Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Fiddler’s Hut looked not less but more remote, with the coming of cold weather. Hidden among foliage, there was something mysterious and inviting about it, as though it were the home of fairy-tale dwarves. Standing among towering tree trunks, its doors and windows marred by withered leaves, it looked desolate indeed. Desolate, that is, to all but little Mary Whiteoak. To her it was always fascinating and she wished she might have had it as her own, for a playhouse where she could be quite alone with her fancies.
In a year or two Mary was to be sent to a girls’ school, but at present she came, on five mornings a week, to Jalna, where Alayne gave her lessons in English, French, and history. Alayne did this not so much because she liked the child as because she had a natural bent for teaching and found the mind of this little one interesting. Piers gave her lessons in geography and arithmetic, Pheasant in sewing, and Christian in drawing. So that Mary was as busy as any eight-year-old need be. In truth she would have preferred to have fewer lessons, for she found life itself exciting and time never lagging.
One mild December morning Alayne was obliged to go to town, and Mary found herself unexpectedly free. She had been told to wait at Jalna till she was called for, but she decided that she would take a little walk in the direction of the Hut. There was in her an urge to visit the Hut which would not be denied. So she set out, walking sedately over the frozen ground till she drew near the path leading to the Hut. Then she began to run.
The door stuck against the ice along its sill, but she was able to open it and, without fear, stepped inside.
The Hut slumbered in a strange twilight, even though the sun was shining. It was so dim, so small, so tidy, that Mary’s heart felt ready to burst with the sense of owning it, of belonging to it. Nothing she might find inside would have surprised her. But there was only twilight stillness, and a chill that penetrated her warm clothes. She remembered how Dennis had lighted candles there, and she saw that a fire was laid in the little stone fireplace. She found matches and touched the flame of one of them to the kindling. It was damp and was slow to ignite; but she blew into it and presently a crackling blaze was born. When Mary saw this blaze and its reflection on different objects in the room she gave a little cry of joy, and skipped about like a lamb at play.
Soon the room grew so warm that she threw off her coat and scarf. There was a sink and a tap in the kitchen. Mary filled the kettle and put it on the little oil stove. She intended to make some coffee, for she had found in the cupboard a bottle of Nescafé, and a tin of concentrated cream. Tea she drank every day, but coffee was a rare treat.
She was not quite sure how to make it, because the printing on the label had become blurred. But she was determined that it should not be weak. She put what she considered plenty into the coffeepot, then filled it up with boiling water. It was a large pot, and she wished she might have some guests to drink it up — not ordinary human beings but people out of a fairy tale, such as Humpty Dumpty or the Mad Hatter.
She chose the prettiest cup in the cupboard, poured coffee into it, then added cream. She drew up a chair and seated herself at table, waiting for the drink to cool. She had discovered a tin half full of Romary biscuits, and these she had arranged on a blue plate. Her heart was filled with happiness. She hummed a little nameless tune, and from the eave the dripping of melting snow made an agreeable accompaniment.
As she sat waiting, there came another sound — the sound of heavy boots on the path. They ceased and, for a moment, a shadow darkened the window. Then there came a resounding knock on the door. For a short space Mary was shocked into immobility by the sudden tumult of the knock, which must have been made by striking on the door with a stick. As she sat staring open-mouthed, the knock sounded again and almost immediately the latch was lifted and the door opened. There entered the bent, much bundled-up figure of Noah Binns.
“So it’s you, is it, little lady?” he said, through his straggling, dribbling moustache.
“Yes, it’s me, Noah,” she answered, her voice trembling a little, but not really frightened.
“And you’re sittin’ here alone, drinkin’ coffee by the smell of it.”
“Yes, Noah,” she answered proudly, and took a sip of coffee and a nibble of Romary biscuit.
He clumped close, after shutting the door, and peered greedily down at the coffeepot. Then he laid his heavy stick on the floor and picked up the pot, and hefted it.
“Nobody,” he said, “ain’t offered me a cup of coffee in a terrible long time. I’ve swallered gallons of tea this fall, but coffee — nary a drop.”
“I’ll pour you a cup of coffee, Mr. Binns,” she said, suddenly becoming formal, with the air of a hostess.
The “Mister” pleased him. He dragged a chair to the table and heavily seated himself. Mary brought a second cup and filled it.
“Sugar?” she asked.
“Five lumps,” he said, smacking his lips and helping himself to a biscuit.
Mary could not help giggling as she counted out the five lumps. She handed him the coffee without slopping any, and watched him anxiously as he gulped a mouthful. Noah had tasted strong coffee but never any so strong as this.
“Good?” she asked.
His mouth was burned, the coffee so strong that he could only nod, speechless.
“Drink it up,” she said, in the firm tone her mother sometimes used to her.
Fairly hypnotized, he obeyed.
At once she asked, “More coffee?”
Noah Binns leered in pleasure as his cup was renewed. He said: “You plan to live here from now on, young lady?”
“I might,” she said.
“How old are you?”
“Eight years old,” she said.
Noah took a swig of the steaming coffee, and declaimed:
“when children take to the woods it’s a sure sign of doom. All signs p’int to it. I’ve lived over fourscore years, and I ain’t never seen doom so near.”
“More coffee?” said Mary, and refilled his cup.
Noah demanded, “why did you take to the woods?”
“I like this little house.”
“Nobody will ever want to buy it off you. It’s too lonesome. I had a little house, and I sold it in a subdivision. Do you know what a subdivision is?”
“It’s multiplication the other way round.”
Noah slapped his thigh and cackled with laughter.
“More coffee?” asked Mary, and filled up his cup. Noah drank and smacked his lips. “I live in one room now,” he said, “and like it. Do you calculate to spend the winter here?”
Mary nodded and nibbled a biscuit.
“It’s goin’ to be a fearful winter,” said Noah. “All signs p’int to the worst winter on record since William the Conqueror discovered this continent. Floods — blizzards — and pestiferousness … Don’t you think you may be scared livin’ alone here?”
“I may go home for Christmas.”
“Christmas ain’t what it was. Every Christmas fer three years I’ve been obliged to buy a card.”
“Every year?” exclaimed Mary.
“Yeah,” said Noah. “Every year. It’s a terrible responsibility.”
“More coffee?” she asked sympathetically.
“I don’t mind if I do.”
She filled up his cup, then inquired, “what did you get last Christmas?”
“One card. Two pairs socks. One shirt. One paper bag horehound candy. What I needed was overshoes.”
“More coffee?” She did not wait for him to answer but filled up his cup. He added five lumps of sugar.
“I bought myself overshoes,” he said, “and I have ’em here.” He opened a parcel and displayed them. He said, “Two dollars and ninety-nine cents they cost. A fearful outlay.” He set them on the table near the coffeepot.
“I have a new pair too,” said Mary.
Noah craned his neck to view her small foot.
“It’s a terrible thing,” he said, “to think of all the pitfalls layin’ in wait for them innocent little feet. Whatever way you turn there’ll be pitfalls.”
“My overshoes,” said Mary, “cost three dollars. They are velvet.”
“If I’d yearned for velvet,” said Noah, “I’d have bought velvet.”
“More coffee?” asked Mary.
Noah was beginning to feel more than a little sick. This was partly due to heat, for he was close to the blaze of the fire and he wore not only a heavy topcoat but a fur cap with earlaps which he donned at the first tentative snowfall. He was proud of this cap, and when not in use kept it in a paper bag with mothballs. Now the smell of camphor from the cap filled the room. Also Noah felt ready to burst from the amount of coffee he had drunk. He wondered if he would be able to get home. He rose unsteadily and, holding to the back of his chair, he loudly belched.
The impact of this escaping wind drove his upper denture from his mouth, through his moustache and out on to the floor. There it lay grinning up at them.
Mary was so frightened by this porcelain grin that she uttered a little cry, but then she gathered herself together and said:
“More coffee, Mr. Binns?”
Noah bent toward the floor to retrieve his denture. He became dizzy and fell, taking the chair with him, to the floor. At that moment the door was flung open and Mary’s brother, Christian, entered. Noah hastily restored the denture to his gums. His fur cap was over his eyes. He was helpless, unable to rise.
Christian grasped him under the arms and heaved him to his feet. Without a look behind, Noah shambled through the open door and down the path out of sight, scuffing through the dead leaves.
“what on earth,” Christian demanded of Mary, “are you doing here?”
“Making coffee,” said Mary. “Have some?”
Christian picked up the fallen chair and seated himself in it. Then he spied Noah’s overshoes standing by the coffeepot.
“what are these?” he demanded.
“They belong to Mr. Binns,” said Mary, and tears rose to her eyes.
“How disgusting,” exclaimed Christian. He sprang up, took an overshoe in either hand and flung them through the door after Noah.
Mary looked after them in mingled sorrow and relief.
“whew,” said Christian, “what a stink!”
He fetched himself a clean cup.
“Coffee?” asked Mary.
“Please. No sugar or cream.”
She filled his cup. He sat down and lighted a cigarette.
“I have been sent to search for you,” said Christian. “It’s very naughty, you know, for a little girl to run off like this. Little girls should stay at home and behave themselves. My morning’s work has been upset because of you.” His hazel eyes gave her a clear look of disapproval. He sipped his coffee and remarked, “This is the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted.”
Everything was now in his hands. He put out the fire, tucked the tin of Romary biscuits under his arm, and led Mary homeward. In experience she was poor, but in the world of imagination she was richer than he because she still moved freely in the realm of childhood — and that he had lost.
A
s she trotted docilely at his side, her hand in his, she saw Noah’s overshoes lying among the dead leaves and shed a tear for them.
Finch and Sylvia
This was a happy time for Finch and Sylvia. She awaited her confinement with more tranquility than even a few months ago she would have thought possible. Rather than harming her by exposure and fatigue, the holiday by the lake had done her good. Despite the increasing bulkiness of her body, her spirit was light. She was given confidence by the knowledge that Finch was to remain at home till after the birth of her child. He would finish the composition on which he was working before Christmas. After Christmas he was to go to New York to see a publisher. This sonata claimed him, as did his wife and the coming birth. Between the two his mind shuttled, never at rest, but without apprehension. The fates were smiling on him. All would go well.
The snowfall was light. They took long walks. In the evenings Sylvia would read aloud to him, or others of the family would come to spend an hour or two. Sylvia and Patience had confidential talks regarding the trials and triumphs of maternity. The marriage of Roma to Maitland Fitzturgis was a puzzling event to Sylvia. Brother and sister had passed through times of deep emotion together, intimate in spirit, alternately tender in their love, or angry when he had sought to control the vagaries of her past mental illness. Now that she was secure in Finch’s love, Sylvia felt that she should be happy that her brother had married into the same family. Yet she could not be happy about this marriage. In their short acquaintance she had found little to attract her in Roma: she appeared not only cold, but shallow.
What was there behind that charming face beyond a narrow self-seeking — an indolent distaste for exerting herself in the affairs of any but herself? And why had Maitland chosen to fall in love with two young girls — one after the other?
This question she put to Finch, as they sat together watching through the window the pheasants feeding on grain he had scattered for them.
“One after the other,” said Finch, “is better than both at the same time.”
“But it’s not like him. He’s not an impulsive, out-giving person. He’s reserved. He needs understanding.”
“Possibly he feels that a woman his own age would understand him too well.”
“Oh, Finch, you must not be too critical of Mait. He’s been so good to me.”
“I know he has and I’m grateful.”
“But you don’t like him.”
“I do — with reservations.”
“what reservations?” She leaned forward eagerly.
“I don’t need to tell you — you know him better than I do.”
She sank back, closing her eyes for a moment. Then she said, “I understand what you mean. There’s something in Mait that you can’t get near. You wonder whether he is hiding his real self or whether he is just aimlessly drifting. It makes me angry with him.”
“Not me,” said Finch. “I seldom think about him.”
“That’s strange,” she said. “I’m always thinking about him. I do wish I could see him.”
“You will very soon,” said Finch. “He and Roma are coming for Christmas.” Then he added, “Oh, I shouldn’t have told you that. Meg said it was to be a surprise.”
“Meg — how could she know?”
“They are to stay at the Rectory.”