Return to Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

of Patrick Crawshay. He liked his great-uncles but either they talked of their past in the social life of London, discussed the complications at Jalna, or worried about their nephews who were taking part in the War. After the first few visits to them, Maurice found them rather boring. His cousin Patience was a nice girl but she was interested only in outdoor things and in preparations for the removal from Vaughanlands to the small house. She and her mother were always busy. Intellectually Patience was years younger than he, yet she was rather superior in her attitude toward him and had a way of making fun of him that was very amusing to her and her mother but was disconcerting to Maurice.

      The problem of his education loomed large in his thoughts. A perusal of the University curriculum and the examinations necessary, made it clear that in the classics, in the study of English and French and in ancient history, he was far in advance of what was required but, in mathematics and science, far behind. It would be necessary for him to be crammed but the thought of entering a cramming school was repugnant to him. He would have to find a capable tutor but where to find him he did not know. They seemed either to be at the war or already engaged in teaching. However, Maurice was willing to drift for a time. The fact that he would have independent means contributed to his natural indolence. He had a generous allowance and so was able to do pleasant things for his mother, for which Pheasant was touchingly grateful. He would bribe his brothers to be obedient and otherwise behave themselves.

      On this Saturday morning when she was at Jalna helping to nurse Adeline, Maurice was examining a large packet of books for which he had sent to the town. He had promised each of the small boys twenty-five cents for washing the dishes and making the beds. But they seemed to be possessed by the idea of doing everything with as much confusion and noise as possible. Maurice shut himself in the living room with his books but nothing could shut out their noise, their giggling and scuffling. He went out to them.

      “Do you boys,” he demanded, “want me to give you those quarters or don’t you?”

      “We do,” they yelled in unison.

      “Then stop this row and get on with your work.” He returned to the living room.

      There was a short interval of quiet, then noise and laughter broke out again. Maurice laid down his book and marched back to the kitchen. Nooky was washing the cutlery, Philip drying it and as he dried each knife, fork, or spoon, he flung it across the room onto a table. Nooky was in a state of helpless laughter, spilling more water on the floor than he expended on the cutlery.

      “Stop it!” shouted Maurice. He caught Philip by the collar and gave him a shake. Philip flung the silver tablespoon he was drying at Nooky and hit him on the head, sending him into hysterical squeals of mirth.

      “Here comes the Irishman!” shouted Philip. “He’s a holy terror, bedad and he is!”

      Nooky leant against the edge of the dishpan, overturning the water on his own legs and the floor. Philip tore himself from Maurice’s grip and ran through the open door into the yard. Here were scattered half the contents of a tool chest which Pheasant had forbidden him to touch. He ran over these and into the tool house and tried to slam the door behind him. But Maurice had caught him. As he held his young brother in his grasp, Maurice felt only cold anger but when he got a sharp kick on the shin it changed to primitive rage.

      “Bend over!” he ordered.

      “I won’t!” yelled Philip, kicking him again. “I won’t — I won’t! Mother!”

      But mother was far away. Maurice heaved him across a work table and, picking up a short piece of lath, belaboured him where the trousers were drawn tight across his seat. Philip’s howls were such that a young man who at that moment was turning in at the gate, hastened to the tool house in alarm. He stopped when he saw what was going on.

      “I’m sorry,” he apologized, backing away, “I thought something was wrong.”

      Maurice laid down the stick. Philip stopped screaming and rolled over. Maurice, his cheeks flushed, came forward.

      “Just a little necessary discipline,” he explained, and he looked enquiringly at the visitor.

      He was a young man of about twenty-eight, fair-complexioned, prepossessing and self-assured. He said, “I wonder if you are Maurice Whiteoak?”

      Maurice nodded gravely. “I am,” he agreed.

      “My name is Sidney Swift. I’m Mr. Clapperton’s secretary. I was talking to your sister, Mrs. Vaughan, yesterday and she told me you are wanting a tutor. Now I believe I could fill the bill. I joined the RAF but I had a crash while training. I was discharged and came back to Canada. I’ve been secretary to Mr. Clapperton for two years. I have a good deal of spare time and he is quite willing to let me take on some part-time job, so that I can add to my income. I’m afraid I’ve appeared at rather an inauspicious time.”

      “Come into the house,” said Maurice, “and we’ll talk about it.” He led the way into the living room and offered his visitor a cigarette from his case that once had been Dermot Court’s.

      When they were seated Maurice remarked, “I’ve never spanked anyone before and I must say it’s a delicious sensation.”

      “The next time you do it I hope you’ll invite me to be present. I’ve never witnessed a more spirited domestic scene. What had he been up to?”

      “Making an infernal row doing the dishes. There’s another one of them in the kitchen. Will you excuse me while I speak to him?”

      Maurice found Nook meekly collecting the cutlery. He said, with severity, “That’s right. And clean up the floor when you’ve finished the dishes. Then make your bed and mine. When you’ve done I’ll give you your quarter. If I have any nonsense from you, you’ll get just what I gave Philip.”

      Nook hung his head and applied himself to his task.

      Seated again beside Sidney Swift, Maurice told him of his difficulties in preparing himself for the University.

      “I’m sure I can help you,” said Swift, and he briefly outlined the work they would take up.

      “I suppose you’re very glad to be back in Canada,” he went on. “Life in Ireland must have been pretty tame for you.”

      “It suited me very well. Still, of course, I am glad to be with my mother again.”

      “Well, for my part,” said Swift, “I’ve no use for the Old World, except as a curiosity. This is the country for opportunity for the young man. Mr. Clapperton was deploring the destruction of all those ancient buildings and works of art but I said, ‘Let them be destroyed. We don’t need them in this modern world. They’re out of date and they may as well go.’ Don’t you agree?”

      Maurice laughed. “I expect,” he said, “that each one of us will drift to the place that suits him best.”

      The telephone rang. It was Pheasant speaking.

      “Are you boys getting on all right?” she asked.

      “We’re getting on splendidly.”

      “No trouble with Philip?”

      “None to speak of. How is Adeline?”

      “Poor child, she had a very bad night but she’s quieter this morning. However, I must stay on. Alayne is completely exhausted”

      “How is Archer?”

      “He’s getting on well. But Alayne has worried herself ill over the pair of them.”

      “What a pity. Look here, Mummy. Mr. Swift is here and he and I have talked things over. He’s Mr. Clapperton’s secretary and he’d be willing to coach me. He’s a Rhodes scholar and very nice. Are you agreeable to it?”

      “Why — yes. But first find out what he asks. Don’t consent to just anything — as though we were millionaires.”

      “Oh, no ... Anything I can do to help?”

      “No,