Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Piers had never before felt tenderness toward any human being. He had felt it toward young lambs. But now tenderness toward Pheasant welled up through all his sturdy body. Tenderness and an urge to protect her, and an urge to love her. But he only said laconically — “You’re funny.”
“So are you,” she breathed. “Not a bit like I thought you were.”
“I guess we’re both funny. Will you kiss me?”
She nodded without speaking. But the kiss was not a success. Their faces merely bumped gently together. But in some inexplicable way it drew them very close. They felt less shy, more familiar, and strangely happy.
“How old are you?” he demanded.
“Seventeen — in a few weeks.”
“I’m eighteen. Soon be nineteen.”
They could find nothing more to say. They squatted side by side in silence, as though the sum of their years had left them speechless in wonder. Only the stream spoke. A small bird flew by carrying a piece of white string in its beak, its wing beats ardent in its urge for nest-building.
At last Piers said — “Well, I must be getting along.”
She did not say “Stay.”
“Shall you be coming this way tomorrow about this time?” he asked.
She nodded, pulling up a blade of grass and examining it. “I’ll be here,” he said. He left her, running across the bridge and up the steep toward the lawn, as though to show his power.
A
R
ISE IN
S
TOCKS
“Poetry and making money,” said Eden, “go extremely well together. I wonder that poets in the past have never tried it.”
His Uncle Ernest was the only member of the family to whom he openly spoke of himself as a poet. Of course they all knew he wrote poetry and, according to their various temperaments, looked on it as a pleasant pastime, a weakness inherited from his mother, or a waste of the valuable hours which he should be devoting to the study of law. All but Ernest. He appreciated the promise shown by the young poet and, when Eden came to his room and read him his latest verses, he was gratified. Their literary gifts were a link between them. He himself had been engaged, for some years, in the preparation of a book on Shakespeare though he had never yet produced a manuscript to show his family, and Nicholas openly doubted the possibility of his ever producing one.
Uncle and nephew had had many an agreeable talk in the comfortable privacy of Ernest’s room where the walls were decorated by watercolour drawings of English scenery he had done in his earlier days. In fact there was at least one of these in every room in the house. But never before had they enjoyed a talk of this nature. In the past their talk of money had concerned the lack of it, on Eden’s part, and how quickly it went, on Ernest’s. But, since the speculation in the Indigo Lake Mine, the subject of money had taken on a new and delightful aspect. Today they were hilarious.
From the very week of Ernest’s investment the price of the Indigo Lake stocks had been rising. Not in a spectacular fashion but steadily, firmly, in a way to give the investor confidence. Mr. Kronk kept Eden informed on the matter each day. Another bright-coloured brochure arrived confirming these reports. Almost every day after his lectures he went to Mr. Kronk’s apartment and, if he were not there, Mrs. Kronk was and always with good news for him. She would give him not tea but a cocktail. Never before had he enjoyed himself in this way. A commission of twenty-five percent on the investments of his uncles and Piers was paid to him by Mr. Kronk — paid with a smile, just as though he’d earned it. Nicholas, picturing a winter on the Riviera, doubled the amount he had invested. After a month of watching the rise of Indigo Lake, Ernest had more than trebled his. Now he saw a gain so splendid that his fingers fairly itched to write still larger cheques.
He was an agile man, an affectionate one. In the hilarity of the moment he threw an arm about Eden, clasped him in a dancing position, and they waltzed the length of the room. Sasha, his cat, rose from her sleep on the bed to watch them, arching her back, making her legs long and her face a mask of disdain.
“I couldn’t have believed it,” Ernest exclaimed, panting a little at the end of the waltz. “I had become very nervous about speculation since my last misfortunes. But this — my dear boy, it’s wonderful. To think that a chance meeting on the train …”
“And if you could meet him! He doesn’t look capable of big business enterprises. Just a confiding little man, with a coy manner. But there’s nothing he doesn’t know about mining. Knows all that north country like the palm of his hand. Apparently taken a real shine to me.”
Ernest squared his shoulders. “I shall invest more. Do you think we ought to bring your Uncle Nicholas into this? It does seem a shame that he should not share in it.”
Eden considered. He felt himself to be getting into a corner. He said, “I think we’d better not. You know he doesn’t like speculation.”
Eden now rather wished that there had been no secrecy in the affair. But how was he to know that it would be such a stupendous success?
Nicholas, though waltzing was beyond him, was enormously pleased. He beat the arm of his chair with his clenched fist and exclaimed, “By God, this is the best thing that’s happened to me in many a day!” He did not suggest letting his brother in on the affair but rather took a rise out of how surprised old Ernie would be when he discovered what an astute speculator he was.
Piers, on his part, had never shown such eagerness to help with the work of farm, stables, or orchard. No work was too hard or too tedious. Good farm labourers were scarce and he hired himself to Renny with a zeal for work that amazed his elder. At the same time he showed rather a disconcerting greed as to wages. Whatever he earned he handed over to Eden to invest for him, with a childlike trust. Eden had opened a savings account in a city bank and in it he almost religiously deposited all that he earned in commission. Half a dozen times a day he would take the little deposit book from his pocket and examine it, relishing how the amount increased. He kept a map in his desk, and when he had saved enough to pay his passage to Europe, he drew a red line from Montreal to Le Havre and from there to Paris. He calculated what it would cost him to spend a month there, and the day came when he dared print, still in red ink, a month here. He borrowed books about Paris from his uncles. Ernest brought out an old album of photographs and picture postcards of Paris, the French and Italian Rivieras, Florence, Rome, and Sicily, and, as he pored over them with Eden, he read him bits from a journal he had kept on his travels. It required the greatest self-restraint on the part of Ernest and Nicholas to conceal their exhilaration from each other and from the family. They made no attempt to conceal their feeling of well-being and good humour. Things that in ordinary times irritated them now brought only a tolerant smile to their lips. Wakefield’s noise and naughtiness, their old mother’s irascibility, did not ruffle them. Piers consistently worked, and with equal consistency showed an increasing greed for his pay. All he earned he handed over to Eden to invest for him.
Before the summer had well begun Eden had persuaded his sister to invest in the Indigo Lake Mine. Meg had little of the speculator in her nature and was averse from acknowledging to the family that she had anything more than enough for her barest needs. Yet she tempted and at last succumbed. When Eden was able to tell her of the rise in the stock of Indigo Lake she was so elated that, if he had not restrained her, she would have hurled all she had into the speculation.
But his young brother, his sister, and his uncles were small catches for Eden. He longed for an investor possessed of substantial means and more and more often his thoughts turned to his grandmother. The great obstacle was her age. Could he make her understand what the proposition was? Would it be possible to accomplish a transaction without the knowledge of her lawyer, Mr. Patton? All the family were aware that her fortune was invested in the most conservative way, and her sons held it regrettable that this was so and that consequently her income was not as large as it might have been. Not that they ever saw more of it than sufficed for her few needs and the occasional present she gave.
Several times Eden went to the door of her bedroom before she was up with the determination to sound her on the subject, but each time his courage failed him. She might give the whole affair away to the family and bring down blame on himself for having suggested such a speculation to her. Of late he’d had quote enough censure over his failure in his exams to last him the rest of his life. Yet — he could not keep his mind off the delightful prospect of landing such a glittering fish as she. And it would be all for her own good! She might indeed be so grateful to him that she would increase the legacy he was sure she had already left him in her will.
This indecision could not continue and it ended one morning when, in passing her room, he saw that the door stood open and she herself was seated in a low chair beside a stool on which stood a basin of water. She was washing the rings which she wore every day — her wedding ring, her engagement ring, and five others, too many to be in good taste for any woman, to say nothing of a woman of her great age. But somehow they suited her, and her family could not picture her shapely old hands without them.
She saw Eden’s reflection in the mirror and called out — “Come in, Eden, come in, and tell me what mischief you’re up to.”
Their eyes met in the mirror. They smiled and he came into the room, closing the door behind him.
Once he was inside that room and the door shut, its atmosphere enfolded him. She had been reared in a less sanitary period than this.
She distrusted night air and did not mind having her parrot free in her room, or his seeds or feathers scattered about.
Now, however, it was almost noon, the window stood wide open and the heavy white plumes of the lilac tree beyond it added their scent to the air.
Eden bent over her and kissed her between the eyes. The hairs of her eyebrows were strong and he was conscious of the fine white ruching on her cap.
“What mischief now” she demanded.
“No mischief, Gran. Business.”
She appeared not to take this in but applied herself, breathing audibly, to the washing of her rings.
“I like that ruby ring,” he said.
“Aye. It’s a fine stone. A rajah gave it me.”
“I wish I knew all your past, Granny.”
That caught her humour and she chuckled.
“Some day I’ll tell you and you may make a poem about it.”
“An epic, Gran.”
“You’ll not get it out of me by flattery.”
“You’ve tremendous suds in the basin. Would you like me to wash the rings for you?”
“No, no. I like something to busy myself with. When you get to my age it doesn’t take much to amuse you…. A little soap and water. A few rings to wash.”
Eden dropped to his knees and his bright glance sought her. Seeing his face thus close she had a good look at it. She said — “You’re too handsome. You’ll have trouble with women.”
“Renny’s the one they’re after.”
“Him! I hope he’ll make a better husband than did my father that he’s the spit of.”
“I love when you’re common, Granny.”
She grinned. “Who was it? Longfellow? Who said that about not losing the common touch?”
Hilarious, Eden answered — “Longfellow. The best thing he ever wrote.”
She dried the rings and restored them to her fingers, then spread out her hands to admire.
“Not bad-looking hands for a woman of my age, eh? I’ve had them for near a hundred years.”
“I’ve always admired your hands, Gran.”
She clasped them on her stomach and flung at him suddenly — “This business. What’s it about?”
He’d half made up his mind not to tell her of his scheme. It was too dangerous. She perceived the hesitation on his face. “Come now,” she said, “tell me. I like to hear about business affairs — if they’re sensible.”
“I don’t think this would interest you, Gran.”
“Then why did you shut the door?”
The moment had come. He could not resist it. He took her hand, with the rings still moist and warm on it, in his. He said low — “It’s a gold mine, Granny. Up in the North. A wonderful chance for anyone who has money to invest. It’s just being developed. A wonderful rich vein. Fortunes are being made out of it. I know a man —”
“Gold!” she interrupted with avidity. “Gold, eh?” Had it been silver or any other metal she would not have been interested. But the word “gold” fired her imagination. Gold she could understand.
Her parrot, which had been tossing seeds from his cup in search for his favourites, now cocked his head and rapped out — “Gold! Gold! Gold! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!”
Adeline Whiteoak clapped her hands together. “Hark to him! He knows every word we say.”
“It’s a good omen,” laughed Eden, taking her two hands in his. “Listen, Gran.”
“Yes, yes. Tell me all.” She was not only interested but complaisant to hear the whole story of the Indigo Lake Mine. Eden, now becoming a glib promoter, poured it out, embroidering the material recital with colourful and poetic words. She leant closer, drinking it in, her mouth open a little, the strong curling hairs on her chin quivering. The parrot sprang from his perch and alighted on her shoulder screaming — “Gold — gold — pieces of eight — pieces of eight!” in passionate repetition.
Eden showed her the coloured folder, the machinery of the mine pictured against a turquoise-blue sky with Indigo Lake beyond. She made him fetch her magnifying glass from the bureau and she pored over the pictures. She had investments, sound ones, good ones, but nothing in gold. Her imagination, with little to feed it nowadays, was fired. A smouldering resentment she was feeling for her lawyer, Mr. Patton, because of his what she considered overbearing ways made her relish the thought of deceiving him.
“I’ll do it,” she cried, giving a thump to Eden’s knee. “I’ll do it today.”
Eden’s heart quickened its beat. “How much, Gran?”
She frowned, then exclaimed — “Fifty thousand. I’ll invest fifty thousand dollars.”
He drew back in horror. “Oh, you can’t do that, Granny. It’s too much.”