Growth of a Man. Mazo de la Roche

had gone to the social.

      He went into the room very quietly, his eyes fixed fearfully on the old man. He found his schoolbag and laid his homework on the table. He brought a chair and slid silently on to it.

      Roger Gower’s large blue eyes were not diverted from their attention to the newspaper. The delicate vibration of his beard continued without interruption.

      Shaw’s nerves relaxed in a sigh. He tried to fasten his attention on his homework. But he could not forget the paintbox. It was on his knees and he caressed it as he bent his eyes to his books. He felt that he must see inside it. It was new. The colors were no more than faintly hollowed by the brush. The delicate range of them awaited his exploring. He remembered that he had to draw a map for to-morrow’s geography lesson. Like an inspiration the thought came that he would color it. He would hide his work from his grandfather behind a heap of books.

      The map was of Asia. He gave himself up to doing nothing else that evening. He would make a map that should be the wonder of the school. Carefully he drew the outlines of the different countries. He brought a saucer of water from the kitchen and set at the joyful task of coloring.

      Orange for India, purple for Persia, yellow for China, red for Japan—masterfully he chose the colors. The ocean should be light blue, with a deeper blue at the verge. The mountains should be a lovely green, but cruel Siberia black as night. In one of Shaw Gower’s books of travel there was a map with ships and beasts on it.

      He had always admired these and now he decided to introduce them into his map. He tiptoed up the stairs and brought down the old calf-bound book. From it he copied the drawing of a tall square-rigger and put it off the coast of Java. He set dolphins at play in the Indian Ocean and a whale in mid-Pacific. He was so absorbed that the passage of time was nothing to him. He forgot his grandfather’s existence.

      Suddenly he was startled by the old man’s voice.

      “That’s a funny-looking map you’ve made.”

      Guiltily Shaw tried to conceal it with his hands.

      “Don’t cover it up. I want to see it.”

      “I’m—just coloring it,” stammered Shaw.

      “Where did you get those paints?”

      “They—were lent to me.” Fear made him hedge.

      “Hmph. I never heard of lending paint. What book is that?”

      “It belonged to—I think it was your father, Grandpa. I’m not hurting it.”

      Roger Gower stretched out a short strong hand and took the book. He felt the smoothness of the cover and stared at the faded signature on the flyleaf. “He was a queer sort of man,” he said. “I’d forgotten there were any of his books about.”

      He pushed the book across the table to Shaw. He took a handful of his beard and twisted it in his fingers. Suddenly his mouth opened wide in a yawn. A sleepy moisture came into his eyes. “It looks,” he said, “as if those folks are going to stay the night at the church.”

      In his stocking feet he stumped across the floor to the tall clock and began to wind it. Never before had Shaw and he had intimate conversation together. Shaw had a sudden feeling of security. He felt older and stronger and as though he had a place of his own in the house. He replied, in a gruff tone:—

      “I’d rather stay at home and read or paint than go to a silly old social, wouldn’t you?”

      “There was a time when I liked them,” answered Roger Gower. “And there’ll come a time when you’ll like them—when you get running after a girl.”

      Shaw gave a superior smile. “I’ll never do that,” he answered.

      “What about the time you chased Louie Adams on the road?”

      Shaw was staggered. He almost dropped the books he had gathered up. So—Mr. Blair had told of him! He stared openmouthed at his grandfather, who went on serenely winding the clock. Mr. Blair had told and nothing had been done to him!

      “I think I’ll go to bed, Grandpa,” he mumbled; “I’m pretty tired.”

      “I s’pose you are. I guess we’d both better go.”

      In his room Shaw gazed in rapture at his map of Asia. He found a pin and pinned it on the wall where he could see it first thing in the morning. He had quite forgotten that he still wore his new suit, but now he took it off carefully and laid it flat in a drawer. He lay long awake repeating in his mind the happiness of the day.

      The next morning on the way to school he overtook Ian and Elspeth. He smiled shyly at Elspeth, eager to tell her about his map, but she turned her head away and began to walk very quickly. She almost ran. Ian took him by the sleeve and drew him back.

      “Say,” he said, “you know that paintbox?”

      “Yes.”

      “Elspeth had no right to give it away. She got scolded. Our Aunt Jean gave the paintbox to her. Why did she give it to you?”

      “I don’t know. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want it much. I’ll give it back.”

      Ian looked relieved. “All right. When will you bring it?”

      “To-morrow.”

      “Bring it to school, will you?”

      “Yes. I don’t want it. I don’t know why Elspeth gave it to me.”

      They walked on in troubled silence, kicking stones before them along the dusty road. Then Ian threw off his embarrassment and gave Shaw a thump between the shoulders. “I’ll race you to the school!”

      Sitting at his desk, Shaw looked cautiously at Elspeth. Her head was resting on her hand, in the attitude of a dejected little woman. He could see tears on her round cheek. Miss McKay went and sat beside her and put her arm about her, but Elspeth would not say what was wrong. Ian spoke for her:—

      “She ate too much potato salad at the social.”

      A giggle ran across the room.

      “Would you like to go out in the air for a little while by yourself, Elspeth?”

      Elspeth began to sob and Miss McKay led her outdoors.

      Ian sang:—

      “After the ball is over,

      After the break of day—”

      By the time Miss McKay returned there was pandemonium. When she had established order she asked for the maps to be handed in. Shaw’s lay in his desk, the map that was to astonish them all, carefully rolled and tied with a bit of grey yarn.

      “I haven’t done one,” he said.

      “Not drawn a map! I suppose you had too much potato salad too.”

      “I wasn’t at the social.”

      “Then what is your excuse?”

      He had none. And he had done none of his homework. All day he was stupid and careless. Miss McKay could not make him out. The next morning he left early for school so that he should not meet the Blairs. He carried the paintbox wrapped in newspaper. He kept saying to himself—“I don’t want it much. A paintbox is no good to me. I don’t want it at all.” He went to Elspeth’s desk and put the box inside.

      Now he strained toward the day of the double wedding, hoping, hoping that then he would see his mother. He determined to write her a letter. He wrote it on a leaf of his exercise book. He asked his grandmother for a stamp for it.

      “Give it to me,” she said, “and I’ll put it in with mine. I’m going to write this week.”

      “But I want it to go right away.”

      “Then want will be your master,” she returned coldly.

      The next day at school he said to Ian:—