He answered easily — “Been dabbling a bit in mining stock. Gold.”
Pheasant was impressed even more than he had expected.
“Gold,” she exclaimed. “However did you know how to do it?”
“It’s easy enough,” he said, “if you know the ropes.” He returned the envelope to his pocket.
Pheasant’s expression was one of profound respect.
“Just imagine!” she said. “But sometimes people lose their money. Mrs. Clinch was reading in the newspaper about a man who —”
Piers interrupted with some severity — “The thing is to know when to sell out.”
In the street outside the shop he asked — “How are you going to get home?”
“Mrs. Clinch and I came by train. She’s at a friend’s house. I’m to meet her there.”
“I wish you’d drive back with me.”
He was not sorry when she declined because she had so much to do. This had been a pleasant half-hour but it was enough. Yet, when she said she was going to have her skates sharpened, he was at once interested again. “You skate?” he asked. “Where?”
“Oh, the creek has made the loveliest pond in one of our fields. I’m the only one who goes. It’s as smooth as glass.”
He saw himself skating with her. He said, almost brusquely — “Mind if I come too?”
“If you like,” she returned with dignity. “It’s free. I skate every afternoon.”
The very next day Piers arrived at the pond soon after Pheasant had put on her skates. He did not at once join her but stood concealed among some snow-laden bushes, watching her glide round and round the pond with more enjoyment than skill. Her pleasure in the rhythmic movement was obvious, from the red tassel on her cap to the bright blades of her newly sharpened skates. She had colour in her cheeks, which was new to Piers. He felt a quickening desire to skate with her.
She did not see him till he flew past her, then turned with a flourish to face her, skating backward. He threw her a bold, beguiling look, as though to lead her to unheard-of dangers and delights. He held out his two bare hands and she put her red-mittened hands in them. She ceased to take strokes but just put her two feet together and was drawn on by him. They moved away from the pond and up the narrow creek, which was wonderfully smooth beneath the film of snow that covered it.
She said — “How beautifully you skate! I didn’t know anyone could skate so well.”
“It’s nothing. You should see the rink at the university and what some of the fellows can do.”
“But it wouldn’t be such fun as this.”
A happy gleam came from the blueness of his eyes.
“You bet it wouldn’t,” he said.
A twig, frozen in the ice, tripped him. He all but fell. He clutched her to him. He said — “It’s getting a bit rough here. We’d better go back to the pond.” Whatever he suggested was right, she thought. Their swaying movements, hand in hand, round the pond, dwarfed any excitements she had hitherto known. Piers was saying to himself — “Why — she’s beautiful! Funny I never noticed it before.” He said aloud — “I like your red cap and mitts. They’re nice and bright.”
“They were brought out of my Christmas money.”
“But it’s not Christmas yet!” he exclaimed, almost in consternation.
“I know. But I’m always given money for Christmas — some while ahead. I buy what I like with it.”
“But when the day comes. What then?”
“It’s pretty much like a Sunday. Quiet, you know. But turkey, of course. Once I had a tree — all by myself. I shall never forget that. It was planted afterward and it’s still growing.”
A warm pity for her surged through all his being. He thought of the great Christmas tree at Jalna, with presents for everyone. He wished he might invite her to join them. When they sat down to rest on the bank he said — “Christmas is a great day with us. Mysterious, you know. Everybody going about trying to hide something. Presents for everybody from everybody.”
“It must be wonderful.”
“Yes,” he agreed judicially. “Though it’s rather expensive.” He gave a sudden explosion of laughter. “Not that cost signifies anything to me.”
The silence of the countryside was heavy about them. Snow weighted the sky. Piers said — “I’ll bring a shovel and clear the ice tomorrow. Will you be here — same time?”
She nodded happily.
Looking at her skates, he asked — “Do you remember the day we kissed — by the bridge?”
“In a kind of way.”
“In a kind of way. That’s funny. How d’you mean kind of way?”
“It seems like a dream.”
His eyes moved up as far as her mittens. “Like to try it again?” he asked.
“I think it would be better not.”
“Why — I’d like to know?”
“Mrs. Clinch says habits grow on you.”
He gave a snort and demanded — “What if it did?”
Pheasant took off her mittens and rubbed her palms together.
“Hands cold?” he asked.
“No. Too warm.”
He picked up a mitten and drew it over his fingers. “Look,” he said. “How small for me! I have the largest hands in the family.”
She gave them a look askance, but said — “They’re nice, though. Manly, I mean.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he muttered, trying to hide his pleasure.
Now he lolled back on the snowy bank as though it were a quilt and gazed quietly up at the sky. He said:
“Now to go back to kissing.”
She gave him her askance look. “How can we go back to something we hadn’t begun?”
“Well, I suppose not,” he said, rebuffed, then added — “Anyhow I’m not much of a one to kiss. Not like the rest of my family.”
Full of curiosity she asked — “Are they? When?”
“Oh, any old time. They’re great kissers.”
She turned her eyes, dark and wistful, to his. She said — “Your brother Renny is the only person I can remember being kissed by.”
“Well — I like that! So I’m nobody.”
“You’re different. I used to sit on his knee sometimes when he’d come to see Maurice, when I was young, and he’d give me a kiss.... Let’s skate again.”
They were scarcely on the ice when two other skaters appeared — Young Finch and his friend George Fennel. Piers was annoyed by this but Pheasant greeted them gladly. Soon all four were skimming about together, in a fashion so carefree, untrained, and crude that it would have been shocking to the grim experts of today.
XXII
THE REGAINING OF EQUILIBRIUM
Mr. Patton’s visit was very depressing to Adeline Whiteoak. He proved to her, in cold figures, how mistaken she had been to entrust the investing of a fairly large sum of money to an inexperienced youth like Eden, and a scoundrel such as Kronk. He read aloud to her newspaper articles telling of the man’s machinations in Canada and the United States. He told her just how much the poorer she was because of her recklessness, and though the figures went in at one of her ears and out the other, the hard fact remained. He reduced her to a state of submission to his judgement which was to endure for the rest of her life, so far as investments were concerned.
When Mr. Patton had gone she collected what cash she had on hand, which was a little more than eleven dollars, and hid it in the bottom of the box where she kept her caps. She then experienced a feeling of relief, fed Boney a special titbit, put on her second-best cap, and sent for Eden.
“You scallywag,” she said, as soon as he was inside the door.
He said, under his breath — “Good God, have I got to go through this again!”
“Speak louder, you rascal,” she said.
“Gran,” he replied clearly, “I am in the same boat as you.”
“What did you do with the money I gave you?” she demanded.
“Mr. Kronk took it, Gran. And he took mine and Meg’s
and Uncle Nick’s and Uncle Ernest’s. Everybody’s but Renny’s.”
“Ha, he didn’t take Renny’s, eh? Why?”
“Renny wouldn’t invest, Gran.”
She chuckled. “He’s close, he is. Like his Scotch grandfather, Dr. Ramsay. What do you say you have lost?”
“Practically everything, Gran.”
“Everything, eh? Well, well — we’re in the same boat then. But you’ll not be able to say your old grandmother is close. Hand me that box. The one where I keep my caps.”
She leaned forward, breathing hard, fumbling beneath the crisp lace and rosette ribbon bows of the caps. She produced a five-dollar bill and thrust it into Eden’s hand. She looked up at him, her face bright with the smile of her young womanhood that had enchanted those who knew her.
“Money is always handy,” she said, “to a young man.”
Eden bent down to hug her. He was forgiven. That was the thing. She too embraced him. She asked:
“What day is it?”
“Saturday. Going to church tomorrow, Gran, in your new fur coat and all?”
She groaned at remembrance of the coat. But when the morning came she was ready to go, long before the time. An impressive collection of petticoats, underdrawers, overdrawers, vests, and spencers were put on before she could be got into her black cashmere dress, with the heavily beaded bodice and the lace ruching at throat and wrists. There were stockings and overstockings, shoes and overshoes, gloves and a muff. There was her widow’s bonnet, with its voluminous veil. By the time she struggled into the new fur coat she was red in the face and panting. At last she was seated by that window in the drawing-room which was nearest to the spot where Hodge would draw up the pair of bays and the old sleigh. He arrived promptly at half-past ten, and for a quarter of an hour she regarded him complacently through the window. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed her black silhouette, set his hat at a more Sundayish angle. Hodge was proud of the bays and the old phaeton they drew for the greater part of the year and the capacious red sleigh that emerged when there was snow on the ground. There were few such equipages about nowadays. Strangers turned to stare at the glossy pair, with their polished, nickel-mounted harness and flowing manes and tails. For threescore years and ten, horses had been impatiently pawing the ground as they awaited the coming of Adeline Whiteoak.
Seated by the window she could tell by the way the tails and manes of the horses were blown that there was a high wind. She made up her mind that, if she felt the cold, this would be her last outing till spring — new fur coat or no. However, she was at this moment so very warm that she was overcome and fell asleep. She dreamed that it was sixty years back and she was waiting for her husband to come to church with her. She dreamed that it was a hot summer’s day. She was dreadfully warm and Philip was late. Unusual for him. She felt herself becoming annoyed, then really angry. Whatever could he be doing? If anyone were kept waiting, it should not be she! Then she heard a step, felt a hand on her shoulder. The step was quick — a running step — the hand was small.... Philip had sent one of the children with a message from him. She turned her head, raised her heavy eyelids, and looked into the face of her youngest grandson.
“Wake up, my grandmother,” he said with his most dignified air.
“The church bells will soon be ringing.”
“Ha, where am I?” She was dazed, her long crêpe veil had fallen over her face.
“On your way to church, my grandmother. In your new fur coat.”
“Fur coat! In summer!”
“It’s winter, Granny. Almost Christmas.”
Renny and Piers came into the room.... Still a bit dazed, she was lifted to her feet. On her either side they supported her descent over the icy front steps to the sleigh. With a heave they got her into it and she sank, a great bundle of fur, into the comfort of the seat. The great black bearskin rug was drawn up about her. She had not, since waking, felt able to utter more than a mumbled word or two, but now the ice-cold air revived her. She smiled into Renny’s face and said:
“I was ready too soon. Who’s coming with me?”
He stood bareheaded, the snow falling on his red hair.
“Where’s your hat?” she demanded. “I won’t have my grandson going to church bareheaded.”
“It’s in the car, Gran.”
“Who’s coming in the sleigh with me?”
Her two sons appeared, wearing topcoats with large fur collars. They climbed in and seated themselves beside her. Hodge eased the reins, but, before the horses dashed off, Wakefield clambered to the seat beside him. The many silver bells, those that were strung right round the bellies of the horses, and the large deep-toned ones that hung above their shoulders, set up a mellow jingling. Over the polished bright-red back of the sleigh a second bearskin rug adorned by tails was placed. This was to rest one’s body against and also to make a fine show as it streamed out behind. Above it floated old Adeline’s voluminous veil.
The muscles rippled beneath the glittering flanks of the horses. The scarlet tassel on Wakefield’s cap bobbed. Nicholas and Ernest waved a goodbye to those on the steps. Down the drive and out of sight they went, the horses’ hooves sending clots of clean snow over the rug that wrapped the knees of Hodge and Wakefield.
The motor-car, in its blackness, was a melancholy sight after the sleigh. Its grunting, as it started, was an offence to the ear after the music of the bells. Behind the wheel was Renny. Meg quickly secured the seat beside him. Dilly, Eden, and Piers sat together in the back. Lady Buckley, suffering from a migraine, had remained in her room. Last of the family to appear was Finch. He ran out of the house, dressed for church, but with a distraught expression, one hand held to his cheek.
Meg said — “No room in the car, dear. You’ll just run across the fields, like a good boy.”
“I don’t wanna go,” he mumbled. “My tooth aches.”
His sister looked her compassion. “What a shame! But, if you will look on the top shelf of my bedroom cupboard, you’ll find a bottle with toothache drops. They’ll soon make it better.”
“It aches,” he muttered. “I can’t go.”
Renny said — “I know all about these headaches and toothaches that appear just at church time.”
“But this is real. It aches like the dickens.”
“You didn’t speak of it yesterday.”
“It only began ten minutes ago.”
“Don’t let me hear any more about it.”
Piers said — “We shall be late.”
Off they went, leaving Finch on the snowy steps, the cold wind causing the tooth to jump fairly out of his head. He staggered into the hall, kicking the door shut after him. He said loudly — “I won’t go. I won’t! I’m damned if I will.”
“Wot’s the trouble?” enquired Wragge.
“Nobody cares how I suffer!” shouted Finch.
“Toothache, is it?”
“Raging. I wish they had it.”
“You can’t tell me nothing about a toothache. Every tooth in me ’ead ’ad a bout of it — one time or another. There’s no peace till you ’ave them all out.”
“Oh, gosh, I don’t want to do that.”
“It’s the only cure. But for relief a big mouthful of whisky, ’eld in the mouth, is pretty good.”
“Oh, oh,” moaned Finch. “It’s jumping.”
Wragge brought him, from the dining room, whisky in a glass. “Try this,” he said.
Finch took a large mouthful; tilted his head to allow the aching tooth the full benefit of it; swallowed it; took another, while Wragge watched him solicitously. He fixed his eyes, in which hope lightened the misery, on Wragge. After a little he solemnly nodded.
Wragge said — “Swallow. Then tike another mouthful. ’Old it. Swallow. I never knew it to fail. On the tooth or in the stomach whisky ’as a beneficial effect.” As Finch followed his directions he added — “Of course, you’ll never ’ave any real comfort till you ’as them all out. That’s what I’ve found.�
��
Finch violently shook his head at this suggestion — choked — swallowed — took more whisky. A look of benign relief came into his eyes. As he swallowed the last mouthful he executed a few steps of a jig with great agility.
“Did the trick, eh?” grinned Wragge.
“You bet. Why, it’s practically stopped. I believe if I took the least little drop more it would stop.”
“Right you are,” said Wragge, and brought him more.
A glowing warmth ran through all Finch’s being — a warm, grateful relief. Yet he felt at the same time a rebellious anger toward his eldest brother. Tyrant. Unfeeling tyrant who had a mouthful of teeth that never gave any trouble, yet would goad a sufferer like himself to go to church.
“Feel pretty good now?” Wragge asked. “Able for the windy walk across the fields?”
“Not on your life,” said Finch.
“Well, I can’t say I blime you.”
“I’ll show him,” Finch added, in a loud, aggressive voice, “whether he can order me about as though I was a dog. I’ve no intention of going to church. I never did intend to. I don’t think much of churchgoing anyhow. What good does it do you?”
“None that I’ve discovered.” Wragge was still grinning. “That is, for me. With your family it’s different. Your grandfather built the church.
His descendants’as got to keep it going.”
“Not me,” snarled Finch. “I’ll be damned if I go ... bloody damned if I go!”
In a mysterious way Wragge seemed to be floating round and round him, and always with that mischievous grin on his face, his eyes laughing.
“I don’t blime you,” Wragge.
“I’ve stood about enough,” yelled Finch. “From this time forward I’m going to go my own way and I’m sorry for anyone who interferes with me.”
Out of a face large as a pumpkin that floated somewhere near the ceiling Wragge reiterated — “Don’t blime ... don’t blime you.”
Finch watched this pumpkin face as it floated, at first with curiosity, then with a certain distaste. He found he was holding a glass in his hand. He tossed it up and caught it. He found this amusing, tossed it higher and higher. The last time it almost hit the ceiling and would have fallen to the floor had not Wragge caught it.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 173
