LITMIR.BIZ

      Contents

      Contents

      I -- Mary Whiteoak’s World

      II -- Finch’s Return

      III -- The Promising Boy

      IV -- In the Basement Kitchen — and After

      V -- Seen Through a Picture Window

      VI -- Father and Daughter

      VII -- Adeline and Philip

      VIII -- How They Took the News

      IX -- The Dinner Party

      X -- The Letter

      XI -- Preparing the Hut and the Arrival

      XII -- The Two in the Hut

      XIII -- Goings and Comings

      XIV -- Tea with the Wragges

      XV -- Wakefield and Molly

      XVI -- This and That

      XVII -- Seven by a Lake

      XVIII -- Back to Fiddler’s Hut

      XIX -- Coming of Cold Weather

      XX -- Finch and Sylvia

      XXI -- The Snowman

      XXII -- Winter

      XXIII -- Aftermath

      XXIV -- The Tolling of the Bell

      XXV -- The Stolen Flowers

      XXVI -- In Search of a Home

      XXVII -- Winter Moves On

      XXVIII -- Conversation in the Kitchen

      XXIX -- Spider or Rose

      XXX -- The Christening

      XXXI -- The Centenary at Hand

      XXXII -- A Hundred Years Old

      XXXIII -- Dennis

      XXXIV -- The Wedding

      I

      I

      Mary Whiteoak’s World

      This little Mary was eight years old, rather small and tender for her age, more puzzled than pleased by what she discovered around her, yet, at times, swept on the wings of a wild joy. But this always happened when she was alone, when there was silence, except for perhaps the sound of leaves being tumbled by a breeze or a sudden burst of song from an unseen bird. Then she would raise her arms and flap them like wings. She would utter a little cry, as though her feelings were too much for her.

      There was nothing to give her special joy on this cold morning in early May. There was a north wind that made the growing things in the garden tremble. Some of them were about six inches tall, but the leaf buds of the maples had barely appeared.

      “My God,” exclaimed Renny Whiteoak, coming into the studio where Mary was, “it’s as cold as charity in here! Why are you hiding yourself away?”

      He took her small icy hands in his to warm them, but she gave an enigmatic smile.

      She said, “I’m not cold.”

      Her hands were hidden in his sinewy horseman’s hands. “The trouble with women,” he said, “is that you never wear enough clothes. Look at that skimpy little dress you have on.”

      She did not quite know whether or not her feelings were hurt. She liked this uncle better than any other male, even her father, who doted on her. She had him in the studio, all to herself, yet — lumping her in with all women, as he had, appeared to thrust a responsibility on her that she could not, without tears, accept.…The tears were ready, somewhere in the back of her throat, but she swallowed them.

      “I didn’t choose the dress,” she murmured. “It was put on me.”

      “By your mother?”

      “Yes.” She did not say how pleased she had been when the sunshine of this May morning had seemed to warrant a cotton dress. And it was her favourite colour, light blue, the colour of her eyes.

      “But your mother did not tell you to come into this cold studio, did she?”

      “I came to see the cocoon.” She led him to a windowsill where the cocoon had lain all the winter. One end of it was open and out of it had crawled (no more prepossessing than a worm) a moist brown moth.

      Renny lifted Mary to the windowsill so they might watch it together. The sill was dusty and rather rough, for the studio had once been a stable, but the tender flesh of the little girl’s thighs accepted it without a shudder.

      “It’s going to be a beauty,” said Renny, as the moth stretched its wings. They opened and closed like fans, and new colours (pink, blue, and glossy brown) were discovered as the wings dried.

      The moth gained strength. It crept to Renny’s finger and slowly made the ascent to his knuckle. He opened the window and a shaft of sunshine entered.

      “It’s wonderful,” said Renny, “how growing things prosper in the sun!”

      “Prosper?” she questioned, somehow connecting the word with making money.

      “Flourish,” he replied, “grow plump and strong. You could do with some sunshine yourself.”

      “Should I grow wings?”

      “Heaven forbid!”

      “Why ‘Heaven forbid’?”

      “Because you’re angel enough as you are.”

      This pleased her. Indeed, conversation with him was always a pleasure to her. She bent her head closer to the moth to watch its progress along his hand. Her fine hair separated and fell forward, exposing her tender nape. His eyes moved to it, away from the moth which, with a quiver of new life, prepared to fly.

      “Why does it take so long?” she asked.

      “Well, it took you more than a year to learn to walk.”

      “Had I been in a cocoon?”

      “Sort of.” She turned her head sideways and gave him a slanting look.

      “Tell me,” she said, “all about — everything.”

      “You ask your mother.” His tone became brusque. “I wouldn’t know.”

      “I think you know everything,” she said.

      Together they watched the moth’s progress from a lumbering movement to a confident preparation for flight. It had become more brightly coloured, its body smaller, its wings larger, capable of flight.

      Renny Whiteoak lifted it from his hand and set it outside on the sunny sill. “Come along,” he said, “you’ll freeze if you stay here.”

      “I like this studio. I come here to think.”

      “About Christian?”

      Christian was her brother, the owner of the studio, who was studying art in Paris.

      “No. About all of us. Do you know how many houses there are, with us in them?”

      He pretended not to know. “How many?”

      “Five,” she cried in triumph. “First there’s ours — ”

      “You should put Jalna first,” he interrupted. For a moment she looked downcast, then strung off the names quickly.

      “First there’s Jalna, where you live.

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