As she sat waiting, there came another sound — the sound of heavy boots on the path. They ceased and, for a moment, a shadow darkened the window. Then there came a resounding knock on the door. For a short space Mary was shocked into immobility by the sudden tumult of the knock, which must have been made by striking on the door with a stick. As she sat staring open-mouthed, the knock sounded again and almost immediately the latch was lifted and the door opened. There entered the bent, much bundled-up figure of Noah Binns.
“So it’s you, is it, little lady?” he said, through his straggling, dribbling moustache.
“Yes, it’s me, Noah,” she answered, her voice trembling a little, but not really frightened.
“And you’re sittin’ here alone, drinkin’ coffee by the smell of it.”
“Yes, Noah,” she answered proudly, and took a sip of coffee and a nibble of Romary biscuit.
He clumped close, after shutting the door, and peered greedily down at the coffeepot. Then he laid his heavy stick on the floor and picked up the pot, and hefted it.
“Nobody,” he said, “ain’t offered me a cup of coffee in a terrible long time. I’ve swallered gallons of tea this fall, but coffee — nary a drop.”
“I’ll pour you a cup of coffee, Mr. Binns,” she said, suddenly becoming formal, with the air of a hostess.
The “Mister” pleased him. He dragged a chair to the table and heavily seated himself. Mary brought a second cup and filled it.
“Sugar?” she asked.
“Five lumps,” he said, smacking his lips and helping himself to a biscuit.
Mary could not help giggling as she counted out the five lumps. She handed him the coffee without slopping any, and watched him anxiously as he gulped a mouthful. Noah had tasted strong coffee but never any so strong as this.
“Good?” she asked.
His mouth was burned, the coffee so strong that he could only nod, speechless.
“Drink it up,” she said, in the firm tone her mother sometimes used to her.
Fairly hypnotized, he obeyed.
At once she asked, “More coffee?”
Noah Binns leered in pleasure as his cup was renewed. He said: “You plan to live here from now on, young lady?”
“I might,” she said.
“How old are you?”
“Eight years old,” she said.
Noah took a swig of the steaming coffee, and declaimed:
“when children take to the woods it’s a sure sign of doom. All signs p’int to it. I’ve lived over fourscore years, and I ain’t never seen doom so near.”
“More coffee?” said Mary, and refilled his cup.
Noah demanded, “why did you take to the woods?”
“I like this little house.”
“Nobody will ever want to buy it off you. It’s too lonesome. I had a little house, and I sold it in a subdivision. Do you know what a subdivision is?”
“It’s multiplication the other way round.”
Noah slapped his thigh and cackled with laughter.
“More coffee?” asked Mary, and filled up his cup. Noah drank and smacked his lips. “I live in one room now,” he said, “and like it. Do you calculate to spend the winter here?”
Mary nodded and nibbled a biscuit.
“It’s goin’ to be a fearful winter,” said Noah. “All signs p’int to the worst winter on record since William the Conqueror discovered this continent. Floods — blizzards — and pestiferousness … Don’t you think you may be scared livin’ alone here?”
“I may go home for Christmas.”
“Christmas ain’t what it was. Every Christmas fer three years I’ve been obliged to buy a card.”
“Every year?” exclaimed Mary.
“Yeah,” said Noah. “Every year. It’s a terrible responsibility.”
“More coffee?” she asked sympathetically.
“I don’t mind if I do.”
She filled up his cup, then inquired, “what did you get last Christmas?”
“One card. Two pairs socks. One shirt. One paper bag horehound candy. What I needed was overshoes.”
“More coffee?” She did not wait for him to answer but filled up his cup. He added five lumps of sugar.
“I bought myself overshoes,” he said, “and I have ’em here.” He opened a parcel and displayed them. He said, “Two dollars and ninety-nine cents they cost. A fearful outlay.” He set them on the table near the coffeepot.
“I have a new pair too,” said Mary.
Noah craned his neck to view her small foot.
“It’s a terrible thing,” he said, “to think of all the pitfalls layin’ in wait for them innocent little feet. Whatever way you turn there’ll be pitfalls.”
“My overshoes,” said Mary, “cost three dollars. They are velvet.”
“If I’d yearned for velvet,” said Noah, “I’d have bought velvet.”
“More coffee?” asked Mary.
Noah was beginning to feel more than a little sick. This was partly due to heat, for he was close to the blaze of the fire and he wore not only a heavy topcoat but a fur cap with earlaps which he donned at the first tentative snowfall. He was proud of this cap, and when not in use kept it in a paper bag with mothballs. Now the smell of camphor from the cap filled the room. Also Noah felt ready to burst from the amount of coffee he had drunk. He wondered if he would be able to get home. He rose unsteadily and, holding to the back of his chair, he loudly belched.
The impact of this escaping wind drove his upper denture from his mouth, through his moustache and out on to the floor. There it lay grinning up at them.
Mary was so frightened by this porcelain grin that she uttered a little cry, but then she gathered herself together and said:
“More coffee, Mr. Binns?”
Noah bent toward the floor to retrieve his denture. He became dizzy and fell, taking the chair with him, to the floor. At that moment the door was flung open and Mary’s brother, Christian, entered. Noah hastily restored the denture to his gums. His fur cap was over his eyes. He was helpless, unable to rise.
Christian grasped him under the arms and heaved him to his feet. Without a look behind, Noah shambled through the open door and down the path out of sight, scuffing through the dead leaves.
“what on earth,” Christian demanded of Mary, “are you doing here?”
“Making coffee,” said Mary. “Have some?”
Christian picked up the fallen chair and seated himself in it. Then he spied Noah’s overshoes standing by the coffeepot.
“what are these?” he demanded.
“They belong to Mr. Binns,” said Mary, and tears rose to her eyes.
“How disgusting,” exclaimed Christian. He sprang up, took an overshoe in either hand and flung them through the door after Noah.
Mary looked after them in mingled sorrow and relief.
“whew,” said Christian, “what a stink!”
He fetched himself a clean cup.
“Coffee?” asked Mary.
“Please. No sugar or cream.”
She filled his cup. He sat down and lighted a cigarette.
“I have been sent to search for you,” said Christian. “It’s very naughty, you know, for a little girl to run off like this. Little girls should stay at home and behave themselves. My morning’s work has been upset because of you.” His hazel eyes gave her a clear look of disapproval. He sipped his coffee and remarked, “This is the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted.”
Everything was now in his hands. He put out the fire, tucked the tin of Romary biscuits under his arm, and led Mary homeward. In experience she was poor, but in the world of imagination she was richer than he because she still moved freely in the realm of childhood — and that he had lost.
As she trotted docilely at his side, her hand in his, she saw Noah’s overshoes lying among the dead leaves and shed a tear for them.
XX
Finch and Sylvia
This was a happy time for Finch and Sylvia. She awaited
her confinement with more tranquility than even a few months ago she would have thought possible. Rather than harming her by exposure and fatigue, the holiday by the lake had done her good. Despite the increasing bulkiness of her body, her spirit was light. She was given confidence by the knowledge that Finch was to remain at home till after the birth of her child. He would finish the composition on which he was working before Christmas. After Christmas he was to go to New York to see a publisher. This sonata claimed him, as did his wife and the coming birth. Between the two his mind shuttled, never at rest, but without apprehension. The fates were smiling on him. All would go well.
The snowfall was light. They took long walks. In the evenings Sylvia would read aloud to him, or others of the family would come to spend an hour or two. Sylvia and Patience had confidential talks regarding the trials and triumphs of maternity. The marriage of Roma to Maitland Fitzturgis was a puzzling event to Sylvia. Brother and sister had passed through times of deep emotion together, intimate in spirit, alternately tender in their love, or angry when he had sought to control the vagaries of her past mental illness. Now that she was secure in Finch’s love, Sylvia felt that she should be happy that her brother had married into the same family. Yet she could not be happy about this marriage. In their short acquaintance she had found little to attract her in Roma: she appeared not only cold, but shallow.
What was there behind that charming face beyond a narrow self-seeking — an indolent distaste for exerting herself in the affairs of any but herself? And why had Maitland chosen to fall in love with two young girls — one after the other?
This question she put to Finch, as they sat together watching through the window the pheasants feeding on grain he had scattered for them.
“One after the other,” said Finch, “is better than both at the same time.”
“But it’s not like him. He’s not an impulsive, out-giving person. He’s reserved. He needs understanding.”
“Possibly he feels that a woman his own age would understand him too well.”
“Oh, Finch, you must not be too critical of Mait. He’s been so good to me.”
“I know he has and I’m grateful.”
“But you don’t like him.”
“I do — with reservations.”
“what reservations?” She leaned forward eagerly.
“I don’t need to tell you — you know him better than I do.”
She sank back, closing her eyes for a moment. Then she said, “I understand what you mean. There’s something in Mait that you can’t get near. You wonder whether he is hiding his real self or whether he is just aimlessly drifting. It makes me angry with him.”
“Not me,” said Finch. “I seldom think about him.”
“That’s strange,” she said. “I’m always thinking about him. I do wish I could see him.”
“You will very soon,” said Finch. “He and Roma are coming for Christmas.” Then he added, “Oh, I shouldn’t have told you that. Meg said it was to be a surprise.”
“Meg — how could she know?”
“They are to stay at the Rectory.”
“How lovely! And yet — ”
“And yet,” he repeated, “why not? I think it is a good arrangement. It would be too much for you to have them here and it would be impossible for them to stay at Jalna.”
“I suppose so,” she said thoughtfully. “Heavens — why should family relations be so complicated?”
“They’re terrible,” said Finch, “and wonderful. They’re the very stuff of life.”
A fortnight later Sylvia and her brother sat together in that same room.
“No need,” he said, “to ask you how you are. I’ve never seen you look better. But it’s strange to find you settled here in this lovely new house — an expectant mother.”
“And you,” she exclaimed, “settled in New York — both of us so far from Ireland! I can’t say I’ve never seen you look better. You’re paler, and, I think, thinner. But perhaps that’s because you wear your hair shorter.”
He passed a hand over his curly mouse-coloured hair. “No Irish tweeds either,” he said. “I’m trying hard to look American.”
“You’ll never succeed. But — the thing is: do you like your job?”
“As well as I like any sort of work.”
Then she came out bluntly with the question — “And do you like being married?”
“Possibly not as well as you do, but better than some.”
“One can never get a straight answer out of you, Mait.”
“Give me a straight answer to this — how do you like being a stepmother?”
He saw at once that he had touched on a tender subject. Sylvia flushed and looked unhappy. She said — trying to keep her voice steady — “I’ve tried hard to get near Dennis but I cannot. Sometimes he’s almost affectionate, but I feel no sincerity in him — except in his adoration of Finch. That’s terribly sincere.”
“And Finch? Does he dote on the boy?”
“Ah, that’s one of my worries. Finch is so cold toward Dennis — it really hurts me. If his feelings toward Dennis were different — then Dennis might be more kind to me. I believe he blames me for Finch’s attitude toward him. But Finch never has loved his son. He’s told me so.”
“whatever our faults as a family,” said Fitzturgis, “we have love for each other.”
Sylvia gripped his hand, as though by that clasp she would sustain herself. “You’ve always been so good to me!” she said, and there were tears in her eyes.
“why should you worry over this youngster?” he exclaimed. “Put him out of your mind. You have done your best — that’s all you can do. How old is the boy?”
“He will be fourteen this month, and looks like twelve — rather a childish twelve.”
“Fourteen! Boys of that age have usually got over hero-worshiping their father.”
“Dennis is a very odd boy. In some ways he’s precocious. In others he behaves like a boy of seven. I never know which side of him to expect.”
At this moment Dennis entered.
Sylvia said, “This is my brother, Dennis. Do you remember him?”
“Yes, I do,” said Dennis. “Only the other day my father and I were speaking of you.” He offered his hand to Fitzturgis.
“Something pleasant, I hope,” said Fitzturgis.
“I forget, my father and I talk of so many people and things.”
“Music, I suppose,” said Fitzturgis. “Do you play an instrument?”
“I play the violin — as my mother did. Would you like to see my violin? It was hers, of course. She had been playing on it the very day she was killed. She would play — specially for me — the tunes I liked. I was only five. Would you like to see the violin?”
“Yes, indeed.” As the boy moved away, Fitzturgis cast a look toward Sylvia that said, “what an uncomfortable youngster.” His intent eyes then returned to the boy, who was taking the violin from its case.
“Someone has been meddling with this,” said Dennis.
“You left it lying on the piano,” Sylvia said sharply. “I simply laid it back in its case.”
“I don’t like it interfered with,” said Dennis, and carried the violin to Fitzturgis. “It’s a very valuable one,” he explained. “An old Italian violin. Very valuable.” He ran his small fine hand caressingly over the violin.
“Will you play for me?” asked Fitzturgis, from curiosity rather than desire to hear the boy perform.
“Some other time,” said Dennis. “Just now I’m out of practice because of school exams.”
He was listening. In a moment Finch came into the room.
He greeted Fitzturgis and sat down beside Sylvia. Those were the three males, she thought, most nearly bound to her — irrevocably bound — Finch, by love — Maitland, by blood — Dennis, by the iron forging of circumstance. She was deeply conscious of these bonds. At this moment they tugged almost painfully on the eagerness of her spirit to be strong and free for the ordeal wh
ich awaited her and which, in spite of her happiness, she mortally feared. She clung to Finch’s protectiveness, yet shrank from his brooding hold on her. The presence of Fitzturgis brought all too painfully the remembrance of her unhappy illness, when he had heroically striven to save her from her despair. She could not look into that intent face without recalling scenes in Ireland that she would like to wipe from her memory forever. As for the boy, Dennis, she felt toward him a kind of fear. In spite of his small frame, his pale and delicate features, she thought she sensed in him a stony cynicism, an almost insane hatred toward herself that frightened her. Yet, when Finch spoke sternly to him, her instinct, already maternal, spread itself like wings, to protect him from harshness.
After a little desultory talk between the two men, Fitzturgis said, “I hear that your son is talented too. He’s promised to play the violin for me one day.”
“May I not be here,” said Finch, half-laughing.
Fitzturgis, seeing the boy look crestfallen, said, “I’m sure he plays very well. Anyhow, I’m not a severe critic. I’d like to hear him play.”
Dennis, with a slanting look at Finch, said — with a catch in his breath — “I’ll play for you, right now, if you like. If you can bear a few mistakes.” Even as he spoke he picked up the violin, as though to make certain that nothing would hinder his intention.
“Good,” said Fitzturgis, and settled back with a smile, to listen.
Dennis made a charming picture, the violin tucked beneath his chin, his right arm upraised with the bow.
Sylvia said, “Will you play the accompaniment, Finch?”
Without speaking, Finch moved to the piano seat. Dennis laid the sheet of music before him.
“Schubert,” muttered Finch. “Can you really play this?”
“I’ll try,” said Dennis, and began.
Finch did not support the boy’s unaccomplished playing as he might have done. The attempt ended in a breakdown, accepted by the boy with almost negligent calm — by Finch, with intense irritability. Fitzturgis, nevertheless, applauded. Shortly afterward he left. Outside, he stood gazing into the noble darkness of a group of pines that had escaped the fire which, a few years ago, had swept away the original house and many of its trees. These pines remained and would still be casting their mysterious shadow when the new house and its occupants were no more. He wondered about Sylvia. Was she happy? And why was she so affected by the presence of the boy Dennis? For she was strongly affected, Fitzturgis was aware of that. On his own part, he was oddly attracted by the boy. A vague wish flickered through his mind — a wish that Dennis might have been his son.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 526
