Old Dr. Kendal was dead. He had had nothing more to live for. He had
beaten Mr. Peacock of Sarrack. Miss Kendal was wearing black ribbons in
her cap instead of pink. And Maggie's sister was dead of her cancer.
The wall at the bottom of the garden had fallen down and Roddy had built
it up again.
He had heaved up the big stones and packed them in mortar; he had laid
them true by the plumb-line; Blenkiron's brother, the stonemason,
couldn't have built a better wall.
It had all happened in the week when she was ill and went to stay with
Aunt Lavvy at Scarborough. Yesterday evening, when she got home, Roddy
had come in out of the garden to meet her. He was in his shirt sleeves;
glass beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, his face was white with
excitement. He had just put the last dab of mortar to the last stone.
In the blue and white morning Mary and her mother stood in the garden,
looking at the wall. In its setting of clean white cement, Roddy's bit
showed like the map of South Africa. They were waiting for him to come
down to breakfast.
"I must say," Mamma said, "he's earned his extra half-hour in bed."
She was pleased because Roddy had built the wall up and because he was
well again.
They had turned. They were walking on the flagged path by the
flower-border under the house. Mamma walked slowly, with meditative
pauses, and bright, sidelong glances for her flowers.
"If only," she said, "he could work without trampling the flowers down."
The sun was shining on the flagged path. Mamma was stooping over the bed;
she had lifted the stalk of the daffodil up out of the sunk print of
Roddy's boot. Catty was coming down the house passage to the side door.
Her mouth was open. Her eyes stared above her high, sallow cheeks. She
stood on the doorstep, saying something in a husky voice.
"Miss Mary--will you go upstairs to Master Roddy? I think there's
something the matter with him. I think--"
Upstairs, in his narrow iron bed, Roddy lay on his back, his lips parted,
his eyes--white slits under half-open lids--turned up to the ceiling. His
arms were squared stiffly above his chest as they had pushed back the
bedclothes. The hands had been clenched and unclenched; the fingers still
curled in towards the palms. His face had a look of innocence and
candour.
Catty's thick, wet voice soaked through his mother's crying. "Miss
Mary--he went in his first sleep. His hair's as smooth as smooth."