The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (647 page)

Finch came through the front door.

“what are you doing?” he called out.

“Waiting for you,” said Dennis.

“Go away,” called out Finch, trembling from the emotions that shook him. “Go — and take that child with you.” He went back into the house.

But Dennis did not go away. He stood, holding up Ernest, like a beggar soliciting help through his child.

Finch, looking through that hateful window, was shaken by anger at the boy’s persistence. He rapped sharply on the pane and motioned to Dennis to go. Ernest chuckled and blew bubbles. Everything was a joke to him.

Piers was waiting by the gate, as had been arranged.

“Well,” he asked, taking the little one from Dennis, “did you see your father?”

“Yes,” said Dennis, with a smile. “He took us into the room where he was working. He was so glad to see us. He said what pretty hair Ernest has, and how big and bright his eyes are. He said how nice it is to have me home again.”

Mary, in the back seat, was listening. “Better than a spider,” she muttered; “sweeter than a rose.”

The Christening

As the car passed New Farm, Piers slowed it down that he and the children might watch the entry of eight show horses, through a gate into fresh pasture. They were being led by stable boys, who were in such high spirits as they came down the road that they whistled and sang. The horses were on their way from Jalna to this new field, and seemed to feel a certain distrust of the change. They moved warily and even shied a little at sight of the standing motor car. The rich locks of their well-groomed manes lay on their massive necks. They lifted their feet delicately, as though it would take only a little to make them sprout wings and fly. When they were on the pasture they disdained to crop the grass but, once their halters were removed, galloped whinnying to the other end of the pasture, where they stood immobile as a group in bronze.

The head stable boy slammed the gate and called out to Piers, “They’ll soon settle down, sir.”

“Yes,” agreed Piers, “they’ll settle down.”

“The grass here is first rate,” said the boy and bent and plucked a handful and examined it, as though he had a mind to eat it himself.

Piers drove on. When he reached home he handed over the baby to Pheasant, with a look of satisfaction on his tanned face. “I’ve good news about Finch,” he said. “Dennis took Ernest to see him and apparently Finch was pleased and made quite a fuss of him.”

“Isn’t that splendid?” she cried. “How could he help being pleased by him? Such a darling baby.… But Ernest, my pet, you’re just as wet as possible.” And she carried him off.

There were many preparations being made for the three events shining on the horizon. New arrivals added to the excitement. Archer from Oxford … Wakefield from London … Roma and Fitzturgis from New York.

Archer, in spite of his youth wearing an air of chill distinction, came early to The Moorings to see his relatives there. Not that he appeared glad to see them. The sight of them seemed to give him pain, rather than pleasure. He didn’t even smile at Ernest, but remarked to Pheasant:

“I suppose that charity of this sort is its own reward.”

“Ernest is a pet,” cried Pheasant.

“Then I suppose,” said Archer, “that you keep him, for the reason that we keep all our pets, because we can’t help ourselves.”

“Finch is very generous to me,” said Pheasant.

“I should think,” said Archer, “that it would seem cheap to him at any price to get an infant off his hands.”

“You’ll be a parent yourself one day,” said Pheasant. “Then you’ll understand.”

“Parentage,” he said, “is hidden behind the marriage ceremony. A dream come true. A nightmare you can’t be woken out of.”

Pheasant was ready to argue with him but Piers came into the room and, after greeting Archer, asked:

“Have you seen New Farm?”

“I’ve seen it all my life,” said Archer.

“I mean since your dad bought it.”

“Is it permitted to ask why he bought it?” asked Archer.

“Well,” said Piers, “your dad thought, and I thought, it would help to round out the estate. There are so many insignificant little places going up all about.”

“A Triton among the minnows, eh?” said Archer.

Piers said proudly, “It’s been our tradition, Archer, to follow in the footsteps of our forebears. To be like them and even more so, if you know what I mean.”

“Plus royaliste que le roi,”
said Archer.

Christian came in to invite Archer to go into the studio.

When they were there, in the midst of the young artist’s paintings, Christian inquired, “what do you feel about life in England?”

“I found nothing there that tempted me to remain permanently,” said Archer.

“Then you’re glad to come home?”

“I should scarcely say that,” Archer replied distantly.

He looked with a dissatisfied air at a painting of the three willow trees by the stream.

“You don’t like it,” Christian exclaimed, a little hurt by the look on Archer’s face.

“Don’t mind me,” said Archer. “I just go on in my own natural way. I never have liked trees. They take up too much room both above and below. Particularly I don’t like willows. They remind me of depressing things — like Gilbert and Sullivan — ‘Willow, tit willow,’ you know.”

“My brother Maurice.” said Christian, “is buying this picture to take back to Ireland.”

“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 of 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.”