“I hadn’t thought of it,” said Fitzturgis. “But why aren’t you dancing?”
“You know why,” laughed the boy. “I’m too young. I shouldn’t be here, but my father let me come because I’m so soon leaving for Ireland. Do you think I’ll like living there? Do you like going back?”
“I think I do,” said Fitzturgis. “It suits me better than New York.”
“Did Jalna suit you?”
“Not very well.”
“wherever my father is suits me,” said Dennis, and ran across the dark grass to where he could see Renny and Finch. He pressed in between them, absorbing with eager ears what they were saying. Renny was indeed trying to persuade Finch to go in with him and join the dancers. But Finch refused. His heart was heavy with the sorrow of Sylvia’s death. If only she might have been beside him on this summer night!
“I’ll just stroll about here,” he said, with an effort at cheerfulness, “till they come out for supper.” He went to the door of the marquee where the supper was being got ready, and exclaimed, “You certainly are doing well by your guests.”
“There’s plenty of champagne,” said Renny. “This is an occasion. We shall never see its like again. It’s seldom that the same family lives in the same house for a century. Of course that’s not long in the Old Country, but it’s a long while here.”
Inside the house Adeline and Philip were dancing together. Everyone was aware of the nearness of their marriage and a number stopped dancing and smilingly watched them. Some clapped their hands. Already their portraits in the dining room had been viewed with real or pretended admiration. The youthful pair were happily self-conscious.
To Maurice, looking on from a doorway, the sight of those two dancing together was one to make him feel dizzy with jealousy. Philip, he thought, was an abominable dancer, rigid and military, who translated the exquisite rhythm of the waltz into a soldierly two-step. He would himself dance with Adeline and show what they two could do together. He was placing a real importance on this dance. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and hands. He sought to wipe from his face any disagreeable expression and to replace it with a look of genial invitation. But, while he was so engaged, Fitzturgis had come in through the French window, gone straight to Adeline and asked her to dance. Other couples began to move about the floor.
Maurice was more than surprised; he was hotly resentful when he saw Fitzturgis place his arm about Adeline’s waist. It was in bad taste, Maurice told himself, watching the two as they began to dance. It was not only in bad taste, it was an affront to the family. Fitzturgis, who had been cast off by Adeline — daring to lead her out to dance!
But there was no doubt about it, the Irishman was graceful, an elegant dancer. No taller than Adeline, his movements were the epitome of rhythm. So well were they suited to her that she danced as she had never danced before. They were like one body moving in vitality and grace. Yet there was ordinarily nothing in the carriage of Fitzturgis to suggest this talent. They had never before danced together, or, if they had, she had forgotten it. Certainly it had not been like this. This was entrancing, and her delight was visible in her glowing eyes and smiling, parted lips.
As the other dancers had paused to watch Adeline and Philip, so now they ceased dancing to watch her and Fitzturgis; but with what a difference! Now they did not smile or clap their hands. The expression on the face of Fitzturgis was not one of pleasure but rather of sombre and relentless concentration. His dancing was altogether too good. To the minds of this rather conventional company it was embarrassing. They knew that the pair had been engaged to be married and that the engagement had been broken off. It was said that Fitzturgis had a shady past. He had been married to a London actress, been divorced; was again married, but a short while ago, to Adeline’s cousin. What business had he to dance so superlatively well? Besides, they felt something antagonistic in him, something that repelled them.
Young Philip had not been a witness to this exhibition. After his dance with Adeline he had hastened out into the night air to cool off. But he would be back very soon to dance with her again, to take her in to supper. He thought that the evening had been something of a triumph for them both. He was proud of her, proud of himself, proud of Jalna, but he wished to goodness that he did not perspire so readily.
Three members of the family watched this dance with unmixed disapproval. They were Roma, Maurice, and Renny. She, standing in a doorway with Maurice, remarked to him:
“They’re making laughingstocks of themselves, that’s what.”
Maurice agreed, with a contemptuous curl of the lip. His feeling toward Fitzturgis at that moment was one of furious jealousy. Renny was in too genial a mood to be more than ruffled on the surface, but he did think Fitzturgis showed extremely bad taste in dancing with Adeline, and particularly in dancing with such professional aplomb. He had not looked even tolerably cheerful when dancing, but had worn an expression enigmatic, not to be described.
When Fitzturgis and Adeline had left the floor they went through one of the French windows on to the lawn. People were beginning to move toward the refreshment tent where waiters were ranged in readiness and Rags was being particularly officious. He was going out of his way to speak to friends of the family, to give orders to the waiters. To him Dennis attached himself, firstly because he wished to keep out of Finch’s way, secondly because he was tired of being spoken to by some of the older guests as a little boy. He did not want to be patronized by them as a little, rather touching boy, because of the bereavement in his family. That seemed long ago to him — yet occasionally near, with a terrifying clarity.
Fitzturgis, from the darkness of the trees, saw Philip looking for Adeline. His tall boyish figure, with the blond head, was easily discernible, and Fitzturgis gave a sardonic grimace as he glimpsed the boy searching. Adeline saw nothing. Her hand still rested on the arm of her former fiancé. It would appear that she needed his support, for her dark eyes wore a dazed look. She had not indeed recovered from the rapture of that dance. She was at that moment like an instrument which, having been performed on by a rd, still reverberated to that ecstasy.
“Shall I get some refreshment for you?” asked Fitzturgis, with old-fashioned formality.
“Not yet.”
He turned his head to look into her face, pale in that light.
“Tired?” he asked.
“Oh, no.” After a moment she added, “But we must not dance again.”
He gave a little laugh, his face close to hers. As though they could not help themselves, her white arms were about his shoulders and their lips were pressed together. During all the period of their attachment they had never kissed like this. It was something new and, to her, frightening — to Fitzturgis tantalizing, even maddening in the hopelessness of their situation. But he was willing to surrender to the seduction of the moment, with no more than one despairing glance into the future.
Their kiss was seen by no one, for they were in deep shadow; but Maurice saw their two figures — the faintest glimpse of Adeline told him who she was — the white shirt-front of Fitzturgis in conventional evening dress, for he did not possess one of the pale summer suits affected by the other men.
Adeline, seeing Maurice approach, almost fled in the direction of the marquee.
Maurice approached Fitzturgis, all his former dislike of him seething into hate. He said, scarcely knowing what he said, “Up to your old tricks, eh?”
Fitzturgis, in a sudden fury, said with contempt, “Get to hell out of here.” He took a step toward Maurice. A flash of lightning illuminated this retreat. In it Fitzturgis looked formidable. Other people were approaching. Maurice turned away, but he thought, The time will come when I must knock that fellow down.
Though lightning intermittently disclosed the animated scene with great vividness, the rain held off. Supper was served. Champagne was plentiful and the merriment became noticeably more enthusiastic. With the assistance of Philip, Renny began to set off fireworks. Rock
ets soared into the night sky and descended in a shower of stars. Renny had been extravagant in expenditure. Not only rockets, but designs in fireworks brought forth Ohs and Ahs of admiration from the guests. The last of these was a crown in stars and beneath it, clearly to be read, the legend 100 YEARS OLD. Obligingly this hovered right over the roof and the vine-clad chimneys of the house.
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 silen
ce 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.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 538
