Whiteoak Heritage. Mazo de la Roche

“they’re far too dense.”

      “Now look at Jalna,” wheeling to face his own domain. “There’s light there. We get all the sun, while we’ve lots of trees.”

      The house was indeed at this moment almost flamboyantly gay in its setting. The double row of tall balsams and hemlocks that bordered the drive stopped short at the gravel sweep. The lawn was open to sun and a group of silver birches showed trunks as white as the petals of narcissus, while their pointed leaves fluttered in palest green. The vast Virginia creeper that enriched the walls had placed its glittering young leaves with such precision against the old bricks that it seemed a calculated adornment. Certainly the fresh paint of the shutters and porch was in honour of Renny’s return, and the shine of every windowpane from polishing. Behind the house the cherry orchard spread the white veil of its blossoms and, in the ravine that divided the two estates, there were the red stems of willows, the purple and gold of flags that bloomed by the stream, and the stream’s own May-time blossom of foam. The energetic tapping of a woodpecker was the only sound.

      “It seems strange,” said Renny, “to own the place. When I left home my father was as sound as a nut. I thought he would live to be as old as my grandmother. I was satisfied to be his eldest son and to be a part of the place.”

      “I always admired your father,” said Maurice. “He had a fine physique and that beaming look you seldom see in faces nowadays.”

      “Well,” Renny spoke almost brusquely, “he’s gone and I’ve got to get used to it…. Come along, Maurice. Let’s see this fellow. What’s his name?”

      “Jim Dayborn. I forget his sister’s name. It was a little short name. Oh yes — Chris, he called her.”

      “I’m glad that house is occupied. I remember how desolate it looked standing there.”

      “Mrs. Stroud has made the place look very nice, my housekeeper tells me. She had a sort of party there for the Women’s Institute.”

      They walked on in silence.

      Coming out on the quiet country road they crossed it, and Maurice was about to suggest that they should take a short cut through the churchyard when he remembered the new graves there and turned abruptly toward a narrow path that crossed a field. Renny hesitated a moment, his eyes fixed on the church surrounded by white gravestones, now flushed pink in the sunset. Then he followed Maurice. In a short while they stood in front of the now inhabited white house. It had once been the home of Miss Pink, the organist, but when her parents died she could no longer afford to live there and its rental had been her chief income. She had suffered privations during its vacancy and the fact that it was now sold was as a new lease of life to her.

      The two men stood looking at it, remarking, with the interest of those whose roots have long been in the one spot, the alterations that had turned it into a two-family house. Also it had a fresh coat of paint, two green front doors against the fresh whiteness of the walls.

      “I’ll make a guess,” said Renny, “that Mrs. Stroud lives in the right-hand side.”

      “That’s easy. You can see the man moving about the room in the other half.”

      “No. I guessed from the curtains. A woman with a baby wouldn’t have had time for all those frills.”

      They strode through the gate and rang the bell. The door was opened almost at once by a very thin young man wearing loose grey flannel trousers and a rough grey pullover. His colouring was nondescript but his movements were so graceful and the bones of his face so fine that he gave an impression of elegance. His expression was gloomy. This changed to a look of expectancy when he saw Maurice Vaughan.

      Maurice introduced him to Renny.

      Jim Dayborn invited them indoors with no apparent embarrassment for the sparsely furnished, untidy room, the scant meal which looked as though it might have been thrown on to the bare table, and the baby’s diapers drying before the stove. Renny’s first thought on seeing these was — “Why the devil didn’t she dry them out in the sunshine?” He said, when they were seated:

      “I hear you understand horses and that you’re looking for a job.”

      “Yes,” said Dayborn, “I’m terribly anxious for work. You see, I have my sister and her baby to support. Not that she wants to be dependent. She’s ready to do anything. She’s absolutely at home with horses.”

      “Who could look after her baby?”

      “Oh, he’s no trouble. Put him down anywhere and he’ll amuse himself.”

      “In a stable?”

      “If necessary,” answered Dayborn laconically.

      “Where did you get your experience?” asked Renny.

      “We were brought up in a rectory in Suffolk. Our neighbours kept large stables and we spent half our time in them. We met an American who raised show horses and we came out to work with him. Well, that didn’t last and —”

      “Why didn’t it last?”

      “The owner was paying attention to my sister. But she didn’t like him. She liked a chap named Cummings. She married him and then Cummings died and my sister could not stick the place without him. The baby was just a few months old. We knew a horse breeder in Montreal and got a job with him. My sister can break in any sort of colt. She’s wonderful. But the man lost a lot of money and sold his horses. We’ve had bad luck since then. If you are wanting two people who aren’t afraid of work, and who understand horses, I hope you’ll give us a chance.”

      “I’d like to meet your sister,” said Renny.

      “Good.” Dayborn left the room with a hangdog grace that repelled Renny, even while he was attracted by his candour. There’s something queer about him, he thought.

      Maurice’s eyes swept the disorderly room. He gave Renny a significant look. “If this is an example of her work …” he said under his breath.

      “Sh … they’re coming.”

      But the young woman who returned with Dayborn was the opposite of slovenly. Her khaki breeches and shirt, open at the neck, were well-cut and clean. Her pale fair hair hung straight and sleek about her small head. She was tall, like her brother, but their only resemblance was their extreme thinness. Compared to them, the baby of fifteen months she carried in her arms, was almost aggressively plump and rosy. He wore white flannel pyjamas, and his golden hair stood moist and curly from his bath.

      Dayborn introduced the two men to his sister. As Renny looked into her long amber-coloured eyes, he noticed also the fine line of her nostrils and the firm clasp of her thin calloused hand. When she smiled she showed good teeth with a small corner broken off one of the front ones.

      “What a fine child!” exclaimed Renny. “What is his name?”

      “Tod.”

      “Hello, Tod!”

      The baby leant forward and grasped Renny’s nose. He pressed his tiny nails into the flesh and crowed in pleasure.

      “No, no, Tod!” said his mother, unclasping the little fingers.

      “Come along, then,” said Renny. He took the baby into his arms, where he jumped and chuckled as though that, of all places, was where he most wanted to be.

      Renny gave a pleased grin. “He’s taken to me at once,” he said. “I wish my baby brother were half so friendly.”

      “Tod is like that with everyone. He has knocked about so much.”

      Renny gave her a swift but penetrating glance. “I’m afraid you’ve had rather a rough time.”

      She laughed shortly and a faint colour came into her thin cheeks. “It has been pretty bad — but I shouldn’t complain to one who has just come back form the War.”

      “But that’s different. You’re a woman and a very feminine