“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!”
He put his head out o
f the window, one side of his face lathered, “I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” he called back.
“You should not have taken Ernest up,” she called.“where is he?”
“what? where is who?”
“Ernest.”
“I don’t know. Ask Mary.”
“Mary says she didn’t take him up.”
“Ask her again.”
Pheasant did and Mary repeated her denial.
Christian and Philip now appeared from the house, immaculate for the christening. Neither one had seen Ernest. Piers came on the scene and Pheasant drew him aside.
“There’s something odd about this,” she said. “when I was dressing Mary I saw tears in her eyes and, when I asked her why, she said she wished the christening were over. I said it was a lovely thing, but she said it was cruel.”
“I’ll attend to her,” said Piers.
With a purposeful air he sought out his daughter, hiding behind a huge snowball tree in heavy bloom.
“Now, Mary,” he ordered, his voice deep but not threatening, “tell Daddy where you’ve hidden Ernest.”
“I don’t know,” she said, looking vaguely into the snowball tree.
“Now, pay attention, Mary. It’s time for the christening and we can’t have it without Ernest. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“why did you say to Mummy that you wished the christening were over?”
“Because I did.”
“why?”
“I don’t know.”
Now came the sound of cantering hoofs. They stopped at the gate, and Renny, mounted on his handsome old mare, Cora, rode in. In his hand he carried a package tied with a blue ribbon. He rode across the lawn, calling out as he came:
“Good morning! All ready, I see. I’ve brought a christening present for young Ernest. It’s the manuscript of Uncle Ernest’s book on Shakespeare. He never was able to finish it, but what he wrote was first rate. Even Alayne said so, and that pleased him greatly. It will be something for little Ernest to treasure all his life.… what’s the matter?”
“He isn’t here. We can’t find him. He’s gone,” answered Pheasant.
“Mary knows,” said Philip. “Dad’s questioning her, over there.”
“I’ll bet she’s hidden him in the cupboard in my studio.”
Christian set off at once to search. Renny rode to where Piers and Mary stood.
“Hello,” he said, from horseback. “Can either of you tell me where Ernest is?”
This was the right approach to Mary’s good will — not to be singled out.
“I only wish I knew,” said Piers.
“I only wish I knew,” repeated Mary, but did not look as though she meant it.
Christian now came out of the studio. “He’s not there,” he said.
Piers said — coming close to Renny — “Mary knows, I’m pretty sure. Pheasant thinks so.”
“If Mary knew,” said Renny, “she’d tell. The baby has been kidnapped. We must call all the family and start a search. I’ll telephone everybody.” He sprang from his horse and strode into the house, Mary following.
“what is kidnapping?” she asked.
“Stealing a kid — a child. Don’t worry, Mary. We’ll soon find him.” He picked up the receiver and dialed a wrong number, though he had not appeared to be flurried.
Before long he joined the others on the lawn, Mary by the hand. Piers had gone upstairs to finish dressing. The two young men were peering under bushes and searching sleuth-wise for footprints. Pheasant was standing by the empty pram, almost distraught. She was very pale.
“I’ve phoned all four houses,” Renny said. “At the Rectory, they were about to leave for the church. At the Fox Farm, Patience is setting out to search the ravine. At Jalna, Alayne was splendid. She’s to get the young people organized, and the stable men, for an intensive search.”
“what about Finch?” asked Pheasant.
“He’s on his way here. Will arrive any minute.”
“Poor Finch. He’s had so much trouble.”
“This last may wake him up to his responsibilities.”
Finch, when a few moments later he arrived, looked calmer than they. He asked, “where is Dennis?”
Nobody knew.
“If we find him,” said Finch, “I think we shall find the baby. He has a very possessive attitude toward it.”
Pheasant repeated to herself the impersonal pronoun. To call one’s baby son — and such a darling little son as Ernest — “it” … Her sympathy for Finch turned to something approaching anger. She stood silently looking into his face, while with her hand she joggled the empty pram.
Now began an intensive search. Piers was for notifying the police, but Renny and Finch were agreed first to explore every part of the estate. It was Adeline and Archer who discovered the children. On foot they were searching the fields of New Farm.
Archer exclaimed, “Those three willows! Let’s sit in their shade. I’m hot, and tired of this.”
“I’ll not rest till we find Ernest,” said Adeline, and ran toward the willows.
As she reached them, panting, she gave a piercing scream.
“Mercy,” said Archer. “what’s happened?”
She ran to the edge of the stream. “Dennis is drowning the baby!” she screamed. She had now run into the water.
“Oh, you young villain!” she screamed. “Give Ernest to me.”
Dennis at once put the little one into her arms.
“We were having a private baptism,” he said. “Please don’t tell or I shall get into trouble.” He came up dripping out of the stream.
“Archer, hold Ernest, while I attend to this young villain.” She tossed the baby into his reluctant arms. She took up the willow wand that Finch had used as a fishing rod and had left on the bank. She caught Dennis by the hair and brought down the rod in fury on his shoulders. He bent forward, but did not struggle or again speak.
“what a temper you have, Adeline,” said Archer. “Come — that’s enough.”
She desisted and threw down the rod.
“Shall you tell my father?” asked Dennis.
“I’ll tell everybody,” she answered. “Now get into your clothes, while I dress this poor little baby.” She took the infant from Archer, who asked:
“why did you do it, Dennis?… what you say may be used against you.”
“I don’t know,” said Dennis. “But he liked it.”
When the quartet appeared at The Moorings, Piers was about to call the police. Instead he set about to notify all the searchers that the little one was found.
In a surprisingly short time the family were gathered in the church for the christening. Indeed, they showed little trace of their ordeal. This was especially true of Ernest, who beamed his approval of both ceremonies. It appeared that he would have been cheerfully willing to be baptized into any sect. His lace-trimmed robe was so becoming to him, and he was so becoming to the Rector, as he lay in his surpliced arms, that Meg declared she would treasure the sight all the rest of her days.
At Jalna, where all were gathered for a substantial lunch, Archer came to Finch and said: “what are you going to do about Dennis, Uncle Finch? I know that Adeline has told you what he was up to. But I think I ought to let you know that she chastised him thoroughly, in case you contemplate doing it yourself. It would seem a pity to waste all that effort.”
“I don’t know what to do with him,” Finch said heavily. “Look at him now — he’s as bold as brass. I believe he feels a bit of a hero. Do you think, Archer, that he was actually trying to injure the child?”
“Naturally,” said Archer. “Just what I should have done in his place. The murdering of younger brothers is a time-honoured custom.”
Finch, gripping his glass of sherry, turned away. He found himself face to face with Maurice. Finch said:
“That young Archer has a sadistic streak. He’s obviously pleased by what Dennis did this morning.”
�
��I don’t agree,” said Maurice. “I think Archer is kind really. He told me he was afraid you’d be pretty rough on Dennis.”
“Rough on him,” repeated Finch — “I’ve a mind to skin him alive! But the truth is I don’t know what to do.”
“Now I have a suggestion.” Maurice said eagerly. “Let me take him back with me to Ireland for a visit — not a punishment, not against his will — just a complete change that might be good for him and rather fun for me — to have a youngster about …”
“Reward him, eh?” Finch said grimly. “Reward him with a nice visit to Ireland?”
“Think about it, Uncle Finch. But I hope you will decide to let me have Dennis for a while. I’m often lonely.”
“I’d be glad,” said Finch, “to get him off my hands.”
Maurice thought, And my father was glad to get me off his hands, though I was not a troublesome boy. He said, “I hope Dennis will like the idea.”
“I must tell you,” said Finch, “that today I had a letter from the headrd of his school, saying that he thinks Dennis should not return for the fall term. He says the boy is badly adjusted, whatever that may mean. I take no stock in this psychological lingo.”
“It does not impress me,” said Maurice.
After the christening luncheon Finch, taciturn and almost silent, took his son to Vaughanlands. He sat on the window seat in the music room, with Dennis standing small and white-faced in front of him.
“I want you to tell me,” said Finch, “whether you’re as vicious as you appear to be.”
“I don’t know.” Dennis looked him straight in the eyes. “I can’t tell. Sometimes I feel good.… when I’ m with you — just us two — I feel good.”
“why did you do what you did this morning?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Adeline punish you?”
“She struck me with a willow switch. Would you like to see the marks?”
“No,” shouted Finch. “You will go to your room and stay there for a week. Your meals will be brought to you.”
Dennis looked thoughtful. “We’ll be together,” he said. “In the same house. I’ll like that.”
“Hmph,” Finch gave a sardonic grunt. “See that you keep out of my way.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 535
