Driven partly by his grandmothers insistence, partly by his desire to increase his own holdings, Eden at last gave in and allowed her to invest another two thousand dollars. After this transaction he thought to restrain her speculative ardour by making no reference to a rise in stocks, but the only effect of this was to cause her to demand, at every opportunity:
“Have they gone up or down?”
There were times when Eden wished she had never been introduced to Indigo Lake. Twice he answered — “They’re stationary,” but that only excited her interest the more. Then, in the moment of irritation, he said curtly — “They’ve gone down a little.”
At that she struck the closed fist of one hand into the palm of the other and exclaimed — “I’ll sell out! I’ll sell out at once.”
Eden thought it might be well for her to sell at the profit she had made and have done with the nervous strain of keeping the affair secret. He went to see Mr. Kronk and to place the selling of her stock in his hands. Mr. Kronk at once said that he had customers who would be delighted to buy any shares that came into the market. However, it just happened that a sharp rise in the price had taken place that very day and he foretold a really spectacular rise in the near future.
“Tell the dear lady,” he said, smiling, “to hold on to her shares a little longer. To buy more shares, if she’s so inclined. She’s due to make a lot more money in a very short while.”
It was irresistible. With Mr. Kronk’s expert aid Adeline, Nicholas, and Ernest all invested more of their capital in the gold mine. Eden invested the greater part of his commission from these transactions. Piers almost wept to think he had nothing further to invest. Mr. Kronk said how wise they were because the Americans were sweeping the shares off the market. He showed Eden letters from the United States, the writers of which were investing to an extent that made the investments of the Whiteoaks paltry.
Now Eden had a few serious words with Adeline.
“Look here, Gran, you must stop with these mysterious remarks about our business affairs. Today at dinner you said ‘Indigo’ was your favourite colour and then you looked at me and asked me what was my favourite colour. Please, please don’t give the whole thing away.”
“And I shall make a deal of gold, eh?”
“You will.”
Boney puffed himself up, closed one eye, and remarked in a hoarse whisper — “Pieces of eight. Pots of gold, you old devil.”
“Do promise, Gran.” Eden took both her hands in his and held them close. “Promise.”
“I promise.”
And, for a few days, she kept her word. But the strain of self-control was too much for her and she became testy and inclined to moods. This did not at all trouble Eden, so long as their secret was guarded. He was living in a dream in which materialistic calculations of gain were merged into romantic visions of the future. Sunk in his seat in the train which carried him, Piers, and Finch to their several seats of learning, he felt himself being transported through the fields of southern France toward Italy. His spirit was not in the lecture-room, but wandering in the Greek theatre in Taormina. In his fancy the rich harvest-fields of Jalna were transformed into the steep slopes of Sicily and the sweating harest hands into laughing dark-eyed girls carrying sheaves on their heads. With a Midas touch Mr. Kronk had transformed his world for him. And, on the top of all this glitter, he had a letter of acceptance from the editor to whom he had sent his latest poem.
So greatly was he elated, he could not stay in his bed that night but wandered about his room in the moonlight listening to the last faint pipings of the locusts, so soon to be chilled into silence. That night he wrote a new poem, longer and more ambitious than any he had yet composed, and the following day he had a feverish cold.
VIII
LEARNING
During that summer Piers was too much engaged — physically in farm work, mentally in the exciting development of the Indigo Lake Gold Mine — to have much time for Pheasant Vaughan. But he did not forget that meeting with her by the steam, and every now and again he would go down into the ravine and stand on the rustic bridge gazing at the spot where he had knelt beside her, with a kind of shamefaced longing. She was only a kid, he thought, and he would not have acknowledged, even to himself, that he had gone down there in search of her. He could not know how she haunted the little stream in the hope of seeing him again, how she did see him again, on more than one occasion, but contented herself with peering at him through the bushes, her heart beating wildly at the sight of him, almost afraid to breathe, for fear he should discover her. Yet all the while she looked forward to the day when they should meet again. She would lie flat on her back in her bed, staring through her open window at the stars, picturing that meeting, imagining how they would exchange a kiss, born of loneliness and longing on her part and a great tenderness on his. And there would be something alive in that kiss — something she could not understand, did not try to understand. Yet it was as real as the starshine in the window, and the reaching out of her being toward it sent a tremor through her nerves that made her turn in the bed and hide her face in the pillow. A kindling excitement ran through her and she would whisper his name — Piers — Piers — into the night.
She had never seen a woman’s magazine. She knew nothing of the technique of being a modern adolescent. She was awkward, as graceful, as innocent, as wild as a colt. The life she lived with her father and the elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Clinch, in that quiet house was the only life she knew. She had had lessons from Miss Pink, the organist of the village church — reading, writing, arithmetic, geography, and history, and learning Goldsmith’s “Deserted Village” and Wordsworth’s “Yarrow Revisited” by heart, with other poems, none of which interested her greatly, and all of which she found difficult. In truth, she found all these subjects difficult. Perhaps it was that Miss Pink was not a good teacher, or it may have been that she was a dull pupil. She was inclined to the latter view because neither her father nor Mrs. Clinch had ever intimated that they had a high opinion of her intelligence. She had spent a large part of her life in mooning about the house or wandering through woods and fields. Her only playmate had been the old pony which her father had ridden as a boy. She had ridden him along the country roads, even as far as the lake where he would bend his shaggy head to drink. He had jogged along cheerfully but with a will of his own, taking her, when so he chose, through a ditch to where he espied fallen apples and then stand munching one, with the apple juice running down his lip. Pheasant had never thought of his dying and leaving her but he had done just that. He had died suddenly one morning. He had been thirty years old, rather grey in the face, but still active. That was a year ago but she still could not think of him without such a contraction of the heart as made her quite giddy. It was only since the meeting with Piers that the pain of this loss had eased a little.
She had always been fascinated by the family at Jalna. There were so many of them and they were so diverse. Mrs. Clinch had not a high opinion of their behaviour and had gossip with which to back her opinion. In the kitchen was Mrs. Clinch, cosy by the big coal range, these stories about the doings of the Whiteoaks had helped to pass many a blustery winter afternoon. The housekeeper had so far nothing to say against Piers, and Pheasant hoped she never would, for she knew she would have to spring to Piers’s defence and then there might be words between them. But it was summer now and Pheasant spent little time indoors. Who knew what might happen before winter came?
Out of all the Whiteoaks it was Renny she knew best. He came quite often to Vaughanlands to talk about horses with Maurice. Sometimes he stayed for a meal and then what a different atmosphere he brought to the table! Maurice became animated, lively. There was noise and laughter. If Renny remained for the evening, Maurice brought out a bottle of Scotch, and when those glasses were to be washed next morning Mrs. Clinch would look grim and mutter, “Poor young man,” in the way she always did when she considered temptations thrown in Maurice’s way and their evil resu
lt in the past. This exclamation always made Pheasant uncomfortable as she knew that she was the most evil result of all.
On this day in the first week of September Renny had come to lunch. If only she had known in time she would have changed into a fresh dress, but it was not till she hurried to the table, anxious at being late, that she was aware of him.
“I’m sorry,” she began, then stopped as she saw his tall figure, his back drooping a little from much riding, his lean face tanned the colour of mahogany, his hair bleached by sun to a lighter shade.
“Hullo, Pheasant.” He came to her and shook her hand. “Where do you keep yourself? Now that your pony’s gone I never see you on the road.”
Pheasant put up her other hand to hide the safety pin that held together the rip in her pullover. There was something in his touch which gave her confidence. She forgot the safety pin and smiled up into his face.
“Poor old Jock,” put in Maurice, “he went quite suddenly, but he was past thirty.” When they were seated he added pensively — “I shall never forget my joy when he was given to me. Remember, Renny? Of course you already had one, and a little beauty he was. But I don’t believe that any kid ever loved a pony as I loved Jock. We weren’t horsy people like you Whiteoaks, and he came as a complete surprise.”
Pheasant was pressing her eyelids together to keep back the stinging tears. To herself she was saying — “You loved him so? Yet, since I can remember, you’ve never bothered your head about him. And when he died …” The tears pressed between her lids and ran down her cheeks.
Neither man noticed. Both were with gusto attacking the steaming stew set before them.
Renny was saying — “Now my young Wakefield begs for a pony and, on his birthday, I think I’ll get him one.”
Maurice said — “Well, if Wake enjoys it half as much as I enjoyed Jock … Lord, how I loved that pony!”
With the back of her hand Pheasant contrived to wipe away the tears. She put a bit of dumpling in her mouth and sat up straight. Now Renny Whiteoak’s penetrating gaze on her.
“I have an idea,” he said.
“I’ve never known you at a loss for them,” returned his friend.
“I believe this is a good one. You may remember, Maurice, that promising little mare I bought two months back. Well, I intend to enter her in the Horse Show for the Ladies’ Saddle Horse class. I need someone to ride her. Of course, Piers could, but I’d like someone who would give zip to the show. Look like a sylph on her. I believe you’re just that ticket, Pheasant.”
“Me? Why, I should be terrified.”
“She’s as gentle as a lamb. Perfect manners.”
“I don’t mean her. I mean the crowds.”
“Why, they’d love you. Come now. Say you’ll try.”
Maurice put in — “Pheasant can’t ride.”
“I’ve been riding all my life,” she exclaimed hotly.
“On old Jock!”
Renny said — “I’ll teach her. I’ll soon find out if she’s got it in her.”
“Want to do it, Pheasant?” asked Maurice.
“I’m still afraid but — I’d like to try.”
“Good,” said Renny. “Come back with me after lunch and I’ll find out if you’ve got it in you to ride in the Show.”
Maurice said — “She’s nervous.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. So are horses often. The very best.”
Her appetite was gone and, as soon as she could, she stole away and up to her room. The two men, drinking their coffee, did not notice her going till she was on the stairway. Then Renny called out:
“Will you change into your riding things as soon as possible, Pheasant? I must be getting along.”
“Yes, I will.” She darted up the stairs wishing she had a new pair of riding-breeches. Hers were shabby and had a tear on one knee. Would Piers be there, she wondered, and rather hoped he would not. It would be enough for her to face the mounting of a show horse under the eye of Renny Whiteoak, to be told by him, as she probably would be, that she was only fit to ride the little old pony.
As they drove to Jalna in his old mud-splashed car he talked reassuringly to her of the new mare, her gentleness, and of the schooling and riding of show horses. Scarcely ever had she been inside his gates. She knew only too well that her birth had broken off the engagement between her father and Meg Whiteoak. She felt a sad responsibility and at the same time a romantic pride in the thought of the shadow her coming had cast upon two lives. Jalna, to her, had an air of mystery, of elegance, and of abounding life.
The Clumber spaniel, Floss, stood with hind-legs on the back seat, fore-legs resting between Renny’s and Pheasant’s shoulders, and every now and again she would raise her head to lick him on the ear. Each time he would exclaim — “Down, Floss!” She would lift her lip in a sheepish grin, but never was she really rebuffed and soon would rise up for another kiss.
The car stopped in front of the open door of the stables and Scotchmere, the old weather-beaten, bow-legged groom, came out to meet them. He had a bottle of liniment in his hand which he occasionally shook in an absent-minded way, then raised to his nostrils and sniffed.
“This is Miss Vaughan,” Renny said, assisting Pheasant from the car. “I’m going to give her some lessons in riding.”
It was the first time in her life that she had been called Miss and she strove to appear dignified. But Scotchmere only grinned — “Oh, her and me’s acquainted. I once took a stone out of her pony’s shoe, didn’t I?”
Anyone who had done anything for Jock seemed a friend to Pheasant. She said — “Oh, yes, you were so kind.”
They went into the stable, clean and cool, almost empty, for the horses, with the exception of three, were out in paddock and field. One of these was a big bay gelding whose legs Scotchmere had been rubbing. The second was a mare which was that day expected to foal. She was in a loose box carpeted in clean straw but she was restless, walking nervously about, her large expectant eyes seeming to protrude from her stark head. When she saw Renny she uttered an anxious whicker. He called out:
“All right, old girl, I’ll be with you very soon.”
It was another loose box that he led Pheasant and opened the door.
“Here she is — Silken Lady,” he said, “and I expect you to fall in love with her.”
The mare stood eyeing them, not askance, but with a kind of elegant interest.
“Dare I come in?” asked Pheasant.
“Of course. She’s an angel for kindness. Will you dress her up, please, Scotchmere?”
Pheasant stroked the shining shoulder of the mare, who lowered her head as though in humility, while the lines of her neck remained proud. Scotchmere brought bridle and saddle, equipped her, and led her out, his thin bow-legs, ending in heavy boots, somehow not incongruous beside her beauty.
Pheasant forgot about Piers. All her being was concentrated upon the will to remain in that saddle. Now they were out of the stable into the bright late summer air, their feet on the sandy soil. The sound of thudding hooves came to them from the paddock.
Renny said — “We’ll just see what the boys are up to. Then I’ll take you for a nice quiet ride.” He led the way to the paddock.
A lively scene was presented to them there.
For the first time Pheasant saw the brothers gathered together — Renny at her side, Eden lounging against the railing of the paddock talking with the groom Wright. She never would forget a walk she had in the woods with Eden, when she was a little girl. He had been so different from anyone she had ever known and for months she had hoarded in her mind those things he had said to her that had kindled her imagination. Oh, to know him better, now that she was older! To walk with him, as she had that day, holding his hand and trying to talk as he did. But now he gave her an absent-minded nod and his eyes returned to the horses which were being schooled in the paddock.
Renny said — “A couple of good ones. I expect great things of them at the Horse Show.”
/> How beautifully, she thought, they flew along the track and skimmed the barrier. The mare, Silken Lady, appeared to observe them with an appraising eye, as though she, if she had the chance, would do better. Pheasant saw that one of the horses was ridden by a stable-boy and the other by Piers.
Now he saw her and his face tightened, as though to deny the little amorous passage between them, but the next time he trotted past he looked her full in the eyes and she saw that he remembered. She glanced up at Renny to discover if he had seen the look Piers had given her but he saw only the horse as it took the next jump, saw the power in its hind-legs, how its tucked-in forelegs cleared the bar. He saw Piers shift his weight over the horse’s neck, how lightly he rose in the stirrups.
Renny grinned down at Pheasant. “A good pair. A good jump, eh?”
She hoped Piers would ride over to where they stood but instead he dismounted, did something to his horse’s girth, his back turned to her. Renny’s roan was now led out to him and Eden joined them, with little Wakefield clinging to his arm in an effort to draw him into a romp. Finch, lolling against the railing, gave Pheasant a shy smile. He looked no better than a stable-boy, she thought, with his torn shirt and a straw between his teeth. There they were, so many of them and she with not one brother.
“Now,” said Renny, “I’ll put you up.”
“Let me.” Eden came and helped her into the saddle. She was nervous and mounted clumsily.
“Don’t be anxious,” Eden said. “She’s a gentle creature. What’s all this about, anyhow?”
Renny’s bright glance swept over mare and girl. “They’re being schooled for the Show. Don’t you see how well they become each other?” He sprang into the saddle. The roan moved forward and the mare, with delicate condescension, followed.
Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna Page 38
