Centenary at Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

curious was he to see the bite and the blood, he again turned on the light that he might examine it. “Whew,” he exclaimed in surprise, and again, “Whew.” Certainly he must have scratched hard to draw so much blood.

      It was on his hand too.… He could not stop himself from putting his hand to his forehead to leave a bloody imprint there. He stood in front of the looking-glass, gloating over his reflection with the bloodstained forehead. He ran his fingers through his hair, so that it stood upright. He was almost afraid of his reflection, it looked so strange. He wished the pair in the music room could see him, could see what they’d done to him.

      As he had been unable to stop himself from smearing his forehead, so now he could not stop himself from putting first one palm and then the other on his bleeding leg. After that he carefully made a mark on his side, just beneath his heart. Now he knew what one who had been crucified looked like. He examined himself in the mirror and found himself growing a little sick.

      It was so hot in the room he made up his mind to go outdoors through the window. The sill was low and it was nothing to him to climb over it onto the smooth grass. The grass was deliciously cool to his feet, the night air to his feverishly hot body. The light from a young moon was just touching the petals of a white peony. Sylvia was proud of this, its first bloom. It was a single variety, looking and smelling like a large water lily. Dennis ruthlessly pulled off the flower, scattering its petals as he went toward the picture window. The fresh air made his body light and daring, but his mind was sunk in resentment. Incoherent thoughts of vengeance, for he did not know what, possessed it.

      The picture window framed the one who played the piano and the one who sat listening. Sylvia’s eyes were on Finch’s hands that moved quietly, as though conscious of their power. Finch’s back was toward the window but Sylvia sat facing it. Dennis threw the last of the peony petals toward her face against the pane. He threw them as though he wished they were stones.

      They fell only softly against the pane but the movement of his arm caught Sylvia’s eyes. She moved them startled to the window. Now she and Dennis were face to face. She saw him raise his arms and extend them, as though on a cross. She saw his bloodstained forehead and the hair in sharp golden points, like thorns. She saw the red prints on the palms of his hands, and the blood on his side. When he was conscious of her look of horror he allowed his chin to drop and rolled his eyes upward to the night sky.

      “Dennis!” With a strangled cry she repeated his name, then covered her eyes with her hands.

      Finch sprang up from the piano, and he too looked out and saw the ghostly figure of the child. He ran out to him and Sylvia followed.

      When Dennis saw them he said loudly:

      “I’m crucified! Don’t you see? I’m crucified!”

      Finch picked him up and carried him into the house and laid him on his bed. Dennis relaxed there, gazing up into Finch’s face with a possessive look.

      “What do you mean,” demanded Finch, “by saying such a thing? Where are you hurt?”

      “Shall I telephone for the doctor?” Sylvia asked from the doorway.

      “Wait till I find out where he is hurt.” He stared at the bloodstained figure of his son in perplexity and dismay. He went to the bathroom and returned with a sponge and basin of warm water. Sylvia, her face drained of colour, leaned against the side of the door for support.

      Finch wiped the blood from Dennis and discovered the mosquito bite. “This is all play-acting,” he said. “He’s not hurt — but, by God, he deserves to be.”

      Dennis lay looking up at them with an expression almost blissful. To be the focus of Finch’s attention, even though in anger, was enough to bring that look to his face.

      “You got yourself into that disgusting mess,” said Finch, “to frighten us. You scratched that mosquito bite again and again, didn’t you? You smeared the blood over yourself purposely, didn’t you? You were out to give us a great fright, weren’t you?”

      “Yes.” Dennis still wore that blissful half-smile.

      “I’ll take that smirk off your face,” said Finch and roughly turned him over. He administered a dozen stinging slaps to the boy’s small round buttocks. At the impact of the first, Sylvia fled.

      She stood, with wildly beating heart, looking out into the darkness of the trees. This house, she thought, which should have been so happy, so peacefully welcoming to Finch, was disturbed, unhappy, because of her presence. She turned a wan face to him when he came to her.

      “Is Dennis — ” she began, but could not go on.

      “He’s all right,” Finch said tersely. “He’ll not bother us again tonight. What a young viper he is! It’s a damned shame that you should have been so upset.” He put his arm about her. She could feel that he was trembling.

      “It was terrifying to both of us,” she said, for she wanted to feel that they both were in the same boat. “And — crucified! However did he come to think of that?”

      “I tell you he’s vicious,” said Finch.

      “I won’t hear you say that about your child. But — I do think he is rather morbid — poor little boy.”

      “Let’s go out into the air and forget about him,” said Finch. “It’s a lovely night. See where the moon has climbed. Above the treetops.”

      They went out into the garden. Finch saw the bloodstained petals of the white peony. He picked them up, trying to conceal them from Sylvia, but she had seen them. “I don’t mind,” she said. They did not look in the direction of the window of Dennis’s room.

      It was early daylight when the sound of crying woke them. It was a loud, wailing, unrestrained crying such as Finch had never before heard from Dennis. He sprang out of bed and — “You are not to come,” he said sternly to Sylvia. He laid his hand on her chest and pressed her back onto the bed. “You’ve borne enough from him. Stay where you are.” Miserably, and with the feeling that this was but the prolonging of her troubled dreams, she obeyed. She put her head under the bedclothes to dull the sound of the crying, but it went through her like a knife in spite of that.

      Shortly afterward the telephone extension in Renny Whiteoak’s bedroom rang persistently. He might well have refused to wake, because he was at that moment in the midst of an enthralling dream in which he was judge at a show where all the entrants were unicorns. He was hesitating between a beautiful blond unicorn, with a horn of pure gold, and one which was striped like a tiger, with a lovely body and challenging eyes. He did not want to be waked but the little old cairn terrier lying against his back climbed over him at the sound of the bell and firmly pawed his face.

      With a groan he reached for the receiver. “Hello,” he said.

      “Sorry to disturb you so early,” came Finch’s voice, “but I’m wondering if you can tell me what to do for a mosquito bite young Dennis has. I guess it’s infected. It looks pretty bad. The leg’s swollen.”

      “I have the very best remedy for that,” said Renny. “I’ll bring it right over.”

      It was a marvel, thought Finch, how Renny could have got into his clothes and so soon appeared at the door. He went straight to the little boy’s room. Dennis at once sat up in bed. “Look,” he said, “how fat my knee is! It was paining like anything but my father heard me and he came to see, and now it doesn’t hurt so much.”

      Finch sat down on the side of the bed. He said, “Feel how hard and hot the leg is.”

      “Yes, feel, Uncle Renny.”

      Renny examined the leg. “It’s infected,” he said. “We must have the doctor to it. I’ll bet you’ve been scratching it, young man.”

      “Scratching,” Finch echoed bitterly. “He got himself into a horrible mess last night. Bleeding.”

      Dennis, his possessive eyes raised to Finch’s face, put out