Whiteoak Heritage. Mazo de la Roche

puzzled. He explained.

      “I was ’elping Eliza to clear away the breakfast things. I worried when I saw your plite.”

      Adeline stretched out her hand for another biscuit. “I was just shaping for a bout of something,” she said, “but it’s passed.” She beamed at Wragge. “You were just in time. I may be old and weak but I saved this child’s life. It was a terrible effort.” Again she put the sherry to her lips.

      “It fairly took me breath away, ma’am. It was wonderful.” Then he caught Meg’s look of irritation and hastened to give her one of understanding.

      “Baby have a biscuit,” said Meg, offering him one.

      “No, Baby has the peppymint.”

      “Look out!” cried his grandmother. “He will choke again! Reverse him!”

      Meg, in trepidation, caught him up. Her wineglass was upset. “Spit it out this instant!” she commanded.

      Wakefield began to choke.

      “What did I tell you!”

      “Put it out, darling!”

      “Perhaps I could ’elp,” said Wragge.

      Meg surrendered the little one and closed her eyes against the sight of Wragge’s joggling him by the ankles.

      “Stop!” cried Adeline. “It’s up!”

      Sitting on Wragge’s arm Wakefield shrieked joyfully — “Do it again! Do it again!”

      “Put him here,” said Adeline, spreading her lap. “I will give him a biscuit soaked in sherry.”

      In the kitchen Wragge said to Maggie, the cook — “That there old lidy is making a spoilt kid of that there, if ever there was one.”

      “They all are,” she returned. “Him being posthumourous and knowing as a monkey.”

      “Some cooks won’t stay where there’s spoilt children and old folk to be waited on. Some won’t stay where there’s a basement kitchen.”

      She was preparing the vegetables. Now she deeply dug out the eyes of a potato and said:

      “No — and some won’t stay where there’s a useless man hanging about.”

      He grinned, his jutting chin giving him an impudent look that was not displeasing to her. He watched her plump red hands that looked so clean in the murky water. “I’m going to be a lot of ’elp to you,” he said.”

      She glared at him. “Well, I’d like to know how.”

      “Wait and see.”

      “I’ll bet I wait a long time.”

      “I’ll bet you don’t.”

      Masterfully he took the knife from her hand and set about peeling the potatoes. “I can’t ’ave you doing dirty work like this,” he said.

      She wiped her hands on her apron and watched him skeptically. “If you keep on like that you’ll pare it all away.”

      “It’s no thicker than yours.”

      They compared the wet brown parings.

      Eliza came down the stairs from above, carrying a tray. She gave them a look of hate. Maggie had been a year in the house and Eliza had liked her less every day, even though she had to admit that she was an excellent cook. Now the addition of this cheeky Cockney to the kitchen made her feel that she was being forcibly pushed out. She had been going anyway but hers was still the will that ruled the housework. She was teaching Wragge how to wait at table, trying to make him understand that his nails should not be broken and dirty, brushing the dandruff from his shoulders before he carried in the tea. She looked down from the height of her long ears of perfect service at this worm, pushing himself in — pushing her out. She was going anyway, worn out in the service of this family, she repeated to herself, but she hated the sight of Wragge.

      His very politeness was an insult. Now he sprang forward and took the tray from her hands.

      “Allow me,” he said, at the same time giving Maggie a wink. “I can’t bear to see you carrying that there load. You ain’t fit for it.”

      Eliza surrendered it without thanks and stalked to a window level with the grassy verge above. She rested her knuckles on the table that stood below the window and stared out into the sunny yard. There were clotheslines there and Ernest Whiteoak had hung his spring overcoat on one and was refreshing it with a good brushing on preparation for the season’s wear. What did he mean, Eliza thought, by brushing his own coat? That had always been her job. Probably he thought she was too weak. Probably he thought she would fall down if she wielded a brush. A chill rage welled up inside her. Her knuckles grew white on the table.

      “You better go,” she said to Wragge, “and help Mr. Ernest with his coat.”

      “Right — o!” sang out Wragge, and he darted through the kitchen door, up the three steps to the yard and bent his solicitous head before Ernest.

      “Can I ’elp you, sir?” He got the brush into his own hand.

      Ernest was glad because he was standing on the wrong side of the line and the breeze was blowing bits of fluff into his eyes.

      “If you would put the coat on, sir,” suggested Wragge.

      Ernest, with his help, donned the coat.

      “Not many gentlemen,” said Wragge, brushing furiously, “’ave such a figger as you ’ave, sir, at fifty.”

      Ernest smiled delightedly. “Fifty! I’m sixty-five!”

      “Noa, noa, sir — I can’t believe it!”

      Eliza could not hear what was being said but she could imagine. “Go on,” she sneered, between her clenched teeth, “flatter him — worm your way in!”

      Ernest kept on the coat and joined his mother on the lawn. He had given Wragge a silk muffler he had found in the pocket of his coat. The day before he had seen Nicholas give him something. It was not well to let his brother get in ahead of him. He strode out, feeling that he looked well in the coat. His shadow lay on the grass, showing the elegant waistline.

      The old lady sat tranquil, Wakefield sunk in the delicious depth of her lap. She dipped bits of biscuit into her glass of sherry and put them into his mouth. He kept his eyes on her face with the unquestioning pleasure of a little animal. Meg sat in a wicker chair reading one of Jane Austen’s novels, not because she was trying to be modern or because she thought her books “delicious” or “delightful,” but because Jane Austen had always been her favourite author.

      Ernest turned round in front of them.

      “How do you think it looks? That man of Renny’s gave it a good brushing.”

      “Why don’t you buy a new one?” asked his mother. “Your father always bought a new one.”

      “You must know by this time, Mamma, that my financial position is not what my father’s was.”

      “What’s the use of having a good shape if you don’t dress it properly?”

      “Do you think I should have a new coat, my dear?”

      Meg pursed her lips. “This one looks very nice, but in the spring sunshine —”

      “That settles it,” said Ernest. “I shall go to my tailor today and order a new one.” He turned suddenly to his mother. “Do you think that Renny is a bit close?”

      She peered about her “Nearby d’ye mean? I want to see him.”

      “No, no. I mean close.”

      “Close by?” She peered around the edge of her fascinator. “I’ve a bone to pick with him. Where is he?”

      Ernest sighed. “Mamma, I mean