But now Piers came out of the house, wearing white trousers and a soft white shirt.
“Look at him,” Finch giggled. “Isn’t he sweet?”
Wakefield was suffocating with laughter. “Isn’t he sweet? Isn’t he sweet?”
Both fell silent as Piers strode near.
He gave a little start, as of surprise, to see Pheasant still there. He asked, with an indifferent air — “How did you get on?”
Indifferently she returned — “Oh, all right.”
“Going on with the lessons?”
“I think so.”
He saw the pear in her hand. “Where did you get that?” he demanded, and took it from her. “It’s not fit to eat. It’s been pecked by the birds.” He threw it away. He turned to Finch. “Get some decent ones.”
Pheasant exclaimed — “Oh, that one was lovely. We haven’t any half so large.”
“These are the best in the countryside,” he returned, frowning. He continued to frown while Finch, with ridiculous alacrity, rushed to the tree and began to gather pears as though his life depended on it.
“Not so many, you lunatic!” shouted Piers.
Wakefield swarmed up the tree and hung there like a monkey. “Ripe pears!” he cried. “A kick apiece!”
Piers selected half-a-dozen from those Finch proffered. “I’ll carry them for you,” he said, and turned with dignity toward the ravine at Pheasant’s side.
“How are your uncles?” she asked, in a proper conversational tone.
“They’re fine, thanks.”
“And your grandmother?”
“Splendid considering her age.”
“It must be wonderful to have uncles and a grandmother.”
“I suppose it is.”
“And a sister and four brothers!”
“I could do without those two youngest.”
“Oh, don’t say that. What if anything happened to them?”
“Are you superstitious?”
Now she spoke like Mrs. Clinch. “Doom is always nears us.”
Piers began to wonder if he really liked her very much. He felt annoyed at himself for having changed into those white trousers. He felt a sudden fury at Finch for the laughter in his eyes. He felt ridiculous carrying the pears. He wanted to give them to her and have done with it.
They passed through the little wicket-gate at the bottom of the lawn and descended the path that led to the bridge. Whether to precede or follow he could not for a moment decide, so they wavered at the top of the path before she took the first steps downward. The stream was so low as to be almost hidden by the eager growth that hungered for its moisture. One of the cattails had burst and its soft down glistened in the deep shade of the ravine.
Pheasant pointed. “That’s where I saw the snake.”
“Ever been here since?”
“Yes.”
“See any more?”
“No. But once I saw you.”
He gave a little laugh, unaccountably pleased.
“Saw me?”
“Hm-hm.”
“What was I doing?”
“Just standing there on the bridge.”
“Looking like a fool, eh?”
“No. Looking — thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful, eh? Thoughts too deep for words, I guess.”
Now they were on the bridge. She asked — “Do you like poetry?”
“Gosh, no. You don’t, do you?”
She felt that she ought to say she didn’t but she was naturally truthful. “I don’t like many poems,” she said. “Only a few.”
“Well, of course, there are a few,” he conceded. “Like ‘The Revenge’ and ‘Horatius.’”
Her face lighted. “Oh, yes, I love them. They make me feel strong and brave.”
Now he liked her very much. “Let’s sit down for a bit,” he said. “It’s nice here and you could eat a pear.”
They sat on the bridge, their legs dangling. He laid the pears near her hand. He said — “Now you can begin.” They smiled into each other’s eyes.
“You have one too.”
“No, no, they’re for you.”
“Oh, please. I won’t, if you don’t. People look so disgusting eating fruit — juicy fruit.”
“Do they? I hadn’t thought of that.” He picked up the smallest pear and began to eat it with exaggerated daintiness, his little finger crooked.
“Do I look disgusting?” he asked.
She reddened. “I wish I hadn’t said that.”
“Do I look disgusting?” he insisted.
Driven, she answered — “You look — nice.”
Now they both were embarrassed and sat eating pears in silence till he said — “Let’s finish them. I’ll give you more tomorrow.”
Pheasant said — “I’m ravenous. I didn’t eat much lunch and — I’ve been so happy. It makes you hungry to enjoy yourself. Don’t you think so?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“I have often.”
“You think a lot, don’t you?”
She answered sedately — “Well, I have a good deal of time for thought. I’m not like you.”
Like a man of action he returned — “I’ve very little time for thought.” Then his sunburnt hand moved to hers and he added — “But I’ve thought a lot about you — since, you know when.”
They sat silent, holding hands.
After a time he wanted to free his hand but did not quite know how. If he drew his hand away, it might appear that he wanted to go. If he left it where it was…. She settled it for him by gently withdrawing hers.
She asked — “Does your brother Eden ever read his poetry to you?”
“Gosh, no. He and I have other things to talk of.”
“Oh.” She looked surprised and interested.
He had an almost irresistible desire to tell her all about the Indigo Lake Mine, but he conquered it and only said — “Eden has some quite good ideas. He and I are going to make a lot of money some day.”
“How wonderful.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s natural for a fellow to try to better himself while he’s young.”
“I suppose so. Mrs. Clinch says it’s wise to take time by the forelock.”
“You’re quite a one for proverbs, aren’t you?”
“Mrs. Clinch says there’d be a lot less misery in the world if people gave heed to them.”
Piers gave her a look of mingled amusement and severity. “Look here, you’re too young to always be quoting Mrs. Clinch.”
Suddenly coquettish, she demanded — “Whom should I quote? You?”
“That’s the idea. Quote me.”
A warm intimacy of atmosphere rose, as though from the stream, and enveloped them.
He said, rather breathlessly — “Shall we move on?”
She nodded and they rose and climbed the steep path that led up from the ravine into a little grove. The path then crossed a field beyond which was Maurice Vaughan’s house. Once they were in the grove he put his arm about her waist. A feeling of power enriched all his being.
Pretending not to notice his arm, she asked — “What will Eden do with the money?”
“Travel. Go to Italy.”
“And you?”
She turned his eyes full on him and he became aware of their beauty.
He gave a little laugh. “Oh, I have other plans. I’d be satisfied right here, if …”
“Yes?”
“If I knew there was someone who cared a lot about me.”
She could not speak. His arm tightened about her. Once again they kissed, but briefly, shyly. Then he asked:
“You’ll come to Jalna tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
They stood, reflected in each other’s eyes, eyes that expressed no desire, but rather a beaming surprise as though each discovered in the other a new person. He put out his hand and touched her.
“Well, goodbye.” he said.
“Goodbye.”
“We�
�ll come back this way tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t mind, did you?”
“Oh, no.”
“Goodbye.” He had heard Eden, talking on the telephone, call some girl “little one.” So, after a moment’s hesitation, he added — “little one.”
He turned then and almost ran from her. He did run down the path into the ravine and, exulting in his power, he would not cross the bridge but leaped over the stream, a flying white figure, and, panting a little, mounted the opposite steep.
IX
AUNT AUGUSTA AND DILLY
Piers had a desire to protect Pheasant, even a desire to fight for her, if there were anyone to fight. This new sensation of love made him feel aggressive, rather like the young turkey-cock on the lawn which spread his handsome tail, with a rustling sound, shook his fiery wattles, and turned round in front of his favourite hen. But there was none to challenge the young cock.
He stood on the green lawn before the house, his inward eye picturing who knew what combat? The glossy hen-turkey trilled softly to herself.
Piers stood watching them for a little, not quite knowing what to do with himself. By dressing in white he had precluded any further work that day. Well, he’d worked hard that summer, he deserved a rest. He saw Finch loafing in the porch and remembered the ridiculous way he’d behaved over gathering the pears, and what he’d heard him say. There’d been a jeering look on his face, a very irritating look. Piers felt he ought to do something about that.
He strolled across the lawn, the turkey-cock, with great dignity, making way for him. Finch gave rather a sheepish smile because of something he saw in Piers’s eyes.
Neither spoke till Piers said quietly when he stood beside Finch — “I suppose you thought you were being funny.”
“Funny? When?”
“You know when. I have pretty good hearing and I heard you say wasn’t I sweet.”
Finch giggled — “Well — aren’t you?”
“Not a bit.”
“But l-look here,” stammered Finch, “I didn’t mean any harm — not — anything at all.”
“Did you expect me to like being called sweet by you?”
“Why — I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Then why did you stop when I came near?”
“I — I dunno. Honestly, Piers.”
Piers moved closer to him. He moved right against him and crowded him against the wall. Finch growled in discomfort as Piers’s muscular body inexorably pressed on him. Now Piers’s eyes were laughing into his. Finch would not speak, he would not groan. He thought — “No matter what Piers does to me I won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me,” but, in spite of himself, he gave a gasp, as though air were being pressed out of him.
The door opened on to the porch and their eldest brother stood beside them. His eyebrows shot up when he saw the look on Finch’s face.
“What’s this?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” answered Piers, moving away from Finch, who still remained as though plastered against the wall.
Renny gave a glance into Finch’s flushed face. He could see that he had been hurt. He said, “You two are not very well matched. And Piers — if you feel like pushing anyone about, try me.”
The boys remained mute, looking at him. Authority and the atmosphere of the soldier emanated from him. He said — “Remember that Aunt Augusta and Miss Warkworth are here and don’t let’s have any rough house. You know Aunt Augusta doesn’t like it.”
“Gran does,” said Finch, in a belligerent voice. He straightened himself, nursing his aching shoulder.
Renny laughed. “It amuses Gran but it does not amuse Aunty.”
“Why did she bring that girl with her?” asked Finch.
Now Renny’s eyebrows came down in a puzzled frown. “Damned if I know.”
“I know,” said Piers.
“Why, then?”
“You won’t like it if I say.”
“I shan’t mind.”
“Well, then, to marry you. She has money.”
Renny gave a short laugh and wheeled to re-enter house.
Finch asked — “What are they doing in there now?”
“Having tea. You’re late. Tidy yourself, Finch. You look elegant, Piers.”
“Well, I thought it only decent to please Aunty.”
In spite of the ache in his shoulder Finch gave a hoot of derisive laughter. Renny said to him — “Let me see you raise that arm.”
Finch raised it and grimaced with pain. A small smile dimpled Piers’s sunburnt cheek.
Renny said to him — “Don’t do that again.” He gave Finch a gentle push. “Go upstairs and make yourself presentable.” He followed Finch into the hall.
Finch muttered — “I don’t feel like going in for tea.”
Renny asked sharply — “Did he hurt you badly?”
“No. But … there’s that girl.”
“Get upstairs with you and brush your hair. The girl won’t notice you.”
“How long will she stay?”
“A month or more. She’s a sort of connection, you know. Her mother was a Whiteoak.”
“Hmph. Meg says she’s been ill.”
“Nothing worse than a disappointment in love.”
“Good Lord — she’s had time to get over that. How old is she, Renny?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Old enough to know better.”
They were having tea in the drawing-room, where a table was spread, with thin bread and butter, strawberry jam, scones and raisin bread, brittle ginger cookies, and an iced cake. The group appeared much more feminine than was usual with the addition of the two visitors. The elder was Adeline Whiteoak’s only daughter, Lady Buckley, a widow whose husband had inherited a baronetcy. Her title had always been a source of irritation rather than pride to her mother, who, being the granddaughter of an impoverished Irish marquis, looked on an English baronetcy of only two generations as insignificant, and, as she sometimes remarked, did not approve of titles. Yet it might have been noticed that she was never in the company of a new acquaintance for long before she would mention the name of her grandfather; being very old, she had forgotten many things but never did she forget that.
Lady Buckley was in her early seventies, an imposing figure, as tall and stately in her bearing as her mother was bent with the weight of years, and in bearing waggish rather than stately. Lady Buckley still wore her hair in a Queen Alexandra fringe, and her dresses were in keeping with this. Her hair was very thick and of a purplish brown. Her complexion was rather sallow, and her prominent dark eyes gave the impression that what she saw was not pleasing to her. Yet her nature was amiable and her kindness to her family never failed. All her married life she had spent in Devonshire but with frequent visits to Jalna. During these visits old Adeline was inclined to be irascible or what Meg called “showy-off.” This she was being at the present moment, eating more cake than was good for her and audibly drinking her tea.
The young woman whom Lady Buckley had brought with her was Dilly Warkworth, a distant cousin whose home was in Yorkshire. She had an illness, though her round face showed no sign of it, and the doctor had recommended a sea voyage. She had been visiting Lady Buckley and so it had been arranged that she should come with her to Jalna. She had dark-brown fuzzy hair, large light eyes of an uncertain colour, and a complexion so exquisite that her features seemed unimportant.
Now as Finch entered the room, his aunt exclaimed: “This boy had grown inches since I saw him two years ago. And I do think he’s better-looking.”
Meg said — “Well, I’m glad you think so, Aunt Augusta. The poor fellow is at the awkward age and it is good for him to feel that he has improved.” Meg raised her voice as though Finch were deaf. “Aunt Augusta thinks you are much better-looking, Finch.”
Wakefield put it — “She didn’t say much better. She only said better.”
Augusta put out a long hand and stroked the little boy’s ha
ir. “There is no lack of looks here,” she said, “but such delicacy.”
“Yes, indeed,” Meg spoke sadly, “his health gives us a good deal of anxiety. His heart, you know —”
Renny frowned. “Please don’t discuss it in front of him.”
Miss Warkworth drew Wakefield on to the chair beside her. “Never mind, I’m delicate too.”
Wakefield looked up into her face. “I think you’re nice,” he said, “and pretty.”
She laughed and hugged him to her.
“What’s she laughing at?” demanded the grandmother of Ernest. “I want to hear the joke.”
“Sh, Mamma,” he whispered. “There is no joke.”
“Hmph. I want some cake. That dark sticky cake.”
Ernest brought it to her. She said — “Tell Eden I must speak with him.”
Eden, hearing his name, came and sat beside her. He said, in a low voice — “Remember, Granny, not an indiscreet word.”
She chuckled. “Not a word. But listen. That girl has brass….”
“For God’s sake hush, Gran!”
But she persisted. “Get her to invest. Why not?”
“Yes, yes, but we can’t talk of it now. Have some more tea.”
“Thanks. I will.” Then she turned her aquiline face, surmounted by a beribboned lace cap, toward the girl. “This is a wonderful country, isn’t it? A rich country. We have gold mines here.”
“Yes,” answered Dilly. “So I’ve heard.”
“Did you hear of any mine by name?”
“No. Just that it is a great country for investors.”
Nicholas and Ernest were amused by their mother’s sudden interest in mines. Neither had an inkling that the other or she had put money into Indigo Lake. Eden felt something approaching panic.
Now she said — “What you should do, my girl, is to marry out here. You’ve a choice right in this house. Invest in a husband and a gold mine.”
Eden, for the hundredth time, wished he had never drawn her into his net. Sometimes he almost believed she took pleasure in teasing him. Yet she had the good sense to refrain from pursuing the subject. He felt sure the day would come when the temptation to speak outright of Indigo Lake would be too much for her. By the time that day came he hoped to have enough put by to pay for a year, or even two years, in Europe. The mounting of his savings account ran through his thoughts like a golden thread. And now his thoughts turned to his aunt and the visitor. Why not give them the opportunity to increase their income? On her last visit he had heard Lady Buckley remark that, since the war, certain of her investments did not yield what they formerly had. Indeed, it seemed a shame that the entire family should not put all they possessed into the gold mine. Especially Eden wished this for Renny, who was often pressed for money. Yet it would be useless to try to interest him.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 160
