Whiteoak Heritage. Mazo de la Roche

and poured warm water from the can into the basin. He had a sudden feeling of childhood, of being sent from the table to wash his hands. But these hands that he now lathered were the weather-hardened hands of a soldier. They had to take into their grasp the reins of a new life.

      As he inadequately rubbed a towel between his palms, his eyes fixed on the fields that spread beyond his windows, he suddenly felt that he was being watched. He wheeled and discovered a tiny figure standing in the doorway. It was a little boy of less than four years, dressed in a white knitted suit, his mass of brown curls and his bright dark eyes contrasting in their vitality to the fragility of his body, his small pale face and his thin little legs. For an instant he could not think who the child was, then it rushed upon him that it was the brother he had never seen, his father’s posthumous child.

      “Hello!” he got out. “And what’s your name?”

      The mite stared at him, his eyes becoming larger, his mouth smaller and rounder in his astonishment.

      “Hello!” repeated Renny, with what he imagined was a friendly grin. “I’ll get you!”

      He dived at him and tossed him up. Well, that was what he did to little boys. But this little boy was evidently different. Instead of squealing in delight and crying “Do it again! Do it again!” he gave a scream of fright and then burst into tears. Renny did not know whether to set him down and leave him or carry him downstairs. He decided to do that last. Tucking him under his arm he ran quickly down the stairs. Wakefield had apparently stopped crying but he was only holding his breath. They reached the dining room.

      “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Renny began, then the screams broke out afresh. The little boy kicked and struggled. The dogs followed them into the room. The spaniel, fearful that Wakefield was being hurt, stood on her hind legs and pawed at the intruder. Her nails scratched Wakefield’s bare leg. He kicked and screamed more loudly than ever. The dogs barked.

      Meg rose from her chair and flew to her darling’s rescue.

      “Come to Meggie then! Meggie’s pet!” She took him to her breast.

      “Why, his leg is bleeding!” exclaimed Ernest. “Whatever have you done to him?”

      “Good God!” said Nicholas. “It’s enough to give him a fit.”

      Eliza was examining the scratch.

      “I’ll get Vaseline and a bandage,” she said. “Come with Eliza, my pet.”

      “No, no!” he shrieked. “Won’t go! Send the bad man away!”

      “Give him to me,” commanded Lady Buckley. “I can quiet him when no one else can.”

      It was true. On her ample lap, her clean handkerchief bound about his leg, he became tranquil and beamed at the faces about him. His grandmother was only half sympathetic. She did not like the delay. She wanted her dinner. She looked critically at Renny as he prepared to take his place. He himself was concerned at the unfortunate introduction to the last-born of the family. He dropped into his chair with an apologetic air.

      “Put the dogs out,” said Ernest. “They are irritating Sasha.” The cat was indeed arching her back and swinging her tail on his shoulder.

      “Must they go out?” asked Renny. “They used to stop in. Do you remember how Dad used to pull burrs out of them and hide the burrs under his chair?”

      This sudden unexpected reference to the dead Philip fell almost brutally on the ears of those about him. The tremor of laughter in his voice shocked the elders and made the three boys grin in response. In truth Renny had not yet come to believe in his father’s death. Jalna was so bound up in his thoughts of Philip that to return to the one was to bring the living presence of the other to his mind.

      But how he felt that he had said something unseemly. His already high-coloured face took on a deeper tinge. He picked up the carving knife and said nervously — “So I am to do this job! Well, I’m afraid I shall make a hash of it.” He talked excitedly of his journey while he carved.

      His uncles, his aunt, and Eliza standing by, thought he showed no proper appreciation of the honour done him. They were not consoled by the fact that he showed little discrimination in his apportioning of the birds. It was disconcerting to see eleven-year-old Finch stuffing his greedy young mouth with the tenderest breast. It was annoying to see heedless Piers devouring those juicy ovals of flesh dug out of the back which the knife’s tip, just north of the Pope’s nose.

      But his sister and his grandmother were satisfied. To Meg the sight of him opposite her, his red head bent above his task, his eyes, under their dark lashes, giving her quick glances of affection, filled her with bliss. She could not eat.

      “You’re eating nothing, Meggie!” he exclaimed.

      “I’m too happy,” she answered. “Besides I never eat much. And I’ve Baby to feed.” She was offering morsels to the little boy, who refused them, turning his face against his great-aunt’s breast with petulance.

      “I hope you are not spoiling him,” said Renny.

      A derisive laugh came from Piers. “Spoiling him!” he exclaimed. “He’s the most spoilt kid in the world.”

      “No, no,” said Lady Buckley. “His delicacy makes a certain amount of humouring necessary.”

      “It is not well to cross him,” agreed Ernest. “He needs encouragement. I was a delicate child and I know how such a one can suffer at the hands of people of coarser grain.”

      “I should like to know who caused you suffering,” rumbled Nicholas. “I seem to remember how you always had the best of everything because you were ailing.”

      Their mother spoke in a tone of surprising energy. “I took great care of my children. I wrapped ’em up against the cold. I kept ’em out of the heat of the sun. I dosed ’em with sulphur in the spring and senna in the fall. I never lost a child. My mother lost five out of sixteen…. Hm, well, I don’t know what this is you’ve given me but I can’t eat it at all. You don’t carve the way your uncle did.”

      “Sorry,” said Renny. “I know I’m damned awkward but I shall get used to it.”

      “There’s a nice bit of breast,” said Nicholas, pointing with his fork. “Cut that off for her.”

      Renny complied.

      “Renny,” said Finch, “when can I see your wounds?”

      Meg turned horrified eyes on Finch.

      “How can you say such things? It was bad enough to know that Renny was wounded without speaking of it the moment he arrived.”

      “I always say,” declared Lady Buckley, “that delicacy of mind cannot be instilled too early. I don’t see much of it in these boys.”

      “What we want,” said Piers, “is to hear Renny talk about the War. We want to hear how he carved up the Germans. Tell us about when you won the DSO, Renny.”

      “Time enough for that later,” answered Renny gruffly.

      “You must come to my room,” said Eden, “and tell everything.”

      Meg interrupted — “Isn’t Wakefield pretty, Renny?”

      “Pretty as a picture. Are you going to make friends with me, you young scamp?”

      “Whom do you think he is like?”

      “Renny considered the little face. “I don’t know. Me?”

      “A little. He’s got the Court nose.”

      “Rot,” said Eden. “His nose is like mine.”

      “He has glorious eyes.”

      “He looks like my brother Thaddeus,” said their grandmother, peering round her hawk’s nose to stare at him.

      “Who are you like, you rogue?” cooed Meg.