Centenary at Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

girls got after you, you wouldn’t have a chance,” observed Wright with a wink at Rags.

      “Is that the way it is?” asked Dennis.

      “Oh, they’ve been after me these many years,” said Noah, “but I know how to circumference them.”

      “I was caught young,” said Wright, “and I don’t regret it.”

      “I’ll not get caught,” said Dennis. “I shall live in a ranch house with my children — and no wife.”

      He was pleased by the laugh this brought. He continued, “Just as my father and I settle down to enjoy ourselves, my stepmother says for me to make myself scarce because she wants to be alone with my father.”

      “Well, of all the cruel things I ever heard!” cried the cook.

      “You wouldn’t think it to look at her,” said Wright.

      “Would you think I was a desirous man to look at me?” asked Noah.

      Wright answered, “If you mean desirable, I have my doubts.”

      Mrs. Wragge leaned across the table to say firmly to the little boy, “Don’t let yourself be put upon, dearie. Stand up for yourself. Reely, it’s shameful the things some women will do.”

      “Don’t go putting notions in the child’s head,” said Rags. “It’ll unsettle ’im.”

      Noah Binns tapped the table with his teaspoon. He said: “Organize — that’s the way to get things done. All my life I’ve organized. Whether it’s ringin’ the church bells or diggin’ a grave, I organize.” He stared hard at Dennis.

      “Now, young man,” he went on, “you’ve got to organize against the schemes of that woman or she’ll get the best of you.”

      “What’s organize?” asked Dennis.

      “Organized labour,” said Noah, “is what has kept this country from being ruled by danged aristocrats and Tories.”

      “The Tories are in power in the province now,” said Wright. “Don’t forget that.”

      “The way you men get off the track is terrible,” said Mrs. Wragge — “while here’s this little boy waiting for advice.”

      “Thanks,” said Dennis, rising, “but I think I’ll go.”

      “My advice,” said Noah Binns, “is: Organize, plan, lay a deep scheme, and don’t let nothing stop you.”

      Wright left with Dennis. Outside he said, “Don’t you pay any attention to what Noah Binns says. He’s not worth it. You mark my words. Your stepmother means well by you, I’m sure of that. But she’s delicate. She’s nervous, and she had a great shock in the war.”

      “What was that?” asked Dennis.

      “Perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you,” said Wright, “but I think I will. It may sort of help you to understand her better.”

      Dennis’s eyes were on Wright’s face. “What was it?” he asked.

      “Well,” Wright said, almost whispering, “she was in London, with her first husband, at the time of the Blitz. You know what the Blitz was?”

      “Yes. I know.”

      “I don’t suppose I ought to tell you this. If your father wanted you to know, I guess he’d have told you.”

      “I think he’d rather you told me.”

      Wright was longing to tell him. Now he got it out. “Well, what she saw was — her husband blown to pieces before her very eyes. It was a terrible shock for a sensitive lady and I guess she’s never been the same since.”

      Dennis ran home through the shadows cast by the tall trees. This summer the leaves seemed larger than usual and of a more intense green. This colour was strangely reflected in the little boy’s eyes.

      He found Sylvia in the music room writing a letter. She smiled at him and said, “I’ve just been writing a letter to my mother, telling her about our lovely house, and now I find I have no stamp for it.”

      “I have stamps,” said Dennis. “I have a stamp collection. When my father is on a tour he sends me valuable stamps from everywhere he goes.”

      “I’d love to see them,” said Sylvia.

      “I keep them under lock and key. They’re too valuable to be left lying about.”

      There was something unfriendly in his tone, Sylvia thought. She drew into herself. “I only want an ordinary five-cent stamp,” she said. “Surely that’s a simple thing to need.”

      Dennis regarded her intently. He appeared to want to ask her something important. She smiled at him and said, in her voice that was like music, “Yes, Dennis, what is it?” She raised her hand as though to touch him.

      “Have you ever,” he asked abruptly, “seen anybody killed?”

      The colour retreated from her face. “Yes,” she breathed. “Once — I did.”

      “So did I,” he said. “It was my mother. In a motor accident. I was only four but I remember. Her blood was on the road. It was on me too.” He raised his voice. “Do you see blood, when you think about the one you saw killed?”

      “Don’t! Don’t!” She covered her eyes with her hands. “I can’t bear it.” She gave a cry as of one in pain and her slender body was shaken by sobs.

      Finch’s steps were heard running along the drive.

      Dennis moved lightly out of the room.

      “Sylvia!” cried Finch. “For God’s sake, what’s the matter?”

      She made a desperate effort to control herself.

      He took her in his arms. “My darling one,” he kept repeating and soon she was quiet.

      “I was writing to my mother,” she said, “and something I wrote was upsetting to me … Oh, nothing that has happened here … Something out of the past … It’s all over. See how steady I am.” She achieved a smile, then hid her face on his shoulder.

      “Was Dennis here?” asked Finch. “I thought I saw him through the window.”

      “He was here — a moment before — I think.”

      “Did he say anything that upset you?”

      “No, no. He was telling me of the wonderful collection of stamps you’ve sent him.”

      “Stamps!”

      Finch exclaimed. “I’ve never sent him a stamp in his life.” He wheeled and turned toward the child’s room. “What the devil does he mean?”

      Sylvia caught his arm. But now again she was overcome and could not speak. “There, there,” he kept on saying, and patted her on the back, as one would comfort a child. Not till she was calm did he detach himself from her clinging hands and go to Dennis. He was hot with anger at the child. Either he had deliberately been the cause of Sylvia’s distress or he had not. But he was entangled with it, whatever his intentions.

      Finch strode to Dennis’s room. He went in and closed the door after him. The child had remained unmoved by Sylvia’s outburst but he flinched when he saw Finch’s frown. He stood up straight in front of the window.

      Finch said, keeping his voice low with an effort, “Why did you tell those lies to Sylvia?”

      “I thought there was only one lie,” said Dennis.

      Dennis had a surprising power of angering Finch. He found himself with a hot desire to take hold of his son roughly. That would not do and he said, in a controlled voice, “You said you had a stamp collection and you said I’d sent you stamps for it. What does it matter how many lies? You lied.”

      Dennis