A Boy in the House. Mazo de la Roche

dining-room, the meal had not been finished. He was about to leave when Mrs. Morton bustled out from the supper-table. She looked excited, almost triumphant.

      ‘Oh, Mr. Lindley,’ she cried, ‘do come and see our little boy.’ She realized then that Lindley was being kept waiting. ‘I’m so sorry—dear me, I’m afraid you are being dreadfully put out.’

      Lindley gave her his pleasant smile. ‘Don’t worry about me. I shall be all right if I don’t eat for an hour.’ He stepped into the dining-room. ‘What about you? I expect you had a tiring trip.’

      She pushed her fingers under her roll of thick hair to liven it. Little drops of sweat showed on her forehead. ‘What a time!’ she said. ‘The crowd, the dirt, and dreadful people eating oranges. But I accomplished my mission and that’s the main thing.’ She moved to one side that Lindley might see the small table at which the boy was sitting. ‘Stand up, Eddy, and bow to Mr. Lindley.’

      The boy did as he was told with a broad, childish smile. He was thirteen years old but no taller than a well-grown boy of eleven. His face was round and chubby, and he had agate-brown eyes and rough, light-brown hair. He wore a half-amused, half-dazed expression. The situation in which he now found himself was unmatched in his experience. He sat down again and stared round-eyed at the room, at Miss Dove, at the tables laid with white cloths and silver. The carved Victorian furniture, the pictures with gilt frames seemed to fill him with awe. There was something innocent and alone about him that touched Lindley. He spoke to him kindly, hoping he would get on well. The boy appeared too shy to answer.

      ‘Go ahead with your tea, Eddy,’ Mrs. Morton ordered with kind peremptoriness.

      He picked up a cake and began to munch it.

      ‘Do sit down on the sofa, Mr. Lindley,’ Lydia Dove exclaimed suddenly, in an afterglow of their recent intimacy. ‘We shall be finished in a moment and the room made ready for you.’ She spoke in a high-flown tone, as though to impress the boy with their grand way of living. Mrs. Morton looked surprised but not ill-pleased. Lindley himself felt an objection to any continuation of the intimacy but did not know how to refuse. He sat down rather stiffly on the haircloth sofa. Mrs. Morton continued to talk about the discomforts of the journey. The boy stared at her, listening, but, when she looked at him, respectfully lowered his eyes. Soon the light meal was finished.

      ‘Now, Eddy,’ she ordered, ‘you must carry the dishes to the kitchen. You may as well begin to learn things at once.’

      The boy rose uncertainly to his feet.

      ‘Our table first,’ directed Mrs. Morton.

      He picked up the plate of cut bread and moved slowly with it to the kitchen. Lindley noticed then that he dragged his left foot.

      Miss Dove exclaimed in a sibilant whisper: ‘Why, Elsie, he limps! Was that a good idea? A lame boy?’

      Elsie spoke rapidly, with a triumphant note in her voice. ‘Because he comes much cheaper, can’t you see? He’d been on a farm but they’d sent him back because he wasn’t fit for rough farm work. I guess the superintendent was at his wits’ end to know what to do with him, and then I came along, and when he heard of all the advantages and the bit of light work . . .’

      The boy was now back in the room.

      The three grown-ups sat watching him as he cleared the table. Since the coming of the boy, Lindley felt himself drawn into the watching circle of the family. He was expected to say something. So, when the boy had again gone into the kitchen he said: ‘He looks healthy.’

      Mrs. Morton beamed. ‘Perfectly. Such lovely round cheeks and bright eyes. He’s almost beautiful, isn’t he?’

      ‘Oh, Elsie, don’t say such ridiculous things.’

      ‘And his keep will amount to very little.’

      Lindley could see that the boy knew they were talking about him. He gave embarrassed sidelong glances at them as he passed, carrying out the dishes. His advent into the house had deeply moved Lydia Dove. There had been no young creature there since she and Elsie had been children. Now she was quivering and apprehensive of what the change might mean to them and, at the same time, she felt a strange, deep delight. The novelty of the situation put new life into her. She jumped up, weakly active, directing the boy where to put the things, counting the silver spoons as she laid them in a drawer, as though she feared he might already be pilfering.

      The boy began to feel more at ease. He limped hurriedly, stepping on the side of one foot, to do Miss Dove’s bidding. When he set the silver teapot on the sideboard he moved backward a step to admire it. For the first time he spoke.

      ‘I say, what a pretty teapot!’

      His voice was a clear, cool treble, very distinct, with a Cockney oi sound in it. He had appeared shy, but now he spoke with cool familiarity. Lindley noticed how small and undernourished his body was, in spite of his round cheeks. Lindley had the quality of pity and now it rose, strong and protective, toward the boy. Yet there was nothing he could do for him.