06 The Whiteoak Brothers

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Was I perhaps a little tight?”

  “Maybe.”

  She chuckled and lay back on the pillows. The chuckle turned to deep laughter that came right up from her chest. “I can’t help laughing,” she said.

  “Perhaps you’re still a little tight.”

  Abruptly her tone changed to one of great seriousness. She said — “I was troubled about something. It’s slipped out of my mind.”

  “Let it stay out, Gran. You have nothing to worry about. I’ll fetch Boney.”

  He met Dilly carrying the drowsy parrot on his perch.

  “I heard her ask for him,” she said.

  His eyebrows shot up. “What hearing!”

  “All my senses are abnormally acute tonight.”

  “Can you see your way in the bedroom?”

  She flashed him a look. “What did I say? I could see in the dark tonight.”

  The old voice came from the bed. “Free the bird.”

  Renny undid the chain that held him by the leg and set him on the leather bed that was painted in gorgeous fruit and flowers. He shook himself in sleepy pleasure and, peering down at the nightcapped head on the pillow, murmured:

  “Peariee ... Peariee lal.”

  “Hear what he calls me? His dearest ruby. Bless his heart. Did you hear him?”

  “Yes,” they both said, gazing down on her. She spoke to the parrot then in soft Eastern words, but he had tucked his head under his wing and looked remote as a carven bird on a tomb.

  She peered up and asked — “Who is with you, Renny.”

  “Dilly.”

  “Dilly who?”

  “Dilly Warkworth.”

  “Ah. Kiss me, both of you, and go. I’m sleepy now.”

  Again in the hall, they heard the grandfather clock strike the midnight hour. He said — “You’d better go to bed, Dilly.”

  She raised her face for inspection. “Do I look tired?”

  “No. But I promised young Eden to see him. I’ll bet he’s tired.”

  He went in where the fire was, to see if it was safe for the night. When he came out he said — “What you need is to have someone put you across his knee and give you a good whacking.”

  On her look of outrage he put out the light.

  Lady Buckley’s voice came from above, in a contralto whisper. “Dilly, are you still down there?”

  “My God — Yes!” answered Dilly, the first two words in a raging undertone, the last clearly, sweetly.

  A tall, pale figure leant over the banister. “In the dark, Dilly?” she demanded.

  Renny leapt up the stairs to his aunt’s side and to her surprise kissed her. “We’ve been attending to the fire and to Gran. Dilly’s very tired. She’s on her way up.”

  Augusta turned, with impressive deliberation, to her own bedroom but she said — “I hope you are not too tired, Dilly, to give me a few moments.”

  Passing Renny, Dilly Warkworth remarked to him:

  “I do so love these endless conferences. Do you think they will go on all night? Your grandmother and you. You and me. Lady Buckley and me. You and Eden. And there’s your little brother calling you. He wants one too. Bless his heart!”

  Wakefield’s voice was coming from Renny’s room where, because of his weak heart, he slept. Now he called out — “Renny ... Renny ...

  Renny,” in a small pathetic voice. “I’m not feeling very well.”

  Renny bent over the bed and laid his hand on the small body.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he soothed. “Go to sleep, there’s a good fellow.”

  “Isn’t my heart beating fast?”

  “A bit fast. I’ll sit here till you’re quiet.”

  “My legs feel funny.”

  “I’ll rub them.”

  The rhythmic rubbing of the thin thighs, the monotonous humming of “A hundred pipers and a’,” had their effect. The light coming in from the passage no longer glimmered in Wakefield’s eyes. They were closed. They flew open for a moment, though, when he said:

  “I wish that girl Dilly’d go home.”

  “Why, Wake?”

  “Well, for one thing, her mouth is too red. For another, her eyes keep looking at you. For another, she thinks she’s clever. For another, she can’t ride for sour apples. For another ...” He tried to think of another objection but, drowned in comfort, sank asleep.

  Every third step in the stairs that led to the top floor creaked so that Eden was made aware of Renny’s approach by a series of these punctuations. Each one ran threateningly through his nerves, and by the time Renny reached the top Eden was on his feet, facing him. He did not often come up to this room and now he threw a glance of distaste at its disorder. The bed showed that Eden had lain on it but the pillow was on the floor. Books were strewn over it. The short curtains at the windows had been tied in knots to let in all the light possible, and now the wintry moon was framed in the western window. A rising gale was shaking the shutters which, after nearly a hundred years of struggle against those walls, still clung there. If there were few books in the library, the shelves in Eden’s room were overflowing. Some lay on the floor. The open cupboard door revealed disorder within. Partly open drawers of the chest discovered garments half-in, half-out. The desk was littered. A pair of shoes lay in the middle of the floor and, near them, for some unguessed reason, an ashtray full of cigarette-ends. Renny, whose belongings were kept in military order, said:

  “I don’t see how you live in this.”

  “I tidy up now and again. It just gets this way.”

  The light from the student’s lamp cast a greenish pallor on Eden’s face. He said — “Won’t you sit down?” and began to clear the books from the armchair. For answer Renny perched on the edge of the desk.

  “Have a cigarette?” Eden asked, with the air of a host.

  “No, thanks.” His intense gaze rested on Eden thoughtfully for a space, in silence, then he said — “What are you going to do about this Indigo Lake Business?”

  “What can I do? Well — I’m terribly sorry, but I’m just as helpless as any of the others.”

  “Did you invest all of your commission, Eden?”

  “No. Not quite all.”

  “You put part of it in the bank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s see your deposit book.”

  Eden hesitated. Hot colour surged up from his neck.

  “Show me the book,” Renny repeated.

  Eden flung open a drawer of the desk, searched for a moment, handed the little red book to his elder, then, jamming his hands into his pockets, turned to stare out of the window. Now the pale light of the moon was on his face. The moon was soon to be hidden by a snow-laden cloud. The first snowflakes whistled past the pane.

  Renny studied the brief column of deposits. There were no withdrawals.

  “You’ve been thrifty,” he remarked.

  “Something new for me, eh?” There was bitterness in his voice as he added — “I had an object in saving.” He felt what was about to come and now it came.

  Renny said — “You must realize that we can’t allow Dilly Warkworth to lose such a sum because of one of us and while she’s visiting Jalna.”

  Eden wheeled to face him. He said:

  “She went into it with her eyes open.”

  “And you didn’t seek her out and lead her to believe that here was the chance of a lifetime?”

  “I believed so myself.”

  “Why did you keep these transactions secret?”

  “Nobody wanted to tell the others.”

  “What others? Me?”

  “I tried to tell you that day coming from town, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “Were you trying to confide in me or were you out to catch another sucker for Kronk?”

  Eden paled. “Do you realize what you’re accusing me of?”

  “I say that your object all through this was to build up your own little nest egg. Why — even your poor old grandmother was game f
or you.” His voice rose. “By God, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

  Eden blazed back — “You don’t know what it is not to have a bean of your own.”

  “I know what it is to have responsibilities I have trouble in meeting.”

  “I’ll soon be off your hands, I hope.”

  Renny now spoke quietly. “I don’t want you — or any of you boys — off my hands. But I will not stand for a guest in the house losing money through you.”

  “I suppose you want me to fork over a thousand dollars for Dilly!”

  “Exactly that.”

  Eden said, in a shaking voice — “Very well. I will, but I think it’s damned hard.”

  “On the contrary, you’re getting off easily. The uncles have been very decent. So has Meg — everyone. And that brings me to Piers.”

  “Good God,” cried Eden. “You’re not going to tell me to pay him back?”

  “I certainly am. Piers worked hard — with hands and back — to earn the money he gave you —”

  “He didn’t give it to me!”

  “He entrusted it to you to invest for him.”

  “You make it sound as though I were a swindler like Kronk. By jingo, I begin to wish I’d skipped out with the funds too.”

  “There’s only one thing for you to do where these two are concerned. If you didn’t repay Piers, he’d hold it against you for years. I know Piers. And who could blame him? I don’t want hard feeling in the house. When you’ve settled with those two you’ll still have a hundred and sixty-three dollars left. Not so bad, eh?” He returned the deposit book to Eden. “Come, sit down and write those two cheques. Let me see you do it. You’ll sleep all the better.”

  Eden broke out — “I can’t do it tonight.”

  “But you will first thing in the morning?”

  “Yes — though I still don’t see —”

  “You will when you think about it quietly. You’ll be glad you did it.”

  Eden looked tired and deflated. He said — “It isn’t giving up the money that I mind. I wasn’t going to save it.”

  “Well — whatever ideas you had for spending it, you can forget for the present and put your nose to the grindstone or you’ll be failing in your exams. Good night.”

  He was gone.

  Gone too the dreams of Europe. The walls of lecture rooms pressed about Eden. He felt suffocated by the smell of dusty corridors. He heard the voice of the lecturer droning on, punctuated by the winter coughing of the students. He was caught, subdued, trapped! He flung open the window and the icy air flooded in, as though the lake had escaped its shores. A few snowflakes drifted in, shone in the lamplight, then melted at the first contact — like his hopes, he thought.

  The sharpness of the air had its effect. He realized that was he was feeling was not despair but disappointment. His hopes were only postponed. For the present he must continue with the work he hated. Yet he felt no will for conflict with his own inclination. What he wanted he wanted so badly!

  He stretched his arms and threw back his head. He saw how his elongated shadow on the wall made the form of a figure on a cross.... He remained motionless in that position, staring at the shadow, till a shudder of cold shook him. He went to the window, closed it with a bang, then sat down in front of the desk and buried his face in his arms.

  In the room directly beneath Eden’s, Lady Buckley and Dilly Warkworth were engaged in a discussion as to the date of their sailing.

  Augusta was saying:

  “But, my dear child, we have already outstayed the time when we had expected to return.”

  “Yes. Now we are in the time of the worst storms. You are not a very good sailor. Neither am I. I suggest that we wait till January.”

  Lady Buckley began to take down her long hair. She laid the many hairpins in a meticulous mound. She said — “There are other things than storms, Dilly.”

  Dilly knelt, in rather a spectacular fashion, at the older woman’s feet. “It’s true,” she said, “that my feelings are ...” she hesitated.

  “Involved, Dilly?”

  “Yes. Involved.”

  “I fear it is hopeless.”

  “Has he said anything — about me — against me — to you?”

  “He spoke only with circumspection.”

  “Lady Buckley — I love this family — I love this place — it kills me to think of leaving. Why do you say it is hopeless?”

  Lady Buckley began to comb her hair with a large ivory comb. She looked compassionately down at Dilly. “I have known him” — there was a silent agreement between them not to mention him by name — “all his life. He is hotheaded — impulsive. If he had been going to fall in love with you, he would have done it before now. It would be obvious to all.” Dilly rose and stood up straight, though not even then was she as tall as Lady Buckley.

  “This is different,” she said. “It’s been a slow developing. You see, we both were so taken up by the Horse Show. We thought of nothing else — or believed so. But — all the while ...”

  Augusta could not refrain from asking — “You thought of nothing else?”

  “Well, occasionally I gave a thought to him, but he — well, I wouldn’t have him otherwise.”

  “I doubt,” said Augusta, “that you will get him anywise.”

  XX

  PAYING THE PIPER

  Eden smiled as he handed the cheque to Dilly.

  “But what is it?” she asked, drawing back.

  “The bread you cast on the waters of Indigo Lake.”

  She peered at the cheque without taking it from him, then put her hands behind her back like a child.

  “No, no, I won’t take it.”

  “Nonsense. You must.”

  “But there is no reason in it. My eyes were open. Nobody forced me.”

  “Everybody says I led you into it.”

  “Eden, I don’t blame you. I blame nobody. Why should you be the scapegoat?”

  “I don’t know. But I am.”

  “I refuse to take the money.”

  His heart leapt in relief, but then he saw the weakening in her face, her hand moved tentatively toward the cheque. As she took it she declared — “I’ll tear it up.” But she didn’t tear it up. She folded it neatly and tucked it inside her belt. Then slipping her arm through his she said:

  “I’ve been dreading to meet my man of business. He’s terribly strict with me about money. It’s ridiculous, but I’m afraid of him.”

  “You’ve no need to be afraid now.”

  As soon as he could he escaped from her. He escaped from the house. He could hear the voice of the family lawyer, Mr. Patton, coming from his grandmother’s room. He had been sent for to discover how deeply she was involved in the fateful stocks. An article in the morning paper had confirmed the swindle. A warrant had been issued for Kronk’s arrest. It was found that the furniture in both office and apartment had been bought on the installment plan and was still unpaid-for. Mrs. Kronk had gone to visit a sister in New York for the time being. A glimpse of Mr. Patton’s face, through the crack of the library door, as he entered the house, had shown him wearing an expression appropriate to a funeral. The resonant melancholy of his voice further enhanced the illusion. He might have been reading the funeral service.

  Eden hoped and prayed that Mr. Patton would not ask for an interview with him. He would make himself scarce, that was certain. As he stood there, the lawyer’s voice ceased and Boney cried, with heartless gusto:

  “Gold, you old devil! Buckets of gold!”

  Eden fled.

  Outdoors he found himself in a snowstorm. Snowflakes, large and intricately shaped, were moving erratically in the icy air, blown by a variable wind. Some of them, as though finding no place indulgent toward their rest, moved upward again and disappeared.

  He saw footprints of dog but no dog. Footprints of squirrel but no squirrel. There was no living thing. He turned up his collar and ran toward the apple house, from where came sounds of hammering. H
e guessed that Piers might be there. The door stood ajar and he could see Piers “heading in” a barrel of Northern Spies. He was wearing a light-grey cardigan. His muscular figure, his fair complexion, stood in relief against the darkness within. Each time he brought down the hammer on the barrel, it was as though to relieve his rage within.

  Eden stood in the doorway regarding with appreciation the picture Piers made, foretasting the act he was to perform. Then, in a pause from the banging, he said in his pleasant voice:

  “Oh, hullo, brother Piers!”

  Piers gave him his look of an angry young rustic and again picked up the hammer.

  Eden descended the three stone steps into the apple house. What sweetness of scent was there! What rosy, russet, and golden-green shapes, lying cheek to cheek! Eden forgot his errand and stood there enchanted.

  “Well,” Piers demanded, “what do you want?”

  “I’ll give you three guesses.”

  “How the hell should I know?” His look now became wary, as though he suspected Eden of further designs on him.

  Eden took the cheque from his pocket and laid it down on top of the barrel. “There you are,” he said.

  Piers looked. He read the words “Imperial Bank of Canada. Pay to the order of Piers Whiteoak.” He saw the signature. His mouth fell open. He could scarcely believe in his good fortune.

  He stammered — “S-surely you’re not ...”

  “Surely I am. And I advise you to cash the blasted thing as soon as possible or I may change my mind.”

  “You really mean I’m to have my money back?”

  “I do.”

  Piers took the cheque, folded it carefully, unbuttoned his cardigan, placed the cheque in the pocket of his pullover, buttoned himself up again, without speaking. Then he turned to Eden. “Thanks,” he muttered, and Eden saw that there were tears in his eyes. Not just a few tears, but so many that in another moment they would be running down his cheeks.

  Eden did not wait for that. He hastened away through the falling snow. Suddenly he wanted to run along the path that soon would be obliterated, and on through the birch wood to the pine wood. He felt a lightness in him. Poems he wanted to write came raging into his head. And not only into his head but through his whole being. He felt himself as an instrument, tuned up, ready for playing.