Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  There he halted, turning back into the room.

  “I must say goodnight to everybody.”

  “Very well, but do be quick about it.”

  He felt himself small and good, aloof from all the mysterious and troubled talk going on about him. He made the round of the room, giving a hug to those he liked best, offering a cool cheek to those not so favoured. Meg waited by the door on tenterhooks till the goodnights were accomplished, then bore him off. Finch had already disappeared.

  The grandmother still held the centre of the stage, determined that no loss experienced by the others should equal the dramatic quality of her own. She said —

  “This means little to the rest of you, but think what it is to be impoverished at my time of life.”

  Nicholas said — “You will never notice the loss, Mamma.”

  “How do you know,” she retorted, “when I haven’t told you what I invested?”

  He could not say to her that her needs now were few but she guessed what was in his mind.

  “I have my ambitions,” she said. “There’s things I want to do.” The remembrance of her new fur coat smote her. “And there’s my Persian lamb coat to be paid for! Dear, oh dear, I wonder if I can return it to the shop.”

  Ernest answered — “I’m afraid not. You sent a cheque for it yesterday, Mamma.”

  She threw up her hands in despair. Then turned to Eden, who had risen to his feet and was standing apart, with folded arms and hanging head. “Oh, Eden, you deceitful rogue! You came to me secretly with the bright pictures to entice me into a thimblerig. If only your uncles had been with me, you’d never have trapped me, but you came in the time when I was alone.” A tear of pity for herself glistened in her eye.

  Renny said — “Have another sip of brandy, Gran?”

  Tremblingly she took another sip and was refreshed. “This means little to you others,” she repeated.... “Little to any but me.”

  Piers was saying under his breath, through clenched teeth — “It means little to me, eh?”

  Eden did not hear what was being said. While kneeling in front of his grandmother, in his nostrils the scent of the eastern perfume she used, the aquiline contour of her face, the bright colours of her gown, filling his eyes, the thought of a new poem had come to him. It was no more clear than a pale star in early twilight, but it was there, challenging the futile flow of words about him. If only he dared to take it up to his room, to capture it on paper, to forget all the turmoil of disappointment and chagrin that seethed within him. But he dared not leave.

  His grandmother was saying — “Then there are the new cushions I bought for the pews. Do you think we might stop the making of them?”

  “They are to be in the church tomorrow,” said Augusta sombrely.

  “Still, if I sent word quickly that no one is to sit on them, mightn’t they be returned?”

  “It is too late,” said Augusta.

  “Too late — too late — too late.” She repeated the fateful words, between each repetition taking another sip of brandy till the small glass was empty. She then asked abruptly — “What was I grieving about?”

  “The money you have lost in Indigo Lake, Mamma,” said Ernest.

  Nicholas growled — “Better let her forget it.”

  “I have no intention of forgetting it,” she said. “And how could I? Now I’m dependent on charity.” The final sip of brandy had been a little too much for her. She stretched out a trembling hand to her eldest grandson.

  He clasped it. “Nothing will be different at Jalna, Gran. Your living here has cost you nothing, nor will it ever.”

  She did not like this reference to her freedom from responsibility in that house for so many years. She turned to Ernest. “I wonder,” she said, “if I ought to see the doctor. I feel strangely weak.”

  “It is the cognac,” said Nicholas. “What you need is bed.”

  Ernest said to Eden — “This is a terrible thing you’ve done to my mother.”

  “I know, I know,” he said absently, and wondered if he might decently escape. His artist’s imagination had perversely chosen this moment for activity. The poem was taking shape.

  “Help me up,” he heard his grandmother say. She was raised to her feet and, brushing aside those who had aided her, walked a little unsteadily to the window.

  “No moon,” she said. “A dark night. And a black night for me. A black night indeed.”

  Meg now returned to the room, with an enquiring glance about her, to discover what had happened during her absence. Avoiding her grandmother, she went to Piers and dropped to the window seat beside him.

  “What have they been saying?” she whispered.

  He gave her his angry boy’s stare. “Nobody has a chance to say anything. Nobody but Gran. Talk of egotism!”

  “It is ridiculous,” she agreed.

  Old Adeline turned from the window. She asked — “Was Eden’s name in the paper too?”

  “Thank God, no,” answered Ernest.

  “Well, it should be. He swindled me too.”

  Eden said loudly — “Everything I did, I did in good faith. I thought it was a sound investment. So did a lot of people.”

  Nicholas said — “You did very wrong to approach my mother.”

  Ernest demanded — “Why did you keep everything secret?”

  Eden answered — “Because you all wanted it kept secret.”

  “The truth,” said Augusta, “was bound to come out.”

  Eden fairly exploded — “It did come out to — tonight, and look how happy we were till Rags brought in the newspaper.”

  Now the talk broke out in full volume. Accusation, self-defence, reproach, tears from Meg, an outburst of swearing in Hindustani from the disturbed Boney. In the midst old Adeline stood leaning on her stick, a rock about which the storm of words beat. She was not without a certain pleasure in this letting loose of emotion, for hers was an emotional nature that was irked by self-restraint. She liked to watch her descendants at it, hammer and tongs. But by now she could not add more than her presence to the scene, for her brain was more than a little confused and her body very weary. Lower she bent over her stick and finally suffered herself to be assisted to her room. In the doorway she halted, gathered her wits together, and said:

  “My husband, he that built this house, would turn over in his grave if he knew the swindling that has gone on inside it.”

  Dilly had taken no part in the scene but had sat leaning forward, a fascinated spectator, unnoticed by the Whiteoaks.

  XIX

  SCENES AT NIGHT

  Eden went to the table where the cognac stood and poured himself another drink.

  Meg said, her voice ringing clear — “You may well need something to support you, considering what you have done. Oh, Eden, what a responsibility to take — the investing of the fortunes of your own family! I don’t see how you had the temerity.”

  His hand shook a little. He said — “Oh, I have plenty of that.”

  “It’s the secrecy all round that staggers me,” said Renny.

  Ernest gnawed his lip in chagrin. He said — “I blame myself for speculating. I should have restrained Eden if possible.”

  “You should have told me,” said Renny, “what he was up to.”

  Nicholas blew through his moustache. “Goodbye,” he said, “to all our airy castles. I think we each should tell what they were and then try to forget about ’em. What had you in mind, Ernest?”

  “Travel, Nick. London and Paris.”

  “And you were going off without me, you dirty dog?”

  “Well, I knew what you would say if I spoke of speculating. You’d call it gambling and remind me of former losses. I little thought you were into it too.”

  “Lord, I wish I hadn’t been.”

  “What was your particular castle?”

  “The Riviera. Egad, I could smell the mimosa.”

  Meg said — “I had no such dreams. I just wanted to add to my poor little pi
le of savings. And now, instead of that, I’ve lost.”

  Renny asked — “How much did you invest, Meg?”

  “I forget the exact amount,” she hedged. “But it was much more than I can afford to lose.”

  Renny smiled across the room at Dilly Warkworth. “There is one investor,” he said, “who has not squealed, and I admire her for it.”

  Her face was as though the sun had shone on it. She said — “I don’t mind. It was fun.”

  Piers said — “Perhaps you can afford to lose. I can’t. I put every dollar I had into it. Five hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “You’ve got what you deserve,” said Renny. “You led me to believe that you’d put it all in the bank.”

  “I believed the Indigo Lake was as safe as any bank.”

  “Why didn’t you ask my advice?”

  “Because Eden wanted everything kept quiet.”

  Meg cried — “It’s the same with me. Eden said he wanted everything kept quiet.”

  Lady Buckley, after settling her mother for the night, now returned.

  Renny said — “I suppose, Aunty, that you’re another victim whom Eden told to keep mum.”

  “I don’t like your way of putting it,” she said, “but that is how it was.” She swept to her chair by the fire with the effect of wearing a train. “Eden gave me to understand that secrecy was advisable.”

  Piers said — “And all the while he was lining his own pockets.”

  The villain of the piece stood sipping his cognac. An odd half-smile lighted his face. He said — “I know it’s pleasant to have someone to blame for your mistakes. But I must remind you — every single one of you was ready and eager to keep his part in it a secret.”

  “I admit that,” said Nicholas. “Nevertheless I think you had acquired a plausible way from this Kronk fellow and you exercised it on us.”

  Ernest said — “I cannot help thinking that there has been a very deliberate manipulation on Eden’s part.”

  Piers added, his tone in almost brutal contrast — “Eden deserves to be kicked and I’d like to do it.”

  Eden turned to smile at him. “My poor little man,” he said. “And only a short while ago you were so pleased to be in my company.”

  “I’d be pleased to see you outside and give you what I said.”

  “Boys, boys,” put in Meg. “Everyone is so tired. It’s been such an evening. And Christmas coming on!”

  “Nobody need expect a Christmas present from me,” said Piers.

  “Let’s see,” mused Eden, “what did you give us last year?”

  “Oh, I know I didn’t give much. I hadn’t the money to spend — but this year I had.”

  “Poor Pheasant,” said Eden. “She won’t get her present.”

  Meg drew back, startled. “Pheasant!”

  “Why, Meg, didn’t you know he’s sweet on Pheasant Vaughan?”

  Now every eye was on Piers.

  “I’m nothing of the sort,” he denied. “I hardly ever see the girl.”

  Meg said — “I’m very sure she is the last person Piers would take up with, knowing what he must know.”

  Piers gave his sister a bold rustic stare. “What about her?” he asked.

  Her face flamed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard!”

  “I haven’t heard anything against Pheasant.”

  “Can’t you understand that who she is, is against her?”

  “No.” He looked still bolder.

  Ernest put in mildly — “We must remember that we have a visitor.”

  “Rather late for remembering that, eh, Dilly?” laughed Renny.

  Dilly exclaimed passionately — “I wish that girl had ridden for you at the Show instead of me.”

  “You did very well,” he returned, with more kindness in his eyes than he usually gave her.

  “A Third! She’d have got a First, I’m convinced.”

  Meg said darkly — “The Horse Show is neither here nor there.”

  The fire crackled loudly for a moment, then abruptly died. The dogs, sleeping on the mat, gave it a suspicious look, then moved farther off, the spaniel Floss laying her head on the sheepdog’s furry side; he, with a grunt of satisfaction, again subsiding. The ormolu clock on the mantelshelf struck eleven.

  Ernest yawned and his eyes watered. He said — “Let us hope that Piers will cultivate wisdom. It is something we all need to cultivate — no matter what our years. We can always learn. For my part I am going to bed. What a different evening from what we expected.”

  “Good night, everybody,” said Nicholas. “I’m going too.”

  Piers crossed to the table where stood the brandy.

  Renny gave a sharp shake of the head and framed the word “No” with his lips.

  Piers exploded. “Why mayn’t I? I need it if anyone does.”

  “Go to your bed.”

  “I’ve lost everything. And look at the way I worked!”

  “I know.”

  “Everyone is howling about his own loss. Not a word about mine.”

  “No cheek, Piers. And no drink.”

  Nicholas said — “I did no howling, my boy. What I say is — we’ve all had confounded bad luck. Let’s to bed and forget it.” He put his arm about his sister. “Come along, Gussie. Be thankful Edwin isn’t alive to see you making ducks and drakes of his fortune.”

  Augusta did not like this and showed it.

  He added, to mollify her — “You’re a brave woman. No woman could have made less fuss over a heavy loss. What did you say the amount was?”

  “I did not say.”

  She suffered herself to be drawn to her feet and the two moved to the door with an air of almost jocularity on the part of Nicholas and sad dignity on Augusta’s. She said a goodnight to each in turn, her voice taking on a deeper note when she uttered Eden’s name.

  “Good night, Aunty,” he said. “Better luck next time.”

  Ernest said, pouring himself another drink — “I consider that remark in very bad taste.”

  “Sorry,” said Eden.

  Augusta said from the doorway — “There will not be another time.” She and Nicholas disappeared.

  Meg, with an audible yawn, also rose. She said — “I shall not sleep a wink tonight. Oh, how lucky you are, Renny! How I envy you! When I think of my tiny bit of money that I had hoarded through the years....”

  “Hoarded is good,” observed Piers, watching Ernest sip his cognac.

  She was not taking that sort of remark in silence. She said — “I notice a tendency to insolence in you, Piers. You must curb it.”

  “Huh,” he grunted.

  “There is nothing nicer in a young boy,” she went on, “than good manners toward his sister.” She gave him a reproving kind of kiss, winked hard, then brought herself to kiss Eden, then came to Renny. To him she whispered — “You must be severe with Piers — about that girl.”

  “Eden was only teasing him.” He kissed her cheek. “Sleep well, Meggie. Don’t worry.”

  She gave a groan, then asked — “Coming, Dilly?”

  “I think I shall find a book to read and relax by the fire. I’m a nighthawk, you know.”

  “I’ll build it up,” said Renny. He knelt by it, blowing its embers into little green tongues of flame with the bellows upon which Augusta had, in her youth, painted a spray of maiden-hair fern and three trilliums.

  When he rose and looked about him he found the room empty but for Dilly. He stood, bellows in hand, regarding her warily. The bellows might have been a weapon and he at bay. The room looked as though some physical encounter might have taken place in it. No chair was in its proper position, every cushion was shapeless, empty glasses stood about, one of them snapped off at the stem by Ernest’s tense fingers and concealed by him behind a begonia in a pot. Renny’s eyes came to rest on it and Dilly exclaimed:

  “Poor dear, he was so wrought up. First by the bad news — then by breaking the glass.”

  “No wonder,” said Renn
y. “It’s one of our best. Old Irish glass.”

  She gave a little laugh. “Doubtless you have plenty more.”

  If that was her mood he wasn’t afraid of her. He came and sat down on the sofa beside her. He said — “I can’t tell you how much I admire the way you’re taking this, Dilly. You’ve been a trump.”

  She fixed her eyes on his breast. She said low — “What is the loss of a thousand dollars — compared to what I feel here?” She struck her own breast.

  “Now, Dilly,” he said, almost as though he were reasoning with one of his young brothers, “you can’t make me believe that you’re suffering from frustrated love. I know the signs too well.”

  “That,” she said, “is one of the vainest remarks I’ve ever heard.”

  Imperturbably he lighted a cigarette. “I haven’t lived thirty-seven years for nothing.”

  “I wish I knew,” she sneered, “how many hearts you’ve broken in that time.”

  “One thing is certain,” he said. “Yours is not among them.”

  “I suppose you’re accustomed to seeing women in storms of tears.”

  “I have seen you cry and you were very touching.”

  “I haven’t a tear in me tonight. If you were to beat me back and blue, I wouldn’t cry.”

  “You are a very primitive girl, Dilly.”

  “Me?” She was astonished.

  “Yes. When you are angry at me you strike me. When your mood changes you talk of my beating you.”

  She said desperately — “Whatever way I approach you, it’s sure to be wrong.”

  “I think you were splendid tonight. When every single thought of the others was concentrated on their own loss, you made light of yours.”

  She cried — “What I said was that it is nothing compared —”

  “I know, I know,” he interrupted. “What I say is that you shall not suffer any loss through Eden’s bright ideas. I’ll see to that.”

  “I don’t want anything,” she said doggedly, “but that you should care for me.”

  “I admire you enormously.”

  “Admiration — pooh!”