Centenary at Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

always been thankful I did not inherit it.”

      Renny straightened himself and gave a disparaging glance at his son’s dry pale thatch.

      “I know it’s not handsome hair,” said Archer, “but it will see me through courtship and marriage. By that time I shall probably be as bald as a doorknob.”

      “I had not thought of you in connection with marriage.” Renny spoke with respect rather than unkindness.

      “Why not?”

      “Well, possibly because you’re so highbrow.”

      “I may be highbrow,” Archer said stiffly, “but I believe I shall be capable of propagating my kind.”

      “That’s just it. Your kind isn’t suited to the life we lead here. I can’t picture your kind as breeding horses and farming. You’ve said that yourself.”

      Archer spoke with an edge to his voice. “I suppose you have my sister in mind for the job.…”

      “I had thought of the possibility.”

      “Have you a mate for her in mind?”

      “I have my ideas.”

      “For what they are worth,” said Archer. “Where she is concerned you can’t be certain of anything. To wit, she’s a female.”

      When conversing with Archer, Renny sometimes found himself using pedantic expressions quite unlike his naturally terse manner. Now he said, “What I was endeavouring to elucidate is whether you notice any change in my hair.”

      “Elucidate,” repeated Archer, drawing back.

      “Yes. Find out.”

      “I’ve noticed it’s a bit grey at the temples.”

      “You have — and you didn’t tell me!”

      “It seems natural, and —” here Archer gave his singularly sweet smile — “looks rather nice.”

      Renny returned the look glumly. “I don’t understand,” he said. “My grandmother’s hair was still red at my age.”

      Mary was dancing from one foot to another, hugging herself to keep from freezing.

      “Come along,” Renny said, taking her hand. He swept her over a puddle at the edge of the orchard and they made their way across the sodden lawn, round the house to the front door.

      Inside the hall the three dogs, having too much sense to go out on such a morning, rose to greet them with overdemonstrative affection for Renny, tolerance for little Mary, and cool curiosity for Archer. He remarked:

      “Funny to meet you without the dogs.”

      Renny took the cairn terrier into his arms. “This little one,” he said, “is not as hardy as he used to be. He’s promised me to take care of himself. One of the others has a sore paw, and one a touch of rheumatism.”

      “Poor things,” said Archer, without sympathy.

      Alayne Whiteoak, Renny’s wife, came out of the library, a book of essays in her hand. That room had been no more than a sitting room, with few books, when she had come, as a bride, to Jalna, but now its walls were lined with well-arranged volumes. It also had a television set which Alayne deplored. Little Mary at once went into the library and turned it on. A seductive baritone voice came into the hall. Alayne could imagine the face from which it issued. She called out:

      “Mary, you did not ask permission to do that.” Mary did not hear her.

      “She loves it,” said Renny.

      “It gives her a sense of power,” said Archer, “and that’s why she turns it on.”

      “Well,” Alayne spoke sharply, “go and turn it off, Archer.”

      He went into the library and closed the door after him.

      Alone with Renny, Alayne avoided looking at his muddy boots by looking at his attractive face, with its well-marked aquiline features, adroit mouth, and amber eyes. However, she so well concealed her admiration that he thought she was annoyed at him — as indeed she all but was.

      “Little wife,” he said, and made as though to kiss her, but she moved away. If there was one form of his endearments she liked less than “little wife,” it was “wee wifie,” which he occasionally produced when he happened to remember that he had had a Scottish grandfather. But “little wife” was bad enough to make her reject amorous overtures from him.

      “Why did Mary come?” she asked.

      “That’s very interesting. She suggested that we should call at all five of the houses belonging to our family. I think that’s rather clever of her. What I mean is, she’s the youngest of the tribe. She’s just beginning to understand what it is to belong to a family, to …” He hesitated.

      “To be a Whiteoak,” she finished for him, with a touch of irony.

      He did not notice that. He accepted what she had said, as wisdom.

      “So,” he went on, “Mary and I are making the rounds, and I’m going to tell her a little about each of the houses as we visit them. And about the families who live there, of course.”

      “I must go into town this afternoon,” Alayne said, feeling little interest in Mary’s education. “Will you drive me or shall I ask Hans?” Hans was the husband of the cook. A Dutch couple had served the household well while Wragge, the Cockney houseman, was, with his wife, taking a prolonged holiday in England.

      Renny amiably agreed to drive Alayne into the city, though he hated and feared the traffic. “I have no business there myself,” he said. “I can start at whatever time you like.”

      A little later he and Mary were standing, hand in hand, on the gravel sweep in front of the house. She was sorry to leave the television, but she was so pleased to be going about with Renny that nothing else really mattered. Even the wetness and cold of her feet did not matter, and the hand that lay in Renny’s was warm as toast.

      “This house,” he was saying, “is where your roots are.”

      “My roots?” she repeated, looking down at her small wet feet.

      “Yes. Your beginnings. Your father and mother came here when they were first married.” His mind flew back to that homecoming and the hot reception the young pair had suffered. He saw, as clear as though it were yesterday, the passionately excited group, the grandmother in their midst. She’d given Piers a sound rap on the hand with her stick. The poor little bride had cried, and no wonder.

      “It’s the most important house of the five, I know,” Mary said, looking up into his face.

      “You’re right, and it’s soon going to have a birthday — its hundredth birthday. That’s what they call a centenary. And it’s going to have a celebration!”

      “A party?”

      “Yes. A really splendid party.”

      “Shall I be there?”

      “We’ll all be there. And let me tell you, Mary, there’s nothing in the world so strong as a close-knit family group. It gives you confidence. It gives you good cheer. It may give you a bad hour occasionally but it’s always there to go to in time of trouble and it’s there to share your joys.”

      Mary nodded agreement, even though she did not understand half of what he said.

      Looking down into her child’s face, he said, “You’ll remember this later and it will mean a lot to you.”

      To show that she understood, she said, “The house will soon be a hundred years old.”

      He exclaimed eagerly — “And for the occasion, all the woodwork, shutters, porch, and doors will be freshly painted. The woodwork’s paint always has been green, but I’m seriously thinking