06 The Whiteoak Brothers

by Mazo de La Roche

  There was a long narrow box-room at the end of the attic, where trunks, old clothes, old magazines, old picnic hampers, birdcages, fishing tackle, and a thousand odds and ends were kept. There was the old brass-bound leather trunk where was kept the splendid uniform which his grandfather had worn. Every spring there was a ceremony when the contents of this trunk were carried to the grassy lawn at the back of the house, hung on a clothes-line, brushed and aired. The grandmother always presided over this ceremony, supported on the arm of one of her sons and ejaculating in her harsh old voice that had been one of the sweetest in Ireland — “Oh, but he was a fine-looking man! You don’t see his like nowadays. Nor even in his time. How the women stared at him! But I kept him for my own…. Is that a mothhole, Nicholas? Let me see … Thank God, no…. Let me feel the cloth in my fingers…. Ah …” And tears would roll down her cheeks.

  Finch laid his hand on that trunk wherein was locked his mother’s wedding dress and veil. Who kept the key of that, he wondered. Meg, he supposed. And why had he never been shown these things? He had as much right to mourn over relics as anyone. His mother had died soon after Wakefield’s birth and she’d had a hard time at his own birth. Six hours in labour, his grandmother had said … on such a day as this…. He shuddered…. Why might he not see the things in the trunk? Why was he treated so? Downstairs this miserable day was being tolerably passed by the group about the fire, by Gran snugly eating her breakfast in bed, by Renny in the stables. Only he was the outsider. Alone … alone on his birthday … Not a present — not a good wish — not even the customary whacks on the back from Piers!

  A little moth miller zigzagged past him and he all but put his hand to crush it, then changed his mind. Let it lay its eggs where it would. Let the worms produced devour what they would. They had as great a hunger as Grandmother at her tray and perhaps, in the sight of God, as much right to eat.

  The rain thundered on the slope of the roof, made gurgling noises in the eaves. The roof leaked in one corner. There was the spot adjoining his own bedroom…. Let it leak. It was none of his business. Let the moth and the flood share the house between them…. In weary melancholy he lay down on the bare floor, resting his head on a canvas dunnage bag. Tears filled his eyes, and somehow he felt the better for them. He was alone. He was at the end of things. He did not care. He heard someone give a hoarse sob and wondered if it might be he….

  When he woke he felt cold and stiff. The rain had somewhat lessened but the sky had darkened with its load of rain to come. The clear treble voice of his youngest brother came to him. “Finch,” he called, as he mounted the stairs. “Finch, where are you?” Timidly, as though he remembered stories of ghosts and witches, he opened the door and put his small pointed face and curly dark head inside.

  “Why are you lying on the floor?” he asked in surprise.

  “Because I’m not standing up and poking my nose into other people’s business.”

  “Oh.” Wakefield now assumed the manner of his Uncle Ernest.

  “Well, you’re wanted, my boy.”

  “Who wants me?”

  “Everybody. It’s dinnertime.” The family at Jalna still held to the country custom of dinner in the middle of the day and still drank tea at that meal. “Tea” itself was eaten at five o’clock and a substantial supper at eight.

  “Why — why, it’s impossible.” Finch got up and stretched. “I’ve only been here a little while. I was studying and I …” No, he would not say he fell asleep.

  “What were you studying? I don’t see any books.”

  “Did you never hear of doing problems in your head? Well, that’s what I was doing.”

  “It’s dinnertime. You’re to hurry.”

  The sound of the rain was broken by the crescendo resonance of the brass gong, sounded by Wragge.

  “There! Didn’t I tell you?” Wakefield jumped up and down in excitement. He ran to Finch and tugged at his hand. “Do hurry.”

  “I ought to tidy myself.”

  “There’s no time.”

  Finch suddenly felt gentle toward the little brother. He let himself be led down the two flights of stairs to the door of the dining room. Strangely it was shut. With a flourish Wakefield opened it and shouted —

  “Here he is! Here he is!”

  Finch was dazed by what met his eyes. The family were assembled, standing about the table — Meg and Renny at either end — Grandmother and the two uncles on one side — Eden and Piers on the other, with his place awaiting him between Piers and Wakefield. Wakefield had run to his own chair beside Meg, on which was a thick volume of British Poets to raise him to a comfortable level. But why were they standing up waiting for him? And as for the table — surely it had not been made to look like this for him.

  The yellow velour curtains had been drawn to shut out the weather. The heavy silver candelabrum had been set on the shining damask on the table. The candlelight glimmered in the eyes of the smiling family, made their smiles beautiful. Grandmother stood bent, her knuckles on the table, eager to sit down, the purple ribbons in her best cap trembling. She grinned up at Finch. “Happy birthday, you young rascal,” she called out. “Come and kiss me.”

  “Happy birthday! Many happy returns of the day!” sang out his brothers, sister, and uncles.

  It was almost too much. Indeed it was altogether too much — the transition from melancholy and neglect, to this warmth of kinship, this beaming acknowledgment of the day, this glory of candlelight, fruit, and little dishes of nuts and raisins, as though it were Christmas…. He stumbled over Renny’s spaniel Merlin, because his eyes were strangely blurred, and almost fell into his grandmother’s arms. The spaniel yelped and scuttled beneath the table.

  “Steady, steady, old lady,” said Nicholas, supporting her. “What a clumsy fellow you are, Finch.”

  The grandmother gave him a resounding kiss. His uncles slapped him on the back. Meg held out her plump arms and enfolded him. “We thought we’d give you a nice surprise, Finch, dear, by pretending we’d forgotten all about your birthday. Wasn’t it fun? It was all my idea.”

  “Wonderful fun,” mumbled Finch, against her cheek.

  “Now sit down and eat a good meal. You are so dreadfully thin. Then we shall have the presents.”

  Wragge had placed a platter on which was a joint of beef, surrounded by Yorkshire pudding, in front of Renny, who, after testing the edge of the knife with his thumb, at once set about carving it.

  “I know what you’re getting,” said Wakefield. “I wish my birthday would hurry up. June is a better time to be born in than March.”

  “Attend to your food,” said Nicholas.

  “I haven’t any. No fat, Renny, please.”

  “Dish gravy,” put in Grandmother. “I do like dish gravy. And Yorkshire pudding.”

  “There you are, Gran. You know what’s good for you.”

  When it was Finch’s turn to be served, such an enormous helping was put on his plate that even he, with his growing boy’s appetite, was a little abashed. “Oh, look here, Renny, what do you think I am? A rhinoceros?”

  “More like an ostrich,” Piers said.

  “He’ll be better-looking as he gets older. He has the Court nose. He cannot look quite undistinguished with that,” said kindly Ernest.

  “What’s that about the Court nose?” demanded Grandmother, having herself been a Court.

  “Finch has it,” cried Wakefield.

  She peered across the table at Finch, a bit of Yorkshire pudding clinging to her underlip. “I don’t see it,” she said.

  “He’s just wiped it off,” laughed Piers. “He’s been crying.”

  Grandmother retrieved the bit of pudding with her tongue. “I won’t have the nose made fun of,” she declared.

  A spirited discussion on the personal appearance of both Courts and Whiteoaks ensued. Finch was forgotten. He had, for a wonder, little appetite. Even when the birthday cake, with fifteen candles, arrived, he felt no hunger for it. When he tried to blow o
ut the candles, with one great puff, he had to make three attempts before he managed it.

  “I could do better myself,” said Grandmother.

  Later he was presented with a number of quite expensive gifts. The year before he had been given a bicycle. He was a lucky boy and he knew it, yet somehow the spiritual clouds of the morning were not quite shifted by the sunshine of this hour. He had been the subject of good wishes, yet could not feel as he knew he ought to feel. He stood staring out of the library window at the rain that had become only a grey drizzle. From the hall he heard the sound of the grandfather clock preparing to strike — a kind of rattling wheeze. But, before it reached the point, the black marble clock, with the gilt face, which stood on the mantelshelf in this room, gave out its musical effortless notes. One-two-three. Instantly, as though in resentment at this forestalling, the grandfather clock struck harsh and strong. The Dresden clock in the drawing-room made its sweet response. All three eager to push forward into the mystery ahead.

  His sister came up behind him and clasped him about the middle, she so plump, he so thin.

  She said — “I do think it was fun, don’t you, Finch, our pretending we’d forgotten all about your birthday? You really were taken in, weren’t you?”

  “Sure. It was lots of fun.”

  “It was all my idea.”

  “It certainly was fun.”

  “And you do like the fountain pen I gave you? And all the presents from the others?”

  “It’s a beauty. Everything’s fine.”

  “Last birthday you were given a bicycle.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think you’re a lucky boy.”

  “I certainly am.”

  “You’ll remember this birthday.”

  “You bet I shall.”

  II

  INDIGO LAKE

  Eden did not often make a confidant of Piers, so that when he beckoned Piers to follow him into his room, shut the door after them, and asked — “Can you keep a secret?” Piers felt a glow of pleasure.

  “Of course I can,” he answered.

  Eden perched himself on his desk and lighted a cigarette. “I’m an idiot for telling this, but I simply can’t help it. It’s so interesting.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well … I know a way of making quite a lot of money … if I can get others interested.”

  Piers liked money. All the young Whiteoaks liked it, but, though they lived well, there was seldom much cash available to them. Their grandmother had a fair-sized fortune, comfortably invested, but she hated to part with money. Indeed, she liked to pose as rather badly off and never dropped a hint as to whom her will would benefit. But it was usually taken for granted that Renny would be her heir. He had inherited the estate from his father, her youngest son Philip, and it was natural that she should make her home with him, as she had with his father. Indeed it had been stipulated in her husband’s will that Jalna should always provide a home for her. Nicholas and Ernest, so long as they had plenty of money to spend, had spent it in London, only returning to Jalna during the war. They were welcome doubly, for their family held them in great affection. Their brother Philip and his second wife had died within a few months of each other while Renny was with his regiment in France.

  Piers now said — “I’m interested in making money. How’s it to be done?”

  A smile flickered across Eden’s lips. He said — “I hadn’t thought of you. But, of course, if you’d like to invest in this thing — if you have any capital — you’re welcome to.”

  Piers was disappointed. “Oh, I thought you meant me.”

  “I do mean you — if you have the wherewithal.”

  Piers had, during the past two years, helped with the work of the farm in his holidays, ploughing the land, learning the methods of spraying the apple orchard, grading and packing apples for shipment, as well as helping to school polo ponies. At the end of the coming term he would matriculate, quit school, and settle down to the work he loved. He strained toward the day.

  He now said — “I have two hundred dollars saved.” He could not keep the pride out of his voice.

  Eden looked at him in wonder. “However do you do it?” He exclaimed.

  “I’ve worked pretty hard, haven’t I? All you do in your spare time is to write poetry.”

  “I’m no good at physical labour.”

  “Well, of course, you’re going to be a lawyer. What a life! Gosh, I’d hate it.”

  Again Eden smiled. “I believe I am going to hate it too,” he said. Then his voice became confidential. “Listen, Piers. The other day I met a man named Kronk in the city. He’s a mining man and he’s one of a company who are developing a new gold mine in the north. It’s called the Indigo Lake Mine. They’ve found rich deposits there. As they are just in the early stages of this project they are interested in quite — well, what you might call insignificant shareholders — like you and me.”

  Piers was astonished. “Have you got money too?”

  “No, not exactly. But I should get a commission on the shares I sell. Why, look here, Piers, this Kronk told me the stock is rising so fast that he knows a man who is making ten percent on his investment and if he chose to sell out today he could double his money. But naturally he wouldn’t dream of selling.”

  Piers’s prominent blue eyes were bright with the lust for gain. He asked — “How much are the shares?”

  “Fifty cents each.”

  “Fine! I’ll take four hundred.”

  Eden gave Piers an approving smile. “Good man! I thought you would.”

  Then Piers’s face fell. “What will Renny say? He’ll never let me.”

  “He mustn’t know; he has nothing of the speculator in him, except in horseflesh. We must keep it dark. Then — when you have made a good fat profit, you may like to tell him.” He gave Piers a cigarette, adding — “I’m going to tackle the uncles now and see if they’d like to join in the fun.”

  Piers laughed sceptically. He was feeling immensely exhilarated and mature. He said, blowing a smoke ring — “They’ll never speculate again. Uncle Ernest lost a lot of money once, didn’t he?”

  “This is different. It’s absolutely safe. You should hear Mr. Kronk talk of it. He’s put everything he owns into it. And his wife too. She’s put everything she owns into it.”

  Piers was now even more impressed. He asked — “How did you meet him?”

  “Met him on the train. I must introduce you. He’s quite an amazing fellow. Come up from scratch. Look at this prospectus he gave me.”

  The two pored over the bright-coloured prospectus, Piers’s muscular hands now and again touching Eden’s slender, loosely put together ones. When Piers had gone Eden sat down by the desk, as though weary. Why, he thought, resting his head on his hands, was he forced to go through all this in order to secure enough money for his heart’s desire? His uncles, when they were young, had taken the pleasures of travel as a matter of course. Renny had been about a good deal — to Ireland, to England, to France during the war, to New York to ride in horse shows. But he — he who wanted with all his soul to go to France and Italy — must be stuck in this backwater where the chief ambition of his family was to preserve the traditions of the past. There was more in life than mere good living, well-bred horses, healthy fruit-trees, going to morning service on Sunday in the little church his grandfather had built. It was all very well for Renny. It suited him down to the ground. And Piers — it would suit him down to the ground — the earth to which he would willingly be tied. It was all very well for a woman nearing one hundred, but she had had a colourful past in Ireland and in India — not that she lived in the past, as did most very old people. She lived greedily in the present and quite often spoke of the future — bless her heart. But before long she must die … she was worth at least a hundred thousand dollars … supposing she left fifty thousand to Renny and divided the remainder equally among her other grandchildren. Ten thousand to each. What could he not do with ten thous
and dollars! He would slough off the study of law like the abominably stifling skin of a snake, and go forth and see the world. But he could do it on so much less than ten thousand. Just a little money! He was not greedy — yet all his short life, he was to lack it.

  He found Nicholas comfortably disposed after a nap — gouty leg resting on a large ottoman, massive head, with its untidy greying hair, lolling against the back of his padded leather chair. His large brown eyes were but half-open and in one handsome hand with its seal ring he held a meerschaum pipe, the mouthpiece of which disappeared beneath his shaggy moustache. He had responded to Eden’s knock with a lazy “Come in,” but when he saw who entered his eyes opened wide and he said — “Hello, Eden. Finished your work for the day? And what a day! What a hopeless-looking day! The time of year one should spend on the Riviera.”

  “And you used to, didn’t you — in the old times?”

  “I did indeed. Sit down.”

  “Shall I make you uncomfortable if I sit on this thing? No? I want to talk.” He sat down on the ottoman, careful not to incommode Nicholas. It was only then that he noticed Nip, luxuriating on his master’s relaxed middle — the grey of his long silky hair so blended with the grey tweed. Nip gave Eden a defensive look and wriggled a little closer to the massive comfort of Nicholas, who answered:

  “He hates this weather too.”

  “Lucky dog, to be able to forget it.”

  “Well, he was put out this morning as usual but stayed not a minute longer than was necessary. What’s that you’ve got?”

  “A prospectus, Uncle Nick, of a gold mine called Indigo Lake Mine. Wonderful new veins have been discovered there.”

  Nicholas laid down the law with his meerschaum. “Keep away from speculation. Nothing in it but worry — and loss. God — what your Uncle Ernest has lost!”

  “I know. But this is different.”