Centenary at Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

silence fell that seemed almost fearful to Finch, for his nerves were shaken by Sylvia’s distress.

      Through the window Dennis was watching a red squirrel. Finch asked suddenly, “Was Sylvia upset before you spoke to her? I mean did you say anything to upset her?”

      “I couldn’t know how, could I?”

      “Well, I just wondered. You were with her.”

      They looked into each other’s eyes — each trying to fathom what lay hidden.

      Finch drew a sigh. “Sylvia is very delicate,” he said.

      “Is it a misfortune to have a delicate wife?”

      “She must be taken care of.”

      “By you and me?” Dennis asked eagerly, moving a little toward Finch.

      “You must not make yourself troublesome.”

      Dennis said at once: “I won’t be troublesome.”

      “As for your lying,” said Finch, “for that you’ll stay in your room for the rest of the day.”

      He left Dennis and returned to Sylvia. He was very anxious about her, and puzzled because she had seemed particularly well and gay all that day.

      “There’s one thing I have made up my mind about,” she said, “and it is that I’m never going to be the cause of trouble between you and Dennis. He is your only child and nothing must spoil your relationship.” She spoke with vehemence, as though she had thought anxiously on the subject.

      “You must not look for trouble,” he said, sitting down beside her. “As for the bond between Dennis and me, I’m afraid I’m not much of a father — but he does irritate me with his clinging ways and now — this lying.”

      “If only he will cling to me!” she exclaimed. “That’s what I should love. It will be tragic for me, if he holds something against me. He always speaks of you with such a possessive air.”

      “Possessive — yes,” said Finch. “That’s his mother all over again.”

      “Finch,” she said, “Dennis remembers that tragedy. He remembers it clearly. It made a terrible impression on him.”

      “Did he tell you that?”

      “Yes.”

      “That’s what upset you, then?”

      “I was very much moved. How could I help being moved? It brought back …”

      “It’s a lie,” Finch said loudly.

      “Hush. He’ll hear you.”

      Finch spoke more quietly. “It’s a lie. Dennis remembers nothing of that accident. He doesn’t remember his mother. I’m sure of that. I’ve a mind to go back and face him with it. He ought to be punished.”

      “No, no, no.” Sylvia laid a restraining hand on his. “You would turn him effectually against me. If I’m to be a good mother to him — Oh, I do want to be a good mother, and you can help me, darling.”

      “I had no mother,” said Finch, “and I can tell you I was roughly treated sometimes.”

      “Then you must be all the more understanding with Dennis.” She spoke with confidence, almost with authority. “Remember the little boy you were.”

      After a little she arranged a tray for Dennis and carried it to Finch for his inspection. On it were sandwiches, strawberries and cream and sweet biscuits.

      “May I take it to him?” she asked.

      “Good Lord,” Finch said, “it looks like a treat rather than a punishment.”

      “It’s not a punishment. Dennis is just having a tray in his room.” And she repeated, “May I take it?”

      “If you wish,” Finch said indifferently.

      Dennis was lying flat on his back on the neat white bed. There was a strange austerity in the outline of his narrow shape beneath the sheet. His eyes were closed and he did not open them when Sylvia entered. She set the tray on a low table beside the bed.

      “It’s turning much warmer,” she said, as though casually. “I think it’s going to be a hot night.”

      How pale he was! Surely he never could look really warm. He did not open his eyes. He scarcely seemed to breathe. It was as though he were listening with his whole body — with every bit of him.

      She laid her hand with a caressing movement on his forehead. She had, ever since they were together, longed to touch his hair. Now she found it fine and silky, rather long for a boy’s hair but becoming. Her heart went out to him.

      “Dennis dear,” she said, “aren’t you hungry?”

      Still without opening his eyes he said: “Go away. And take the tray away.”

      V

      V

      Seen Through a Picture Window

      The night did indeed turn hot. It felt breathlessly hot in Dennis’s small room. There was no slightest breeze to stir the curtains. The sheet that covered him no longer felt pleasant to the touch. He threw it off and raised his legs straight into the air. He was naked.

      He could hear the daily woman and Sylvia talking in the kitchen. Now the table was being laid in the dining room. The woman was a good cook and an appetizing smell pervaded this part of the house. But Dennis was not hungry. He listened, tense, as he heard Finch go into the bedroom he shared with Sylvia. With all his might he wished that those two did not share a room. He wished that Finch would come in to see him, but he trembled with fear at the thought of Finch’s frown.

      He had no visitor all that long evening but a mosquito. It had got in, despite the wire screening, and hovered about him incessantly buzzing. It seemed not able to make up its mind to bite him but never stopped singing of its intention. He hated it and longed to kill it.

      He held up his bare knee in the twilight and said:

      “Come on — come on — bite me if you dare!”

      But the mosquito refused to be tempted.

      Sometimes it sang close to his ear. Sometimes it became tangled in his hair. Then its buzzing was maddening. He struck at it in a fury of resentment.

      “You devil — you devil — you she-devil,” he said between his clenched teeth. For he had learned at school that it was the female mosquito which stung. “You she-devil,” he growled. “Why doesn’t your husband kill you?” He had a picture in his mind, then, of the female mosquito being killed by the male and he forgot everything else in the pleasure of witnessing that death — the wings torn off, the sting ripped out.

      But it was only for a moment. Soon the mosquito was buzzing about his lips and nostrils. He became intolerably hot, even though he was naked. With the increasing heat, darkness descended. But he knew it was light where Finch and Sylvia were eating their dinner. He could bear the clink of dishes and the rather heavy footfall of the daily woman. Then at last she left for her home. He heard her footsteps on the path.

      Now the mosquito was buzzing about his body. Twice it alighted on his leg but though he struck at it he failed to kill it. He lay still scarcely breathing, till he felt the tickle of it on his knee. Then out shot his hand and he struck it and crushed it.

      There came the peace of silence. No more buzzing. He sprang out of bed and turned on the light so that he might discover the corpse of his tormentor.… Very small it looked, crushed there on his knee. A trickle of blood, his own fresh blood, stained the paleness of his skin. He turned out the light and flung himself again on the bed, savouring his victory.

      He was waked by the itching of the bite on his knee. He could hear the piano being softly played in the music room and pictured Finch with his hands on the keys and Sylvia