Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
This little hut pleased her by its leafy seclusion, its smallness. Through the open doorway a spider swung on an invisible thread. He swung joyously — lighter than air — free as the breeze — in at the door and out again, disappearing into the greenness beyond. Her hands clasped in front of her, Mary stood watching him in rapture.
But she was not long alone. Her cousin Dennis came running in through the back door. He ran three times round her and then stopped behind her and took a handful of her hair. “who said you could come in here?” he demanded.
“I just came,” she said, and she moved away from him a little fearfully as he released her hair.
“I’ll bet,” he said, “that you don’t know who is coming to live here.”
“Wakefield and Molly — because he’s going to get well here.” She was proud to know, but Dennis, because of the way his eyes held her, made her feel less certain.
“They’re actors,” said Dennis. “They’ll be rehearsing terrible plays. They’ll be shouting and screaming. You’d better keep away, if you don’t want to hear them. It might frighten you to death. Did you ever know anyone who was frightened to death?”
“No.” She was breathing quickly, her eyes wide.
“I did,” he said. “And she was a grown up woman. She was the stepmother of a friend of mine. She died a terrible death — from fright.”
“Was your friend sorry?” Mary asked, fascinated.
Dennis thought a moment. “Yes. He was sorry because he hadn’t meant to do it.”
“what did he do? I mean that frightened her?” Mary’s heart was beating fast.
Dennis looked puzzled, then — “I forget,” he said.
He darted about examining everything. Two candlesticks, with tall white candles, caught his eye. He found matches and lighted the candles. “Now,” he said, “we’re ready for the ceremony.”
“what ceremony?” Mary asked.
Dennis began to chant a meaningless jargon, in his high boy’s treble. He genuflected and crossed himself. The thought of the sea came to Mary. A roaring of waves surged through her nerves. Its burning brightness dazzled her. Why this strange behaviour of her cousin’s should have brought the strangeness and wonder of the sea to her, she did not know. But she knew she was afraid of Dennis.
Yet soon he was only a schoolboy again. He went to a cupboard and brought out a tin of shrimps. “Have a shrimp, Mary?” He shook the tin in front of her. “Say the word and I’ll open it for you.” She backed away. “Have a Romary biscuit, Mary? No? All right. Don’t have one.” He put the tins back in the cupboard, and turning in a flash caught her round the waist. “Mary.” he said, “do you want to grow up to be a cow — like other women?”
“what women?” she breathed fearfully.
“Patience — you’ve seen her nursing her baby? Isn’t it disgusting? And my stepmother — she’ll be having one before long. Shall I tell you how I know?”
Mary tore herself from him and ran out through the door. She heard voices approaching. To escape she ran through the undergrowth, past the heaps of brushwood, into a little clearing where a vegetable garden had been made. She stood in its midst, crying a little, then noticed the green pods of peas among the leaves. She picked a pod, squeezed it till it opened with a tiny plop and disclosed the perfect row of peas. These she ate greedily and suddenly felt happy again.
Dennis stood his ground in the cottage but he swiftly blew out the candles. When Wakefield and Molly entered he was standing erect as though to receive them.
“why, here’s Dennis,” Wakefield exclaimed. “How he has grown! Look. Molly — here’s Dennis.”
“Have I grown?” asked Dennis. “Everybody says how small I am for my age.” He walked up and down in front of them.
“Well, perhaps you are rather small,” said Wakefield, “but you look a fine fellow to me.”
Wakefield was consciously pleased to be at the Hut. He was eager to make Molly feel that all would go well there, to make her feel she was welcomed by the family. He was tired after the journey but not so tired as Molly, for she had had much to do in the preparations. Now her first thought was that he must be put to bed to begin his cure.
Finch, having met them at the station, now returned with their luggage in a station wagon. Dennis ran to meet him, putting all his small strength into the carrying of suitcases along the path and into the Hut.
“what a darling boy,” Molly exclaimed to Wakefield. “I’d like to steal him. Did you notice the adoring look he gave his father?”
“Yes,” said Wakefield, “and did you ever see a son so unlike his father?”
The luggage stowed away, Dennis was hanging on Finch’s arm. Finch stood irresolute, not knowing whether to go or stay. Finch was embarrassed by Molly’s presence. It was one thing to visit them in their apartment in New York, that mighty city which could make all within it seem unimportant. It was quite another thing to see them together at Jalna.
“Is there anything more I can do for you?” asked Finch.
“Not a thing,” said Molly. “I’m going to tuck Wake into bed and then get some lunch ready. There’s all sorts of food in the kitchen and a quantity of the richest milk I’ve ever seen.”
“There’s an up-to-date oil stove too. Renny has just had it put in.”
At mention of that name Molly’s colour flamed, but it was without effect on Wakefield, except to bring expressions of gratitude from him. “Renny’s been wonderful,” he said. “I could not have believed Fiddler’s Hut could have been made to look so inviting. What a wilderness this part of the woods was the last time I saw it! And I well remember when Eden was ill here.”
“Eden?” said Molly. “That was your brother who died, wasn’t it? why did he come here? what was wrong with him?”
Finch and Wakefield exchanged looks.
“Did I never mention it before?” said Wakefield. “Eden had tuberculosis.”
“Well,” said Finch, “we must be getting along. Come, Dennis.”
The Two in the Hut
Scarcely had Finch and Dennis disappeared when Renny and Rags came into sight. Renny came first, wearing a frown of anxiety lest he should upset what he carried, which was a skillet containing a broiled beefsteak. As for Rags, his face looking more wizened than usual in the bright light of day, he was laden with an immense tray with covered dishes of vegetables and a raspberry pie.
“All nourishing things,” said the master of Jalna; “and see to it that you leave not a crumb.”
He set down the skillet, put both arms about his brother, and kissed him, giving him at the same time a sharp look, as though for signs of the ravages of disease. He then shook Molly’s hand with an air of distant (though not unfriendly) dignity, and again urged them to enjoy the steak. Rags almost tearfully welcomed Wakefield, reminding him of their romps together when Wakefield was a small boy. He addressed Molly as “Madam,” begging her to call on him for help in case of need. He then proceeded to lay the table. Renny opened a bottle of stout and brought a glassful to each of them. Then he and Rags departed, as suddenly as they had arrived.
Wakefield, attacking the beefsteak with zest, smiled across the table at Molly. “It’s not so bad here, is it, dear?” he said. “I know you didn’t want to come, but I think you’ll soon feel that I was right.”
“why did he look at me like that?” she burst out. “As though everything were my fault!”
“I saw nothing of the sort in his look. Surely he could not have made us more welcome than he did.”
“He made
you
welcome — not me.”
Wakefield pushed his plate away from him. “Very well,” he said petulantly, “we’ll go. I can’t bear to stay here, if you are going to be unhappy.…”
Molly’s profile was turned to him, with its tip-tilted nose with a few freckles, its well-cut chin. So often had he studied that profile, found it both courageous and charming, that this downward bend to the lips was unbearable to him. He repeated — “We’ll go.”
She sprang up, full of contrition. “No, no,” she said, putting her arms round him, pressing his head to her slender breast, “we’ll stay and be happy and you’ll soon be well again. We have a right to be happy, haven’t we? In the beginning we were innocent.”
“I think I have no conscience,” said Wakefield. “If I have, it certainly has given me no trouble. I feel as innocent as the day I was born.”
“And so you are, my dearest,” she cried. “If either is to blame, I am the one. The woman should always be the stronger. Come — eat this good food, and then I’ll tuck you up in your bed. But first take a sip of the stout.” She held the glass to his lips.
They talked with determined gayety and ate heartily, for they were hungry. Molly investigated every corner of the Hut, discovering each moment something new and exciting. If her gayety was a little forced Wakefield was not aware of it. Obediently he undressed and got into the inviting white bed. “why, Molly,” he exclaimed, “I remember this bedstead very well. It’s one that Eden used to sleep in, but it has a new mattress. And that little chest of drawers was Uncle Ernest’s. Oh, there’s nothing here that I don’t remember at home! I can’t tell you how clearly I remember everything — every inch of Jalna. I wasn’t strong enough to go to school, and so the Rector used to give me lessons at the Rectory and sometimes I’d play truant and wander through the fields and woods. But I was afraid of Fiddler’s Hut and never came here. God — if I could have looked ahead and seen us two sitting at the table together!”
“Do try to settle down and rest for a bit,” she urged.
“Bring me something to read, then. I saw some books on a shelf by the window. Did you notice how the window frame has been painted a pretty green?” She brought a book to him and he was delighted to discover that it was
The Little Duke.
“See, Molly, what’s written in it:
For Wakefield,
a
reward for good behaviour, from his sister Meg.
”
Wakefield gave a shout of laughter. “Oh, Molly, this is delicious! ‘A reward for good behaviour’ — she was always complaining of my naughtiness and thought nothing of taking her slipper to me. But how she spoiled me, too. I used to sit next her at table — on a volume of British Poets to make me taller — and I remember how she would cut every scrap of fat from my meat to please me. I do wonder if Meg will come to see us — now that she’s married to a clergyman …”
Goings and Comings
Dennis was proud to stride homeward with Finch, stretching his legs to keep pace with those longer legs. He hoped with all his might that he would be tall like Finch. As they strode along the dusty unpaved road, he looked up with admiration and love into Finch’s face. He caught Finch’s sleeve in his hand the better to stride with him. Dennis had looked forward with a certain dread to his homecoming from camp, but it had been easier than he had expected. The dinner party had drawn attention from him, and now there was the coming of Wakefield and Molly. He felt himself to be no longer in disgrace but an important member of the family, with Finch always as the lodestar of his existence.
When they reached home (during the walk Finch had been lost in thought and had not once spoken) they found Patience and Victoria Bell with Sylvia. Patience had also brought her poodle, which sat, statuesque and almost too intelligent, at her knee. The poodle considered that Patience and Victoria Bell were its special property. The three had contrived to take possession of the house, while Patience informed Sylvia of details of the infant’s care. Patience had become all wife and mother, living but to serve husband and child. When she was not in a position to caress them with her hands she did so with her gentle grey eyes. She thought how wonderful it would be if Sylvia were to have a baby and they could spend happy hours discussing their babies and their wonderful husbands together. Then there were Adeline and Philip. They, in their turn, would produce a family, to be nurtured and discussed. Babies — and more babies — oh, the wonder of life!
As a treat for Dennis, and because she thought there was something touching about the little boy, she put the baby into his arms, as a treasure to be enjoyed.
“Now, isn’t she a darling?” exclaimed Patience. “Your latest cousin. Oh, I do wish I had my camera here so that I might take a snap of the two together! Look, Sylvia.”
When Dennis felt the warm weight of the fat baby against his chest a voluptuous delight stirred him. He gazed into its face fascinated. Its red wrinkled features, its moist lips that kept moving, its glazed slate-coloured eyes roused in him a feeling of protectiveness, approaching tenderness. He would have liked to squeeze it hard against his chest and run with it into the woods.
“Aren’t they sweet together?” said Patience.
Dennis raised his eyes to hers and gave her a tranquil look. Indeed, this mood lasted after she and Victoria Bell had departed. He had a feeling of goodness, of purity. He wanted to be helpful about the house. The daily woman was ill and unable to come. Sylvia prepared the lunch and Dennis laid the table. He ran lightly from room to room doing little services for her. Sylvia was astonished and elated. Scarcely could she believe her eyes to see him like this. Finch had sat down at the piano and was playing some gay music. Bending over him she whispered, “Watch Dennis — see how he’s helping me. He’s quite different.”
A little later she relaxed into one of the comfortable armchairs, for she was tired. Passing behind her Dennis dropped a kiss on her head. It was almost unbelievable to her that she should have had a caress from him. She was touched and even thrilled by this gesture of affection from the odd little boy.
“Finch, what do you suppose?” she whispered, when she had him alone. “Dennis kissed me! Oh, I’m sure we shall be friends from now on. All he needed was time to get used to me.”
Finch was relieved, but he could not wipe from his mind, as Sylvia seemed to do, the memory of that night when the boy had so ruthlessly frightened her. The presence of Dennis in the house was like a small cloud that cast its shadow on the sunny field of his happiness. He had to keep a guard over himself when the boy was with him. It was so easy for him to lose his temper. Once, quite suddenly, he cuffed Dennis, who, instead of looking subdued, caught Finch’s hand in both his and kissed it. What would Renny have done in a like case, Finch wondered. Given the boy another, harder cuff or kissed him in return? He was a great kisser, this master of Jalna, Finch thought. He’d seen him kiss every member of the family, from prickly-skinned old Gran down to Victoria Bell.