Centenary at Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

Yet when Sylvia carried a tray to him or offered to read aloud he would turn his face to the wall and ask to be left alone. It was different when Finch appeared. Dennis would gaze at him with what seemed to Finch a calculated devotion, as though he strove, with all his small strength, to build a wall about the two of them. If Finch were present when Sylvia came to the sickroom, Dennis would meekly accept what she offered, meekly reply when she spoke to him, but always he kept those jewel-like green eyes of his, in which the whites were not noticeable, averted.

      To be with him was enough to make Sylvia tremble. Small and suffering as he was, she felt in him a force dominant over her. She realized that he was aware of this, that he saw and savoured her trembling. In the days of his illness she gave up hope of winning him over. The long weeks of his holidays loomed as a threat. She might have borne his presence with ease, if she had not seen its effect on Finch. They could not speak of the boy without constraint. Try as they would they could not be natural about him, could not treat him as the child he was. Yet, when he lay sleeping, Sylvia would sometimes long to take him into her arms. At other times she was startled by her anger against him. Almost, she felt, she hated him. Once, she found to her horror that she was imagining him dead and the relief it would be.

      All the family came at different times to see him, to relate their experience of insect bites and to give advice. Meg’s advice was the most pleasing to Finch. She said, “As soon as Dennis is completely recovered you must send him to camp. I know the very place for him and, as the owner of the camp is an old friend of Rupert’s and a good churchman, nothing could be more suitable. The child will be made completely happy and your minds will be at rest about him.”

      So it was arranged, and the day came when Meg and the Rector, themselves going in the direction of the camp, took the little boy with them. Dressed in grey flannel shorts and blue pullover he set out to say goodbye to the family. At Jalna the only one he found at home was Archer, who shook hands with him formally.

      “Goodbye,” he said. “Have a good time, if you can.”

      “Why do they send children to camp?” Dennis asked.

      “So they may have peace.”

      “Is it better to have peace than children?”

      “Children are always listening. Grown-ups like a little privacy.”

      “I’ll have no privacy at camp.”

      “You will have everything you need,” said Archer. “At your age you are not supposed to need privacy.”

      “What I like,” Dennis said, looking up at two pigeons on the roof, “is to be with my father. And he wants me to be with him. It’s Sylvia who sends me to camp.”

      “That is because she feels insecure when you are about.”

      “My father belonged to me before he belonged to her.”

      Archer regarded him judicially. “I foresee quite a struggle,” he said, “but I think you’ll come out on top.”

      “Noah Binns says to organize.”

      “You couldn’t have better advice.… Well — run along now and say your goodbyes. When you come back from camp I shan’t be here.”

      “Where will you be?”

      “In England. I’ve been chosen as a Rhodes Scholar and I’m setting out in time to travel round a bit.”

      “Will it make you different — being a Rhodes Scholar?”

      “I’ve always been different.”

      “Will it be fun?”

      “I hope not. Your camp will be fun.”

      Adeline and Philip now appeared, carrying tennis racquets. Dennis said goodbye to them and set out to visit the rest of the family. At the Fox Farm he found that Patience had the day before given birth to a daughter. Humphrey Bell was so pleased and excited by this that he tucked a five-dollar bill into the little boy’s pocket. “For you,” he said, “to spend at camp, to celebrate the coming of Victoria.”

      “Thanks very much,” said Dennis, and he added, for politeness’ sake, “Is that what you’re going to call her?”

      “Yes. Victoria, for my mother. She’ll be Vicky Bell. Don’t you think it’s a pretty name?”

      Dennis thought it was, but thought a baby girl was a quite unnecessary addition to any family. Still he was pleased by her arrival, as it had produced such munificence from Humphrey. He found little Mary in the studio and showed her the crisp new banknote.

      “I have more money than I know what to do with,” he told her. “My father said how much money did I want and I said just what he could afford and he said I can afford as much as you want and he took out his wallet and said to help myself and I did. My father makes a terrific lot of money. Do you know how? He makes it playing the piano, that’s how.”

      “I knew that,” said Mary, “long ago.”

      “Does your father make a terrific lot of money?”

      “No,” said Mary. “He’s very poor. But he doesn’t mind. He likes it. Will you be long in camp?”

      Dennis gave her a look that somehow was not comfortable. “I don’t think so,” he said. “My father will miss me. I’ll not stay long.”

      “My daddy would miss me, if I went to camp, and so would my mummy, but she’d miss me even more,” said Mary, who thought Dennis was too boastful and even a little tiresome.

      “I have no mummy,” he said. “Just a stepmother. And do you know what she is? I’ll tell you.” He put an arm about her neck and whispered into her ear: “She’s a she-devil — that’s what she is.” He drew back a little, laughing, his eyes close to hers.

      His words — a combination new to her — sent a thrill of excitement through her nerves, but she only said, “Why are your eyes that funny colour?”

      Laughing at they knew not what, they sauntered along the country road together, for Mary was accompanying Dennis as far as the Rectory to see him off. At last she said, “I know what devil is but not she-devil.”

      “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “When you have a stepmother.”

      “I couldn’t have one, because my own mother is living.” No longer was she laughing. A flutter of apprehension brought the colour to her cheeks. “I couldn’t have a stepmother,” she added decisively.

      An enigmatic smile curved his lips. “That’s what I used to think.”

      “Till when?” she asked.

      “Till one day my mother — died. Yours might die any day, you know. Then you’d get a stepmother.”

      “I’m going home.” Mary spoke with vehemence. “You can go on alone.”

      “All right,” he said tranquilly, “but don’t tell.”

      “Tell what?”

      “What I said about — anything. Goodbye.”

      The Rectory was in sight, the car standing at the gate.

      Meg saw the small figure coming alone down the road and called out, “Hurry up, Dennis! Uncle Rupert and I are waiting. Your father has brought your suitcase and your rubber sheet, and” — by this time the little boy had come close — “the strange thing is that I’m almost positive this suitcase belongs to me. I’ve been missing it for some time and I can’t imagine how he came to get hold of it. I don’t mind your taking it to camp, Dennis dear, but I do hope you’ll take good care of it, for I really think I must ask your father to let me have it back when you return.”

      “Has he gone?” asked Dennis.

      “Yes. He just left your things and then drove off.”

      “He didn’t say goodbye