Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“No. She was gone.”
“Oh, hell.”
His grandmother peered at him round the wing of her chair. “Hell?” she repeated, with relish as it were. “
Hell
. Is that what I heard you say?”
Piers grunted assent.
“Well, I won’t have it. I won’t have you bring your swearing and cursing into the house. Too much of it here. I heard someone else use bad language not five minutes ago. Who was it?”
“Boney,” grinned Piers.
“He swears in Hindustani. That’s different.”
Renny bent and kissed her. “Have you had a good day?” he asked, playing with the ribbon rosette on her cap.
“Yes. Very good, thank you. But I’m hungry. Why doesn’t Wragge sound the gong?”
“Because it’s not quite time for it.”
She stretched out a hand to Eden who brought the beaded ottoman and sat himself by her knee. She stroked his hair, exclaiming that it was moist.
“I was out in the rain, Gran.”
“What wouldn’t many a girl give for your hair that keeps its wave in the wet!”
Renny asked — “Where is Wake?”
Meg came quickly to his side. She took his sleeve in her fingers and said in a low ominous tone:
“I must speak to you about him. I told him I should.”
“The little rascal bit her,” the grandmother exclaimed, suddenly full of energy. “He must be flogged.”
Ernest remarked that this sort of viciousness should be nipped in the bud, and Nicholas, either at the thought of the deed or the prospect of its punishment, gave a sardonic chuckle and put down the loud pedal.
Meg led Renny into the hall, where the two spaniels and the sheepdog had come up from the basement to seek him and now crowded each other for his attention. Patting them, he demanded — “Why did he bite you? Where did he bite you?”
She closed the door behind them and, with a nod toward the closed door of the library, said — “Speak low — he’s in there. He’s been terrible all day — just as naughty and disobedient as could be. I was trying to put him some place — I forget where — and he kept saying — ‘I won’t — I won’t — I won’t’ — and then he bit me.”
“Why didn’t you punish him on the spot?”
“It was too serious. I said I would tell you.” A frown of exasperation dented his brow.
“Show me the place.”
“Oh … I scarcely can.”
He grinned. “Nonsense.”
She drew up her skirt, her petticoat, her knickers, and scanned her plump white thigh.
“It’s faded a good deal,” she said. “It looked terrible at first.”
“Hmph.” He bent to look at the almost invisible marks. “Did he draw blood?”
“Well — not exactly. But that is not the point. The point is that he
bit
me.” She let down her skirt.
Renny opened the door of the library and looked in.
It was dark in there except for the line of brightness which showed where were the folding doors that led into the dining room. But now the light from the hall discovered a small figure sitting on his hands in an armchair beside the clean, swept fireplace in which flourished a large fern which it was Meg’s habit to keep in there in the summer.
“Wake,” ordered Renny sternly. “Come here.”
Wakefield at once slid from the chair and came into the hall. His long-lashed brown eyes blinked in the light.
“I hear that you’ve bitten your sister.”
Wakefield hung his head. “Yes.”
“Very well. Come with me.” He held out his hand and the small supple one was meekly put into it.
The two mounted the stairs while Meg looked after them, already half-regretting what she had done.
“This is a bad business,” observed Renny, when the two were inside his bedroom and the door shut against the dogs.
“Yes.”
How small and weak he looked!
“You know what we think of a horse that bites?”
“Yes.”
“And a dog?”
“Yes.”
“You know what happens to a dog that bites?”
“He’s allowed two bites before they kill him. I’ve only had one.”
“But you know you must be punished?”
“Yes.” His lower lip began to tremble and tears filled his eyes.
Renny had unbuttoned his own jacket and was taking off his belt.
“Ever hear of a whipping boy?” he asked cheerfully.
“No.” Apprehension of this strange new procedure transfixed the culprit.
Renny gave a flick of the leather belt toward the nearest bedpost. “Well, that’s one. That’s your whipping boy.”
“No! Renny,
please
!”
“Yes. It’s going to take your whipping for you. Like this.” He struck the bedpost a sharp blow. “It takes the licking for you and you do the yelling for it — see?” He grinned down at Wakefield. “You understand?”
“You mean you hit the
bedpost
and I
scream
?”
“Just that.”
“Really loud?”
“Certainly. So they’ll hear it downstairs.”
“What fun! Wait till I get my breath.”
“Six whacks. Six yells.”
“Go!” Wake jumped up and down in his relief.
Six times Renny struck the bedpost and six times Wakefield rent the air with a shrill scream. At the sixth they heard Meg thumping up the stairs. The dogs were barking loudly. Wakefield tottered towards his sister as she flung open the door. “Meggie!” he bleated.
With a glance of terrible reproach at Renny she gathered her small brother into her arms, clasped him to her breast, and lugged him along the passage to her own room, followed by the dogs.
Half an hour later she sought out Renny with a bewildered air.
“After all that, he hadn’t one little mark on him.”
“They’ve faded,” he said mildly. “Like the marks on your leg.”
T
HE
P
OWER OF
A
TTORNEY
It seemed an unconscionable time to Eden before he was able to have his grandmother to himself long enough for the signing of the power of attorney. He kept it convenient in his pocket along with his fountain pen, but as certainly as they two were alone, some other member of the family would come into the room or knock on the door. Adeline herself appeared to have forgotten about the scheme and Eden had moments when he wondered if it were not better that he also should forget it. He fancied that Boney, the parrot, had a jeering regard for him. Hanging head downward from his perch he would stare at Eden as though from that angle he had a better view of his machinations.
His perturbed thoughts kept him uneasy. A poem he had half-written lay unfinished in his desk. Instead of rejoicing in his lonely walks in the day or in the quiet of his room at night, with the necessity of study no longer dogging him, he was brooding on Indigo Lake, poring over Mr. Kronk’s latest report. “I’m turning into a beastly financier,” he said to himself. “It’s got to stop.” He took the power of attorney from his pocket and would have torn it up on the spot but his sister appeared, wearing a hat and carrying a basket. He returned the paper to his pocket.
Meg said — “Oh, Eden, will you, like a dear boy, sit with Granny while I take these raspberries to Miss Pink? She’s having such a time with carpenters working in her house that I thought some nice ripe raspberries would do her good.”
“Where are the uncles?” asked Eden, as though unwilling.
“Uncle Nicholas is having a tooth out and Uncle Ernest has gone with him. Of course, he said he didn’t need anyone but you know how it is with a tooth.”
“Where’s young Finch? Why couldn’t he sit with her?”
Meg was reproachful. “I do hope you’re not getting selfish, Eden. You used to be so fond of Gran.”
“I still am. I just wanted to know. Where is she?”
“Darling, she’s just where she always is at this time of morning. Sitting up in her room.”
“Good. I’ll go straight to her. Where did you say Renny and Finch are?”
“Oh, where they usually are, you know. They’ll not be about. Don’t give her anything to eat. She’d a hearty breakfast.”
He found his grandmother making a show of tidying her top drawer. She was seated in front of the marble-topped dressing table, with its crocheted wool mats, fumbling among the mass of ribbons, yellowed lace, gloves, fans, smelling-salts bottles, and odds and ends which filled the drawer. Boney, perched on her shoulder, was admiring himself in the glass, occasionally turning to peck at the ribbons on her cap or to rub his beak against the fine arch of her nose.
“Good morning, my grandson,” she greeted him in a strong cheerful voice that showed her to be enjoying one of her good days. “Come and kiss me, do.”
Wary of the parrot, he put his smooth lips to her ancient cheek. “Morning, Gran.”
“Sit you down. I’m busy, as you see. But you can talk to me. Repeat some of your verses to me. I like poetry. Used to be able to rattle off pieces by Tom Moore. But I’ve forgotten ’em.”
“I remember, I remember, Gran.”
“Say a verse then — if you can.”
He repeated:
“I saw from the beach when the morning was shining,
A bark o’er the waters move gloriously on;
I came when the sun o’er that beach was declining,
The bark was still there but the waters were gone.”
She said, the tears springing to her eyes — “Good! Good boy! Ah, how I wish I could do it now. But me memory’s left me. I’m getting on, you know, I’m ninety-eight on this coming birthday. D’ye think I may live to see a hundred?”
“I’m sure you will, Gran.” A sudden pity for her made him put out his hand to take hers. What did it feel like to be old, he wondered, and what would he do in the long years that lay ahead of him?
Because of a feeling of sadness that had risen between them, he said to lighten it — “I know another.”
“What then?” she demanded eagerly.
Swinging her hand gently in his he half-chanted:
“I have a fawn from Aden’s land,
On leafy buds and berries nurst;
And you shall feed him from your hand,
Though he may start with fear at first.
And I will lead you where he lies
For shelter from the noontide heat; And you may touch his sleeping eyes
And feel his little silvery feet.”
He asked — “Remember that, Granny?”
“I do. I do. And did you learn it from me?”
“Yes. I’ve a good memory, you know.”
“It’s a grand thing to have.”
He could not stop himself. He asked — “Do you remember what we talked of the other day? About making money in investments?”
“I do not.”
“Of course you do. The gold mine, you know. Huge profits just for the taking. Indigo Lake Mine. Magnificent vein of gold. You said you’d like to invest.”
At the word
gold
Boney shook himself so that his plumage vibrated with a rustling sound and shouted:
“Gold! Gold! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!”
Though Eden’s words brought no recollection of the interview to her, the voice of the parrot did. She struck her hands together, her eyes brightened.
“I do — I do remember. I was going to invest in gold. That’s what it was. Gold!”
The parrot fairly shook himself off her shoulder.
“Gold!” he screamed. “Ruddy gold!
Shaitan! Shaitan ka batka! Piakur!
Jab kutr!”
Eden drew the power of attorney from his pocket. “You can’t sell your own government bonds without signing this. Not unless you have your lawyer out.”
“He’d never let me. He’s an old slow-coach. Never risked anything. His wife never risked even one child. My mother had eleven.”
He spread the paper in front of her, his hands trembling a little. “This is what you must sign, Gran — if you want to invest in the gold stocks.”
“Gold! Gold!” shrieked Boney. “Ruddy gold!”
She peered at the paper. She seemed not to like the look of it and drew back. “I’d not be signing anything away, should I?”
“No, no, just giving me the power to sell government bonds for you.”
“I don’t want to sign anything away. I like to hang on to the bit I have.”
Eden folded up the paper. “All right, Gran. I’ll let someone else have the stock.”
“Gold!” cried Boney, pulling out a feather and letting it fall on her lap. “Gold — you old devil!”
Adeline took up the feather — itself of a bright gold — and flourished it. “It’s a sign,” she exclaimed. “A good omen. Give me my pen. I’ll put down my name.”
Eagerly Eden sought the pen and last discovered it behind Boney’s seed-box. He spread the power of attorney on her worn leather writing-folio, then discovered there was no ink.
“Will you use my fountain pen, Gran?”
“No, no. I don’t like these newfangled notions. My father always used a quill pen. And when he went to sharpen it —”
“Gran,” Eden interrupted. “I’ll fetch the ink. Just a jiffy and I’ll be back.” He darted from the room.
When he returned two minutes later, with the ink-bottle in his hand, he found Wakefield leaning against his grandmother’s shoulder and holding up his thin brown knee for sympathy.
“He’s given his knee a rasp,” she explained. “And he’s come to be comforted, bless his heart.”
Eden, longing to take the child by the scruff and put him out, bent to look. He said, patting Wakefield’s back — “That’s a very small scratch. Do you feel able to walk as far as Mrs. Brawn’s for some pop and a chocolate bar?” He found some small coins in his pocket and put the necessary into Wake’s hand. “Better hurry or you’ll be late for lunch.”
“Thanks,” murmured Wakefield. “But I think I’ll go to Mrs. Brawn’s this afternoon. I want to be with my grandmother just now.”
“He’s the apple of my eye,” cried Adeline.
The power of attorney fell to the floor. The little boy picked it up and read — “Know all ye men by these presents.”
Eden snatched it from him.
Wakefield asked — “What is that paper, Grandmother?”
She answered blandly — “’Tis rubbish. Throw it in the wastepaper basket.”
Boney fluttered his wings and cried —
“Iflatoon! Haram-zada!”
“Now look here,” said Eden sternly, leading his small brother to the door. “You’re to get out and stay out. Do you hear? I’m reading aloud to Gran.”
“But —”
“One word more and I take that money back.” Eden thrust him into the hall and shut the door on him.