The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (648 page)

“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 Centenary at Hand

The house, in this year of its centenary, had been truly titivated for the occasion. The woodwork had been painted ivory. To paint the window frames it had been necessary to cut away some of the Virginia creeper which draped them, and it was only after profound consideration on the part of the master of Jalna that he agreed to this. But, once that it was done, and the windows and shutters looked brightly forth, no one was so delighted as he. He would stand entranced in the hot sun, on the gravel sweep, admiring the ivory paint on the window frames and pillars of the porch.

“Look, Alayne,” he once exclaimed, “the house, which had got rather dingy, has come out a glamorous blonde!”

“It has ‘that Ivory look,’” she said, with an ironic smile, and quoting from a radio soap advertisement.

Yet she took a sincere interest in the centenary, made a list of people to be invited: had rugs, walls, and curtains cleaned, and concerned herself with zest.

Renny was grateful for her interest, because always he had regarded her as one somewhat aloof from such homely things as family celebrations. One arm about her waist, he pressed her to his side. He said, “How pleased with you the old uncles would have been for your interest in this celebration. They thought the world of you.”

“And I of them,” she said fervently. “Their sort isn’t bred nowadays, and I guess it’s a good thing — as they would not have enjoyed the world we live in.”

Renny looked surprised. “I don’t see why,” he said. “It seems to me very enjoyable. And I think it’s a remarkable coincidence that another Ernest should have been born just at the right time for the centenary.”

“Little Ernest Nicholas …” she mused. “what, I wonder, will his future be? Such a tragic beginning he has had.”

“I think Maurice’s idea of taking Dennis to Ireland with him is a good one.”

“Perhaps,” she said doubtfully. “But — with Maurice what he is, and Finch what he is, and Dennis what he appears to be — I can’t think what will come of it.”

“Don’t try,” he said, kissing the little knot on her forehead. “It will turn out all right.” He was in these days almost too exuberant.

He had, with some pressure from Piers, persuaded Christian to do other portraits of the prospective bride and groom. The young artist had executed these in a panic of speed. He feared that if he hesitated to consider what he had agreed to do, he would never finish them in time for the centenary. He was, at the same time, ashamed and amused by his own work, and ended by being rather proud of it. The portraits were done with an almost primitive simplicity. The quality of the materials of evening dress and uniform was even better than the best commercial art. There was no attempt to portray the souls of the subjects, who were candidly charmed by the portraits. It had been left to Christian to choose the frames.

On this morning of warm June rain, he and Adeline and Philip were in the studio for the very last touches to the portraits, when Patience, led rather than followed by her prancing poodle, burst in on them.

“what do you suppose?” she cried.

“Hang onto your dog,” begged Christian.

“Darling,” Adeline called out to the poodle and he at once pranced to her.

“what has happened?” demanded Philip.

“I’ve just come from the Rectory,” said Patience.

“You’re always just going there, or coming from there,” said he. “It’s nothing new.”

“But this is different.” She looked solemn. “Roma and Maitland Fitzturgis are there. They’ve just arrived from New York. They’re on their way to Ireland.”

The name of Fitzturgis so stirred Adeline to emotions that were complex and painful that Christian stared at her as though he had just discovered her. He looked from her to his portrait of her, as though he had half a mind to do another very different one.

“It appears that Maitland can’t stand the strain of life in New York. Being on time at the office every morning, writing advertisements as though he believed in them — it was too much. And the crowds. He hated crowds. He was always late, and he was always cross, and he lost his appetite.”

“How does Roma take this?” asked Adeline.

“She’s wonderful. Says she doesn’t mind. They’re going to buy a small place and breed cattle, in Ireland.”

“A sow, a pig, and three hens,” said Philip.

“It’s the best thing in life,” said Patience, “to do what you are fitted for. Find out what it is and do it. Roma is developing. She says she likes public relations but, because Mait hates them, she’s willing to give them up.”

“Life in New York must be a great mental strain,” said Philip. “I can’t stand mental strain. It puts me to sleep.”

Later that day Roma and Fitzturgis appeared in the studio. Ostensibly they came to see the finished portraits, but actually they wanted all the family to know that they had left New York of their free will, of their own desire to be free. Fitzturgis, indeed, looked as though he had already drunk the air of freedom. His step was lighter. He was more ready to smile. As for Roma, always was she agreeable to change, to adventure. The thought of a sea voyage ending in a picturesque place in Ireland was attractive to her. She wanted to see Maitland settled down and fairly content because, when he was unsettled and discontented, he was not easy to live with. Roma liked people who were comfortable to live with. That was the reason she was so fond of her Auntie Meg and the Rector.