yet all the men were taken from their work to join in the search.

  No one thought of looking in the unused stable. It was so close to the house, so easily accessible.

  Night again came.

  The moon, growing old, was still shining in a deep blue sky when Dennis stole down from the loft. He went to the field, where the strawberries grew sweet and thick in heat. Even in the moonlight they could be seen, shining like garnets among the clustering leaves. Dennis ate them greedily, for they assuaged his thirst, which had troubled him more than hunger. The coolness of the night air was delicious, comforting to his nostrils and throat, irritated by the dry, dusty air of the loft.

  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 haylo
ft, 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.”