“Lord, I’m glad I hadn’t to do that,” said Piers.
“what did he say?” asked Meg.
Alayne turned away and went to the window and looked out on the snow-muffled scene.
“At first,” said Renny, “he seemed unable to take it in. He just stared and went very pale. Then I told him how the doctor arrived before the end but too late to help her. So she didn’t die alone, poor girl.”
Alayne moved from the window to the fireplace, and pressed her forehead to the mantelshelf.
“Did he speak then?” asked Piers.
“Yes. He said — over and over: ‘Sylvia — my wife — dead … I should not have left her.’ Then I told him he must come straight to Jalna — that everything was being attended to properly at his house. I had no trouble with him, as I said; he seemed dazed, and hasn’t spoken since. I think it would do him good to come in by the fire.”
“Will you order tea, Alayne?” asked Meg.
“I gave him a good stiff whiskey and soda as soon as I got him into the house,” said Renny. He crossed the hall toward the library.
“He isn’t able to take much in the way of spirits, you know,” said Piers. He took a turn about the room, pausing to look into the cabinet of ivory curios from India, as though it were new to him. Indeed everything appeared strange and new to him on this grim morning. Now he said:
“what I can’t understand is why Finch went off to New York leaving Sylvia alone, except for a young boy.”
Alayne sprang to Finch’s defence. “The daily woman had promised Finch to stay the night, but something went wrong at her home and she couldn’t — or said she couldn’t.”
Piers persisted, “In that case why didn’t Sylvia ask Pheasant or Meg or you to come?”
“That I do not know, but I think Sylvia felt quite secure for the one night. She was not expecting her baby for some weeks, you know.”
“It was very foolish of her,” said Piers. “Has anybody questioned Dennis as to just what happened?”
Meg spoke up, with tears in her voice. “The poor child is bewildered by it all. He looks really ill. Such an experience is very bad for him. Rupert says he should be allowed to forget it, if he can.”
“But when he saw that Sylvia was ill, why didn’t he telephone to someone in the family to come?”
“All this probing is in very bad taste, Piers,” said Meg. “We are here to comfort Finch. This is a house of mourning.” Alayne left the room for coffee as Renny returned with Finch.
Piers had drawn their grandmother’s wing chair close to the fire that now brightly blazed. Finch went toward it, but before he reached it, Meg’s maternal figure interposed. With outstretched arms she gathered him to her bosom and held him. Tears ran down her pale cheeks.
For a space, during which the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf, Finch submitted, then almost roughly disengaged himself. Piers came to him and held out his hand. In silence they gripped hands. Piers said, “It’s hard for you. She was a lovely girl. I admired her greatly. Anything that Pheasant and I can do — you know.”
“Thanks,” muttered Finch. He sat down in the wing chair and held out his hands to the blaze. Against the pallor of his face his blue-grey eyes looked very large, tragic, but with no questioning in them — just silent acceptance of Sylvia’s fate, of his family’s ministering to him.
Alayne now came into the room, followed by Wragge, who carried a tray bearing a coffeepot and cups. He arranged the tray beside Finch, then said, in a discreetly low voice:
“May I beg to offer deepest sympathy from myself and my missus, sir.”
“Thank you, Rags,” said Finch — then added: “You did speak, didn’t you?”
“Yes, indeed, sir. I was offering you most heartfelt sympathy.”
“Ah, yes,” Finch said vaguely. “It’s very kind of you.”
“Shouldn’t you rather have had tea, Finch dear?” Meg asked, coming to him and stroking his hair.
“This will do nicely, thank you.”
With a steady hand he raised the cup to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of the scalding liquid. It burnt him, and his eyes watered from the pain.
“It’s not a matter,” said Meg, “of making-do. It’s the question of which drink will give you the greater comfort.”
“Now that he has coffee,” put in Piers, “let him drink it in peace.”
“Really, Piers,” said Meg, “the things you say are shocking. Surely if anyone can bring peace to Finch in this sorrow, it is his only sister.” She continued to stroke his head. Gently he put up his hand, took hers away from his head and gently returned it to her.
She remained standing beside him and said, “One blessing you have in your loss, dear, is Sylvia’s child that is left to you.”
He stared up at Meg, not comprehending.
“Sylvia’s child,” she repeated. “Her baby.”
“Don’t!” Finch shouted hoarsely. He put out his hand as though to ward off a blow.
It was at this moment that Dennis came into the room. He moved slowly, shyly, his child’s face bearing no imprint of what he had been through. He stood irresolute, looking from one to another of the grown-ups. He then moved beside Renny who put an arm about him. Finch did not appear to notice him.
Meg said, brokenly through her tears, “You have two sons now, Finch. Two dear children to live and plan for.”
“Keep them out of my sight,” said Finch.
Alayne came and took Dennis by the hand and led him from the room. He went with her, as though blindly, but, when they were in the library and he saw the television set, he went to it and turned it on, though softly. Alayne was surprised and rather shocked to see him do this, but thought: After all, he’s only a child, and, if he can occupy his mind with this, so much the better.
“what was it my father said?” Dennis asked.
“He did not mean it,” Alayne hastened to say.
Music was coming through the television set. The musicians were shown on the screen.
“That’s the sort of thing,” Dennis said, “that my father detests. We must keep it out of his sight.”
So the child had heard, thought Alayne. And how deeply had he been wounded? There had been something odd in the way he had repeated, in his clear voice, Finch’s very words.
“I think we had better turn it off,” she said.
“You mean because there’s somebody dead?” he asked.
She hastened to say, “No, no, but you might find music that would — ” She hesitated, then finished calmly — “That would better suit our mood — our feelings.”
“You mean funeral music?” he asked, almost brightly.
“I think your father would not like that.”
“He can’t hear it, if it is low,” Dennis said argumentatively.
“Very well.” Alayne turned toward the door.
“Auntie Alayne — ” Before he spoke he had turned off the music.
“Yes, Dennis.”
“Do you think my father will be fond of that baby? when he feels better, I mean.”
“Of course, he will.”
“where is it?”
“It’s at home. Pheasant is there looking after it.”
“I hope they will keep it out of my sight.” Dennis gave her a swift and penetrating glance, as though to observe the effect of these words on her.
As Alayne was considering what to say to the boy, Wakefield and Adeline came into the room, he looking overwrought, Adeline’s eyes reddened and swollen from weeping.
Alayne’s lips formed the words, “Be careful,” and she glanced at Dennis. Wakefield, however, broke out:
“It’s the cruelest thing that’s ever happened to us.”
“Has Uncle Finch come?” Adeline asked.
“Yes,” said Alayne. “And for his sake, control yourselves. He’s having coffee in the drawing room.”
Again Wakefield broke out, “He should never have left Sylvia — alone — at this time
.”
“She wasn’t alone,” Adeline said. “Dennis was there.” She put an arm round the boy, in a comforting gesture.
He trembled and said, in an unsteady voice, “It was my fault.”
“Your fault? what do you mean?” demanded Wakefield.
“I couldn’t remember the doctor’s number.” He looked wanly unhappy.
“It’s been a terrible experience for him,” said Alayne. “We’ll talk of it no more, please — not in front of him.”
“I suppose,” said Adeline, “I should go in to see Uncle Finch. But I dread meeting him.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Dennis. “I want to see him.”
“I think you had better stay here with me,” Alayne objected, but only halfheartedly, for she felt something overriding in the boy that baffled her. Boys! Strange beings. And what an odd boy her own son Archer was. She had a sudden rush of gratitude for Adeline’s frankness and warmth. She took the girl’s hand in hers and pressed it.
“Don’t go to Finch,” she said, “not now. Wait till you get over the first shock.”
“Better have it over with,” said Wakefield. “We’ll go together.” He led Adeline and Dennis to the drawing room.
“Everything is being attended to at your place,” Renny was saying to Finch. “You had better stay here at Jalna.”
“No, no,” Finch said loudly, “I must go to her. To Sylvia.” He got heavily to his feet.
Adeline, with a great effort, controlled her lips and spoke to him, but she could not control the tears that ran down her cheeks.
“Don’t cry, dear,” Finch said, comforting her.
Piers was saying in the low voice to Renny, “Do you think we should let him go?”
“Yes. Nothing else will satisfy him. But you must go with him. I couldn’t possibly — not into that house.” The eldest Whiteoak, after fighting in two wars, had an invincible abhorrence for the presence of death.
“Very well,” said Piers. “I’ll take him.”
Dennis was timidly touching Finch’s sleeve. “May I come too?” he asked.
Finch, with his wide-open, dazed eyes, looked down at him. “I don’t want you about,” he said.
Meg hastened to add, “Dennis dear, what your daddy means is — not now. He’ll very much want you later.”
Finch turned to Meg. “Does Fitzturgis know?” he asked. “He was leaving today, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. He and Roma were getting ready when the news came. It’s terrible for him. He and his sister were so close.”
“Were they?” said Finch, as though not comprehending.
“Better have another cup of coffee before we go out into the cold,” said Piers.
“Tea would have done him more good,” said Meg. “No drink is so comforting.”
“I’ll take the coffee, as it’s here,” said Finch.
He drank more coffee; then Renny helped him into his coat, as though he were an invalid.
The house was full of the resinous scent of pine and balsam which wreathed the banister and decorated doorways and pictures. The Christmas tree still towered in the library. Finch passed these evidences of the holiday season without appearing to see them, but outside he stopped to turn his tragic eyes on the pigeons that had come down from the chimney-warmed roof to peck at the grain Adeline had scattered on the drive.
A grimace of pain twisted Finch’s lips, as he got out the words, “Sylvia loved birds.”
“I know, old man,” said Piers, and waited patiently while Finch stared, in lost bewilderment, at the pigeons whose coral-coloured feet made attenuated imprints on the soft snow.
While the two brothers were on their way by car along the road, the small figure of Dennis might have been seen running through the ravine, climbing the steep path that led to Vaughanlands. Reaching the grounds, it stopped stock-still, as though in wonder to find the house still standing, to find all looking as it had yesterday.
Dennis was panting from the exertion of the climb, the running through deep snow, when he faced the snowman — stout, jolly, pipe in mouth, rakish hat, neatly tied scarf, coal-black eyes — and it was but a few moments before the car, driven by Piers, turned into the drive. Dennis darted behind the snowman and hid there. He must not let his father see him or he would be angry. “Keep them out of my sight,” he had said — meaning his children.… “Keep them out of my sight.”
The brothers got out of the car and entered the house by the front door. The curtains were drawn. Dennis had seen his father’s profile turned, had made sure that Finch had not discovered the snowman. And never, never should he see the snowman, who had been the instrument of the evil that had befallen them. The snowman must be obliterated.
Dennis walked about the snowman, moving with that pleasing sensation of power which made him feel capable of rding all opposition. He walked lightly, almost jauntily, conscious of his power. He saw the gay plaid scarf that he had taken from Sylvia and tied round the snowman’s neck. Now, with an imperative gesture, he whipped off the scarf and then wound it tightly about the bulging neck. He pulled fiercely on the ends of the scarf.
“You’re being throttled,” he said to the snowman. “This is a garrotte. You’re being garrotted. Do you understand? Well — I’ll make you understand, you monster. That’s what you are — a monster!” In an excess of fury he put all his strength into this act of retribution, for the snowman had become to him the symbol of his own obloquy.
“why don’t you turn purple in the face?” he growled. “why don’t your eyes start out of your silly head?”
Down fell the snowman’s pipe, out fell his coal-black eyes. Next his hat was tumbled in the snow. “Monster — monster,” growled Dennis. “Now you’re getting what’s coming to you.”
The head fell off and Dennis kicked it up and down the snowy lawn till there was nothing recognizable left of it.
He would have attacked the body also, but it had hardened. He needed something more than his hands for its destruction. He remembered where the snow shovel stood, by the back door, and ran round the house to get it. He was startled to find a small black motor van outside the back door. A young man in dark clothes was in the driver’s seat. Dennis went up to him and asked:
“Do you want to see somebody?”
“No,” answered the young man, “I’m just waiting for the technicians who are in the house. We’re from the Smith and Smythe Funeral Home.”
Dennis stood dumfounded. This was his first experience of the trappings of death. He stared at the house, silent, though a tumult of thoughts thronged his mind. He made a movement toward the house. The man said, “You’d better not go in there, little boy, unless you’re one of the family.”
“I am one of the family,” said Dennis. “How old do you think am?”
The man looked him over, “About eleven, I guess.”
“Well, you guess wrong,” Dennis said. “I’m older — a good deal. I could go in if I wanted to, but what I want is this snow shovel.”
“Okay,” said the man, as if shovel and house both belonged to him. He spoke with authority.
Dennis put the snow shovel over his shoulder, and, holding himself very straight, marched round to the front of the house. A sound of music was in his head, as though he marched to the distant playing of a band. Large, soft snowflakes were beginning to fall.
He no longer felt rage, nor even resentment toward the snowman. Methodically he set to work to break him up, to beat the white blobs of his remains to softness, to spread the remains over the lawn. He threw the coal-black eyes into the shrubbery. He put the pipe into his pocket, and carefully folded the scarf. With it and the hat in his hands he returned to the back door. The undertaker’s van was still standing there, but the young man had disappeared. The daily woman came out of the house, her eyes reddened by weeping. She looked very surprised to see Dennis.
“why, you poor little soul,” she exclaimed, “what are you doing here? Your uncle told me you was at Jalna.”
&n
bsp; Dennis handed her the hat. “This is an old hat of my father’s,” he said. She took it with a doubtful look, then spied the scarf. “I’ve seen the poor lady wear that,” she said, and her reddened eyes filled with tears.
“Take it, too,” said Dennis. He was glad to be rid of it. The sight of it made him tremble with a terrible sense of guilt. He put the pipe also into her hand.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, wanting to do something for the child. “Will you come into the kitchen and let me fix you something to eat?”
“No, thanks,” said Dennis, drawing back. He wanted to ask what was going on inside that austerely curtained house that seemed no longer home, but only one question could his lips form. “where is the baby?” he asked.
“Poor little mite,” said the woman. “It’s safe and sound with Mrs. Bell. She took it to her house this morning. Poor little mite.”
The words resounded in the boy’s ears. He said them over and over to himself on his way to the Fox Farm. Strangely, he was too tired to run. His legs were weak. He could not run and yet he must keep moving. Combined with extreme weariness was an inward something that drove him on. He would have liked to retreat to the safety of home, but he felt that he had no home. He pictured himself as homeless, alone in his guilt, wandering in a snowy world.
The mysterious snow-weighted trees reared their cloaked boughs about the small house. One might think nobody lived there, so silent it was, and no path made in the deep snow. Dennis went to the door and lifted the iron latch. He stepped inside where it was warm and there was the smell of soap and hot water — yes, and milk.
He stood there in the narrow passage, his sense of smell and hearing intent. From upstairs there came the faint sound of a typewriter; from the kitchen the sudden loud cry of an infant. He heard Patience moving about in bedroom slippers, speaking in a reassuring voice to her child. Then the crying ceased and he pictured Victoria Bell guzzling at her mother’s breast. He went softly to the door of the kitchen and looked in.
Patience was gently rocking, in an old-fashioned rocking chair, the downy-haired blissful child in her arms. She was not startled by the sudden appearance of Dennis, but gave him a welcoming look and held out her hand, almost as though she had expected him.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 529
