06 The Whiteoak Brothers

by Mazo de La Roche

  One day he demanded abruptly — “Piers, what are you doing with all this money?”

  Piers, never communicative, drew back, with a defensive stare in his prominent blue eyes.

  “Doing with it? Why, saving it, of course.”

  “How much have you saved?”

  Piers’s defensive stare became a scowl. He muttered — “Nearly all of it.”

  “What are you saving for? Any special object?”

  “No. Just saving.”

  “Well, school opens next week. You’l be working with your brain for a change.”

  Piers said eagerly — “Oh, I shall find time to work. I was just going to speak about that. I can work for an hour before I go in the morning, and another hour at night. And most of Saturday. Is that O.K.?”

  Renny agreed, but looked on Piers’s behaviour as still more unnatural.

  As for Eden, there were times when he almost wished he never had drawn his grandmother into the secret speculation. Far from investing her ten thousand dollars and then letting the affair slip from her mind, as he had expected, she never seemed to forget it. At the most inopportune times she would fix him with her still dominant gaze and give him such a grin of complicity as made him grow hot all over.

  She would even ejaculate — “We know a thing or two, don’t we, my beauty?” or “We weren’t born yesterday, were we, you rascal?”

  Her two sons were considerably disturbed by these signs of a secret bond between her and Eden. They wanted no interloper of his generation to come between them and their mother’s fortune. They loved her dearly. No one could deny that they had been devoted sons. Yet, with her end so nearly approaching, it was only natural that they should guard her against the designs of younger members of the family. No one, with the exception of her lawyer, Mr. Patton, knew the contents of her will. She had let it be known, however, that her money was to be left to one heir alone. “I will not have the bit I leave cut up into pieces like a cake.”

  After one of her indiscretions Eden snatched the first opportunity of speaking to her alone. He leant over her chair and whispered fiercely — “Look here, Gran, you must not talk about our secret in front of the others. You’ll let the cat out of the bag and where shall we be then?”

  Peering up into his face, wheezing a little, she said — “You’re like your poor mother — afraid of people. I’m not afraid.”

  “It’s not a question of courage, Gran. It’s whether or not you want Uncle Nicholas and Uncle Ernest to know about your investing in Indigo Lake.”

  “It’s none of their business.”

  “But they’ll make it their business.”

  “Yes, yes, we must keep it secret. Ha, I do enjoy getting the best of them. How much am I worth now?”

  “Worth, Gran! You mean how much have the stocks risen?”

  “Yes, what am I worth?”

  “The price of the stock has doubled.”

  “Then I’ve doubled me money.” She gave an hilarious chuckle. “I invested ten thousand dollars, didn’t I? Now it’s doubled. It’s twenty thousand.”

  “Good God, Granny, don’t talk so loud.”

  She looked suddenly keen. “And you’re sure it’s all safe and sound?”

  “I never was more sure of anything.”

  “Are you making a little yourself?”

  “A little.”

  “And what will you do with it?”

  “Go abroad. To France — Italy — Greece.”

  “Ireland too. Don’t forget Ireland.”

  “Yes. Ireland too.”

  She put up two long arms and clasped him to her. “Ah, what fun it is! I feel ten years younger. What age would that make me?”

  He hesitated, struck by pity. “Why — just over eighty, Gran.”

  “That’s not young enough. I feel twenty years younger.”

  “And you promise not to be indiscreet?”

  “I promise.”

  But she could not keep her promise. It was too much for her. Over a cup of tea, over a game of backgammon, this feeling of well-being, of adventure, would overtake her and she would utter such enigmatic remarks, make what almost amounted to strange prophecies, that her sons grew quite anxious about her. They would have been much more anxious had she not been so well. She walked less bent and her appetite, always good, became so much better that Ernest sometimes feared for her.

  “Mamma,” he said, when she demanded more gravy on her second baked potato, “do you think it is wise?”

  “If I haven’t learned wisdom at my age, I never shall. More gravy, Renny.” Then across the table she caught Eden’s eye. Warningly he returned the look.

  She said, “We can keep our mouths shut — when we choose — can’t we? And open ’em when we choose.”

  She did open hers and introduced a fork mounded with potato. This rendered her for the moment speechless, and in that moment Eden was able to introduce a new topic of conversation. It was one of many escapes for him. Yet the temptation to allow Adeline to increase her investment in Indigo Lake Mines became more insistent as the price of the stock rose. What a benefit to her and to her heir (whichever he might be) after her death! And what a benefit to himself at this moment! In truth, the fire of speculation was burning brightly in him, as it was in Nicholas, Ernest, and Adeline. The two uncles had already increased their original purchase. Ernest, who was a born speculator, did not rest till Eden had arranged a meeting between him and Mr. Kronk. Eden was not eager to do this. He preferred to act as go-between and doubted if such a meeting would be successful. But he had no need to doubt. Mrs. Kronk was present at the meeting, her manner more suitably dignified for the occasion. Mr. Kronk’s manner was even cosier and more confidential than usual. Ernest Whiteoak, who flattered himself that he was a judge of character, told Eden afterwards how greatly his feeling of security had increased with this meeting. And seeing the three together in earnest and sincere talk had added to Eden’s own confidence in Indigo Lake. He pocketed his commission and allowed his grandmother to sign another power of attorney for the further sale of government bonds.

  The tangled web of his machinations so complicated his life that he looked forward, almost with relief, to returning to the study of law in the fall. Now the family at Jalna were divded into two parts for him — those who were investors in Indigo Lake and those who were not. On the one hand, himself, Meg, Piers, his uncles, and grandmother. On the other, Renny, and the two young boys. Knowing Renny’s constant shortage of money he ingenuously longed to draw him into the golden net. But any reference to speculation, excepting in horse-flesh, brought no response from him but rather a nervous drawing back, as though in fear of having his pocket picked.

  Eden was constantly having conferences, as Mr. Kronk called them, with his fellow investors, behind closed doors with the older ones, in the open with Piers. With him it was largely a matter of showing off in front of his junior. They would stride along the bridle path through the woods, now and again stopping to eat the wild blackberries and smoking cigarettes, always supplied by Eden, who was as open-handed as Piers was the reverse. Eden would boast of the money he was making on commission, taking care not to implicate any others of the family, but referring to nebulous “clients” who were literally falling over each other in their eagerness to invest in Indigo Lake. Eden talked of France and Italy and Greece and knew almost to a week the date of his sailing and the steamship of his choice. But he did not intend to spend the rest of his life in Europe. He would always want to visit those at Jalna.

  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 Lak
e. 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 result 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.”