It was fortunate that the fall work was over before the illness of the children. Archer was brought home in a few days but remained in bed for another week and after that he was ailing and irritable for a fortnight. Three weeks of suffering passed before Adeline was able to be up. Then she had become thin and her pallor was such that her hair and eyes were shown in striking contrast. But, where Archer had been difficult to nurse, she was amenable and deeply conscious that she had, by her own fault, brought all this weariness upon her mother. She would ask for her needs in a small sweet voice; she would catch Alayne’s hand in hers and press it to her lips. She would catch Alayne’s skirt and say, “Little Mother,” in a cajoling voice. It was almost as though Renny were holding her by the skirt and saying, “Little Wife.” They’re a pair, thought Alayne. There is nothing of me in the child.
Roma was constantly helpful in those days. Perched on the side of Archer’s bed she played Halma or Parcheesi with him and, when he was able to be up, set out his lead soldiers and engineered campaigns. Whatever went wrong he blamed her for it. She ran endless messages to the basement, carried up glasses of milk and fruit juice. She hastened home from school to be on hand to help. Alayne was grateful for this, but it drew them no nearer together. Alayne’s eyes often rested on Roma’s face, sometimes seeing on the childish lips the resemblance to dead Eden’s smile, sometimes in her slanting eyes the very look of Minnie Ware. It was curious that Alayne seldom spoke to Roma as to a child. She might reprove her but it was as a grown-up, in a superior position, might reprove another grown-up. Roma in return spoke to Alayne in a cool self-possessed tone.
Meg and Patience had removed from Vaughanlands to the small house. Fortunately Mr. Clapperton had been glad to purchase some of the large furniture that for three generations had stood in the Vaughans’ home. Meg was able to make the small house look very attractive indeed. Patience was clever with window curtains and cushions. They were very happy and quite reconciled to the change in their situation. In truth Meg found herself with less responsibility and more means for the pleasures of life than she had enjoyed for many a year. She liked Mr. Clapperton and looked forward to the day when his affluence might be added to the support of the church built by her grandfather. Mr. Clapperton was at present a Christian Scientist but Meg looked on this as only a phase in his life. He had been born a Presbyterian but had joined the Christian Science denomination soon after his marriage. If he had changed once he might change again. Already Meg had introduced him to Mr. Fennel, the rector, and the two men had got on well together.
One day Mr. Clapperton accompanied her to tea at Jalna. It was a dark wet day toward the end of November. As they alighted from the car he paused to look up at the old house, and the old house seemed to gather itself together to look at him. There was open admiration in his eyes as he raised them to the walls which were of a peculiarly rose-red brick closely interlaced by the tendrils of the stout Virginia Creeper, now bereft of its leaves save for a few bright scarlet ones in the shelter of the eaves. Spirals of smoke rose from several of the five chimneys and mingled with the gently falling rain. Firelight could be seen reflected on the ceiling of the drawing-room. Inside the deep stone porch, the heavy door was scarred by the pawings of many generations of dogs. On Mr. Clapperton the house seemed to reserve judgment. It appeared to draw itself together as though saying, “You’re a bird of a new feather. I’ll not say what I think of you — not yet.”
The door was ceremoniously opened by Rags who that morning had had a very close hair cut and in consequence looked a hardened little criminal.
“Good afternoon, Rags,” said Meg. “I think my uncles are expecting us. I hope they are well.”
“They are indeed expecting you, ma’am, and as well as can be looked for in this weather. Mr. Nicholas’ knee is pretty bad.”
He escorted them to the drawing-room which seemed to Mr. Clapperton quite full of people. All fixed their eyes enquiringly and critically on him. “Can this old gentleman be ninety?” thought Mr. Clapperton. “He certainly doesn’t look it.” He said, “Your niece, Mrs. Vaughan, has talked a lot about you to me, sir.”
They shook hands. Ernest was favourably impressed. He saw a man a little past middle age and middle height, fresh-coloured, with light enquiring eyes and thin grey hair carefully brushed. He wore spats, a pale grey suit and an air of businesslike friendliness.
“Excuse me. Can’t very well get up,” mumbled Nicholas. “Gout. Had it for years.”
“Too bad, too bad,” sympathized Mr. Clapperton. “I gathered from your niece that your health is not very good.”
“Perfectly good otherwise,” growled Nicholas.
Ernest put in, “Have you met my niece, Mrs. Piers Whiteoak? Pheasant —”
She interrupted, “Oh, yes, we’ve met. Long ago.”
Meg brought forward Finch and Wakefield. They were almost of a height but Wakefield appeared the taller, with the straightness of his training on him and the proud carriage of his head. There was a look about his mouth that showed he had known great fatigue, and a look in his eyes of one used to risking his life. The air force blue of his uniform made his skin a little sallow. Meg was proud of them both and, with that air, introduced them to the visitor, explaining the fact that Finch was not in uniform by saying:
“Finch is a concert pianist. He has made a tour right across the continent.”
“Isn’t that fine?” said Mr. Clapperton.
“Troops too much entertained. Too little trained,” growled Nicholas.
“This is my youngest brother, Wakefield,” said Meg.
“He has lately arrived on a short leave, on his way to England.”
“You’ve been an actor in London, I hear,” said Mr. Clapperton as he shook hands with him.
“Bad actor, from the first,” added Nicholas.
“We are very proud of him,” said Ernest. “He has been given the Distinguished Flying Cross by the King, for gallantry.”
“Too many decorations in this war,” said Nicholas, winking at Wakefield.
“And here,” cried Meg, “is your own young man, Mr. Swift, and our nephew, Mooey, whom he’s tutoring.”
Mr. Clapperton was not entirely pleased to find his secretary already at Jalna. He was a good-natured man but he had a firm idea of his own importance. He gave Sidney Swift a frosty smile. Then his face lighted as he looked about the room. He exclaimed:
“May I remark on the beauty of your furniture? I thought I had some nice pieces! But these!” After an admiring contemplation of the well-polished Chippendale, he added, on a deeper note, “And to think that just such pieces as these are being bombed!”
“Yes, isn’t it terrible?” said Meg.
“Too much old stuff in the world,” growled Nicholas. “World cluttered up with antiques — material and human. Isn’t that so, Mr. Swift?”
“I quite agree,” cried the young man. “I often say —” but, after a glance from Mr. Clapperton, he did not say what he often said.
At this moment Alayne entered the room with the air of elegance that always distinguished her. The party was now complete and, after welcoming Mr. Clapperton, she sat down behind the tea tray which Rags had just carried in. The new neighbour sat near her while the four young men busied themselves in carrying about teacups and plates of thin bread and butter and cakes. Mr. Clapperton remarked sympathetically to Alayne:
“I hear you have had two very ill children.”
“Yes. My little son had his tonsils taken out. It was an unusually bad case but he is better now, I’m thankful to say.”
“Tonsils,”