Whiteoak Heritage. Mazo de la Roche

don’t love any poetry,” he returned. “But” — his glance added — “I understand women like you.”

      Maurice said — “I think you’ve done a very good job in making this place over.”

      The incident of the book was buried. Mrs. Stroud led them from room to room. Eden came last, his eyes on his elder brother’s back.

      When he and Mrs. Stroud were alone he ran his hands through his hair and gave her a distraught look.

      “I’m afraid I’m going to be a bad liar,” he said.

      “Why on earth shouldn’t you be sitting on my settee? Why were you embarrassed?”

      “Why were you?”

      “I wasn’t.”

      “Yes, you were.”

      “Well — it was just because I could see that you and he were.” They sat down side by side on the settee. “Tell me about him. He isn’t a bit like I thought he’d be.”

      Eden caught her hand and laid it against his cheek. “Save me from all soldiers!” he exclaimed.

      “Darling,” said Mrs. Stroud, “the only one you need saving from is yourself.”

      IV

      The Reins

      The grandmother’s chair had been placed out in the sun for the first time that year. She was ensconced in it, with a footstool at her feet and a rug about her knees. She wore a fur-lined cape and a crocheted wool “fascinator” was wrapped about her head. She actually felt too warm but, on the other hand, she was afraid of taking cold. It had been a long hard winter and she was tender from sitting by the fire. Her sons and daughter had insisted on her being well wrapped and her objections had been affected. She had her role of hardy pioneer to live up to. Now the sun beat down on her with affectionate warmth, for she had been the object of his solicitude for well past ninety years. She felt the benign warmth and she swelled her old body to open its pores. She had survived the winter. Now there was the long summer and autumn ahead.

      The sunlight was too much for her eyes and she kept them fixed on the soft green of the grass. She examined it critically, thinking how well she knew it in its comings and goings, its eager burgeoning in the spring, its browning in the fierce heat, its second greenness in September, how it was furred by frost in the fall; drooped, withered, and died in December.

      Now it was very pretty with its sharp spears bristling thick and green, tiny clover leaves dotted among it, the insect and worm life again active. It must be fun for the earthworms when they first slid their rears up into the sun, began to eat the earth, pass it through their bodies into neat little piles. But they spoiled the looks of the grass. There was one now, just beside her footstool! She carefully took her foot from the stool and planted it on the tiny mound, flattening it. That was better. The feel of the earth under her foot was good. She took a long look at her foot before replacing it on the stool. She turned it this way and that, marvelling how foot and ankle had kept their contours, as though still ready to run or dance. This was the same foot that had sped across the daisied grass in County Meath, supple and swift.

      She peered down at it, wriggling her toes. They felt stiff, a little rheumatic inside the soft shoe. As she looked, a small curly head appeared from under her chair, bent inquisitively to see what she was looking at. It was the head of her youngest grandson and she remembered with a pang that she had promised Meg to keep an eye on him. Why, he might have got into all sorts of mischief while she sat contemplating the contours of her foot! She peered down at him.

      On the supple pivot of his neck he turned his face up to hers. His mouth was open and she could see right into the moist rosy cavern. She noticed the young animal brightness of his eyes, the shadow of delicacy beneath them, the inquisitive nostrils.

      “Stay just as you are,” she commanded, “and I’ll give you something.”

      She opened a small velvet bag, extracted a peppermint lozenge and popped it into his mouth. His eyes beamed his thanks.

      She was unprepared for what followed — the beam in his eyes turning to a goggling stare. He began to choke. The peppermint had stuck in his throat. She caught him by the shoulder and began to beat him on the back. His face grew scarlet. His eyes rolled at her in distress. She grasped him and tried to stand him on his head. Her chair toppled. She all but fell on him.

      “Help!” she shouted in her vigorous voice. “Help!”

      Meg heard her and came running across the grass.

      “The baby’s choking! Put him upside-down!” In an instant Meg had reversed him. The peppermint lay on the grass. Wakefield screamed against her shoulder.

      “There, there,” she soothed him. “Oh, Gran, how dangerous to give him a small hard sweet! I never do! If I hadn’t heard you — but I can’t bear to think of it!”

      “Bless me, I was all but overturned! You don’t speak of what might have happened to me!”

      “If I ever leave him — he’s always in some danger. Poor darling!”

      “Want the candy,” said Wakefield, blinking down at it through his tears. “Want the peppymint.”

      “No, no, darling! Meggie’ll get you something nice and soft.”

      Old Adeline did not like this ignoring of her own narrow escape. “Almost on my head,” she muttered, “and nobody cares.”

      “But Granny, you should have called before — not after.”

      The old lady peered truculently up at Meg from under the edge of the “fascinator.”

      “Before what?”

      “Before you tried to put him on his head.”

      “He’d have choked to death if I’d hesitated. I saved his life.”

      “But the peppermint didn’t come up till I arrived.”

      “Perhaps not. But it was me that brought it up.”

      “Why, Granny, when I picked him up he was choking.”

      “Nothing of the sort. By the time you got here the peppermint was on the grass.”

      “It was not.”

      “It was.”

      They glared at each other. It was not the first time they had had words over Wakefield.

      Adeline was silent for a moment, then said:

      “I’m going to have some sort of spell.”

      Instantly Meg was alarmed for her. She set the child on his feet and bent over her.

      “Are you feeling ill? Shall I fetch Uncle Ernest?”

      “No, no, don’t leave me. There’s that man — Wragge — what’s his name? Tell him to bring me a glass of sherry.” She leant back breathing heavily. The strong hairs on her chin quivered.

      “Will you please bring a glass of sherry quickly,” Meg called to the man. He wheeled as though he had been waiting for the order and ran into the house. He was wearing an old morning coat of Ernest’s and the tails of it flapped behind his knees.

      “Some biscuits too,” called Adeline after him. “I feel faint.”

      She watched Wragge’s hurrying figure as though she were drowning and he in quest of a life-belt. Wakefield picked up the peppermint and put it into his mouth.

      All three waited for Wragge’s return. He brought two glasses of sherry on a small silver tray and a plate of arrowroot biscuits. He was only thirty-five but his face was wizened and cynical. He produced a harmless, benign expression on it, as though it were another biscuit. He was determined to make himself indispensible in this house.

      Old Adeline stretched out a handsome wrinkled hand toward