“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 inserted 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 fr
om her and, when she gladly relinquished it, he wound it about the snowman’s neck and meticulously tied it.
Inside Sylvia lay down on her bed. The “daily” brought her lunch to her on a tray. She kept repeating to herself, “Tomorrow morning Finch will come home.” In the afternoon she slept. Dennis had gone off by himself. The house was quiet except for the cautious movements of the “daily.” “You’re looking poorly,” said the woman. “Don’t you think you should call in the doctor? You really do look bad.”
“No, no. I’m feeling much better. I shall be all right.”
She rose, and she and Dennis sat down to the evening meal that had been prepared for them. She could scarcely see him across the table, she was so weary.
“I’m sorry to be such a dull companion,” she said, “but I’m a little tired.”
“why?” he asked, his cool greenish eyes on her face. With the same cool ruthless gaze he watched her heavy movements as she went to the kitchen to make the coffee. The “daily” had gone because of illness in her own family. Dennis sprang up to carry in the tray for her. She felt ready to drop, to sink to the floor in the misery that now almost overwhelmed her. But the coffee revived her. She chatted quite naturally with Dennis, recalling happenings in Ireland that she thought might amuse him. She longed desperately to go to her bed — yet there was the boy, looking at her brightly, waiting to be amused.
His bright cruel eyes followed her with disgust and hate as she moved to the window.
“The snowman looks lovely in the light from the window,” she said.
Dennis did not answer. She turned to look at him and was surprised by the pale contortion on his lips.
“what’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He tried to smile.
She turned again to the window. Tomorrow Finch will be here, she was telling herself. Tomorrow — tomorrow.
“The snowman looks lovely,” she repeated, and tried to forget that odd look in the boy’s face.
Presently a terrible pain struck her like a blow.
She cried out in her shock and surprise. Then she said, speaking hurriedly — “Dennis — the doctor — telephone him to come,” she said, repeating the doctor’s number. She could not control her voice. The pain increased.
The telephone was in the hall. Dennis went out to it. He could not bring himself to dial the doctor’s number. He wanted to be alone with Sylvia — to savour his power over her. He looked into the music room and saw her moving heavily to her bedroom, her face ugly with pain. His hatred for her, his repulsion for her condition, surged through him, loosed in a morbid tide.
“Did you phone the doctor?” she asked.
“No.” He looked steadily at her.
“why? why?” Her voice broke into a scream.
“I forgot the number.”
She repeated it to him loudly. “Tell him to hurry — my baby is coming!” She laid herself on her bed, doubled up in her agony.
An extraordinary sense of power possessed Dennis. His small body was fairly shaken by this sense of power. He strode up and down the music room, listening to her groans, but he would not telephone the doctor.
Presently she began to scream and continued to scream. He ran out of the house, leaving the front door open behind him. With his bare hands he made snowballs and hurled them with all his might at the snowman. Sometimes they stuck to the snowman, became a part of him. One of them flew past him and struck the window of the music room, leaving a blob of whiteness on the glass. Dennis aimed snowballs — and harder ones — at the window, hoping it would break, feeling great power within himself.
He longed for violence. After a little, he went to the open door and stood listening to the shuddering cries within. Then he ran, fairly flying, over the snow and among the tall black trees to the edge of the ravine. There was the stream, frozen but not frozen hard. He tore helter-skelter down the steep and on to the snow-covered slushy ice. He would like, so he thought, to run along the stream to the bridge and so to Jalna. But the ice was slushy and began to give way; so he scrambled back to land and climbed the steep. He was panting and his heart beating fast.
He returned to the house. All was silence.
Trembling with fear and that strange guilty power, he went to the door of Sylvia’s room and looked in.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
Rolling her bloodshot bulging eyes toward him, she said thickly:
“A little. Is the doctor coming soon?”
“He says he can’t come.”
“But why — why?” She raised herself on her elbow and glared at him.
“He says he’s tired.”
“He must be mad.” She rolled out of bed and onto her feet and somehow reached the telephone. But she had forgotten the doctor’s telephone number.
“Tell me his number,” she asked, in a strange harsh voice. Dennis could only remember the number of the veterinarian. She dialed it and he heard her say, “It’s Mrs. Finch Whiteoak speaking. Come quickly — for God’s sake.…”
She collapsed in pain over the telephone. Later she somewhat recovered herself and said:
“Dennis, are you sure you gave me the right number?”
“No,” he said, “I’m not sure.”
“The voice didn’t sound right,” she said, “but he promised to come.”
She went back to her bed. Her movements were heavy, lunging. Dennis watched her with repulsion. Then he turned swiftly and strode outdoors. His very smallness and grace made his movements more striking. He walked up and down in front of the house.
Sylvia called out to him: “Shut the door! Oh, it’s so cold — I’m freezing — I’m freezing!” Her voice faltered against her chattering teeth.
In a sudden fury of antagonism Dennis shouted: “If you want the door shut — do it yourself!”
He strutted back and forth in front of the house, with each turn becoming more violent. He felt ready to burst with the wickedness let loose in him. He strutted, holding himself very straight, eyeing the house whence came those animal noises of suffering.
Now he ran to the open door and shouted: “Go ahead! Have your monster! That’s what it is going to be, you know — a monster — a monster. My father doesn’t want it — I don’t want it — it’s yours.”
Out again he ran, in the black shadows of trees, into the glittering white of moonlight. Now he was out on the road — running and shouting. He ran past the church, with its peaceful graveyard. He did not know where he was going. He began to be very tired and turned again home. He must have been running a long while, he thought, for the moon was losing itself in the branches of the pines.
By the time he reached the cold, lighted house with the snowman on guard, he was moving slowly, timidly. All his fire was burnt out. He passed through the hall. There was icy silence like a frozen garment. Fearfully he looked into Sylvia’s room.
What he saw made him turn and run out of the house. Outside he stood stock-still, trembling with fear. Where could he find help? where — oh, where?
He became aware of the sound of an approaching car. He stood waiting while it raced along the drive and stopped with a jerk at the door. Out of it alighted the veterinarian, a burly kindly man. Against this man’s bulk Dennis flung himself. He gripped the lusty figure in his small arms and burst into tears.
“Save me,” he sobbed. “Save me!”
XXII
Winter
The light in the drawing room was a greyish reflection of the snow-laden sky. Alayne had had a fire laid, but it still was no more than tentative little flames licking at the kindling. The faces of the three who were in the room, standing about the fire, were of a greyish tint also. Meg’s iron-grey hair and Alayne’s, of a silvery white, gave a touching feminine dignity to their pallor. The fading of Piers’s ruddy colour was to make him appear less robust, older, but not more dignified. In truth, his expression was one of rather boyish incredulity, as though he were saying to himself, What happened last night was im
possible. He had been in bed when Renny had telephoned him, but had dressed and come at once to Jalna.
The three were almost silent, but cast anxious looks across the hall to the door of the library.
Presently it opened and Renny Whiteoak emerged.
As he joined them Piers said: “Well, how did he take the news?”
“Like a man. I can tell you I’m proud of him. I had expected a breakdown. You know what his nerves are. But he controlled himself marvelously well. I think he’s dazed by the shock.”
“Poor boy,” said Meg. “My heart aches for him.”
“It’s a strange thing,” observed Piers, “that Finch is the only one of us fellows to be widowed, and he has been twice widowed.”
“It is not so strange, Piers,” said Meg, looking full at him, “as your use of the English language. It is impossible for a man to be widowed.”
“It is grammatically correct,” said Piers.
“Neither is it accurate,” Meg went on, “to speak of a man as a widower when his divorced wife dies, as Finch’s first wife. I am sure Alayne did not look on herself as a widow when her divorced husband, our dear Eden, died, especially as she was already married again.” Meg turned her full blue gaze somewhat accusingly on Alayne, who received the look in rigid silence.
Renny appeared not to hear this interchange. He said, “I think I had better bring him in here by the fire.”
“Good idea,” said Piers, and put on another log.
“And he should have a nice cup of tea, poor dear,” said Meg. “He is probably hungry, and would enjoy a little buttered toast with his tea.”
“Coffee would be more stimulating,” said Alayne, “if he can take anything, which I doubt.”
“when I met him at the airport,” said Renny, “I took his suitcase from him and led him to my car. I said nothing, but there was something in the way I met him that made him suspicious. He gave me a fearful look and asked if everything was all right at home. I drove a little distance; then I stopped the car and told him. I told him straight. I thought it best.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 528
