The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (206 page)

“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. He 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.

S
KATING

Piers, when Eden had left him, remained, still as a statue, staring out through the open door after that swiftly moving figure. A few snowflakes drifted in and instantly dissolved. A red squirrel scrambled down the roof, peered in at the door, then fled in panic. Then came the sound of hoofbeats.

Piers was conscious of the tears on his cheeks. He wiped them with the back of his hand, threw down the hammer, and bounded up the steps. He saw the mare, Cora, with Renny mounted, cantering toward the stables. He shouted his brother’s name. Renny drew rein and waited for him, scanning his rosy face and wet blue eyes with an amused scrutiny.

“I bet you’ll never guess what’s happened,” Piers said, breathless.

“What?”

“Eden has given me back my money.”

“Good for him.”

“You could have knocked me down with a feather.”

“And only last night you wanted to knock him down!”

“Upon my word, Renny, I could hardly believe my eyes. Look.” He produced the cheque. “He said I’d better cash it right off, to be sure of the money. Can I take the car and go to the bank?”

“What about the apples?”

“I’ll finish them when I come back and take them to the station.”

“Very well.”

Cora was pawing up clots of snow, rolling her luminous eyes in impatience.

Piers, still in a daze, asked — “Do you think Eden’s paying anyone else back?”

“Dilly.”

Piers looked shocked. “
Dilly!
Why the dickens should
she
be paid back? She’s knowing enough. She has plenty of money.”

“She’s a visitor.”

“Phew. I didn’t know Eden had it in him to pony up like this. I respect him for it.”

“Good.” Renny patted Cora’s neck. She felt the welcome pressure of his knees in the way that meant “Go.” Her whole muscular yet delicately adjusted being was freed, and she cantered along the path in feminine gaiety, arching her neck, dancing a little sidewise at the shadow of a pigeon on the snow, her long, fine tail streaming.

The branch bank upon which the cheque was drawn in the village of Stead less than ten miles away. Piers ran to the shed beside the stable where the car was kept, fearful that Eden by hook or by crook might have withdrawn the money before his arrival. At Jalna the status of the motor-car was an inferior one. By most of the family, any sort of treatment was considered good enough for it. Piers was the only one who was anxious about its well-being, who would wash it or try to keep its engine in order. For the others, if the car would go, well enough; if it would not go, execrations were its lot.

This morning, after considerable grunting and groaning, it decided to go. As it jolted along the quiet country road Piers sang for joy: “Pack up your troubles in your old kitbag and smile, smile, smile!”

The hand of progress had not yet laid its devastating touch on this road that ran by the lake. The oaks and pines, in their primeval grandeur, beneath which moccasined Indians had passed to meet the first traders, stood in ignorance of the advancing axe, the coming bungalow, the filth of factory.

All Piers’s dreams of affluence were now concentrated on getting his money back. Just to have it safe within the leather wallet which was the one thing he possessed that had been his father’s. There were two women ahead of him at the teller’s wicket in the bank and he waited his turn in an onrush of anxiety. He slid Eden’s cheque through the wicket.

The teller, with a nonchalant eye, looked it over, just as though cheques of equal importance were his daily fare. The teller turned over the cheque, examined the endorsement by Piers, then, with a smile, handed over the money and asked how things were going at Jalna. He had been at the Horse Show and seen Piers riding his favourite polo pony. Piers, with an air equalling that of the teller in nonchalance, said he had reason to hope that the game of polo would regain its popularity — the finest game in the world!

Out in the street once more he was in no hurry to go home. He would like to celebrate his good fortune in some way but what was there to do?

A milkman’s horse, not yet roughshod for the icy roads, had fallen, Piers helped to put it once more on its legs. He peered in through the frosty window of the bakery. The things inside looked good and he was suddenly hungry. He saw shiny Chelsea buns at fifteen cents the dozen. They were huge and with rich, syrupy centres. He strolled into the shop and bought a dozen. He wondered what the woman behind the counter would do if he casually laid that massive roll of banknotes on the counter. Probably faint. Anyhow she’d think he was showing off and he didn’t like that. Almost surreptitiously he extracted a bill from the envelope given him by the teller and pushed it across the counter to her. She drew back as though she had been stung.

“Why, that’s a twenty-dollar one,” she said.

He went fiery red. Much embarrassed he retrieved it and, turning his back to her, searched for something smaller.

“What you bought came to fifteen cents,” she said — as though he didn’t know!

“Haven’t you any silver? She enquired, with a freezing note in her voice, as though he had insulted her.

“No silver,” he muttered, and found he had nothing smaller than a ten-dollar bill. He produced it and the woman looked at him as though she thought he’d been robbing the bank.

“I’m sorry,” she said, still freezing, “but I haven’t change for that.”

Another customer entered and came up to the counter.

Piers muttered — “I guess I’ll not take them then.” He turned to leave the bakery and saw that the new customer was Pheasant Vaughan.

Their eyes met. They smiled in surprise and pleasure.

Pheasant then turned primly toward the woman.

“Have you Scotch shortbread?” she asked. “Like you make for Christmas.”

“It will be made in a few days, if you’ll come in then.” The woman smiled at Pheasant and now ignored Piers. “Is there anything else?” she asked.

“No, thanks.... Well, yes. I’ll have a dozen of the ladyfingers.” She took out her little purse, perfectly composed.

Piers had an idea. “Could you lend me fifteen cents?” he asked in a low voice. “I’ve nothing less than a ten-dollar bill.” He tried to make this sound normal.

She looked her astonishment, almost disbelief, but she took fifteen cents from her purse and laid it on the counter near him.

He pushed the silver across to the woman and picked up the bag of Celsea buns. He and Pheasant turned away together, as though they had come in together.

“What did you buy?” she asked with childish curiosity.

He opened the top of the bag to show her. “Oo —” she said. “I love them.”

He said — “I guess they don’t make ice cream this time of year. I’d like some.”

He asked the woman, who answered, with a note of reproof, that it was not the season for ice cream, but she could make them a cup of coffee. Motorists sometimes came in for coffee in this cold weather. There were four little tables standing at the back of the shop.

“All right,” Piers said loftily to the woman. “Make us some, please.”

It wasn’t till he had Pheasant seated at a table that he leant over her and whispered — “I’ll go to the bank and get some small bills. Back in a jiffy.” Off he strode.

Pheasant discovered a tiny looking glass on the wall and tiptoed to it to see how she looked. She put her hat straight and tweaked a bit of hair from under it at each ear. The woman was in the room behind, making the coffee. Soon Piers could be seen running past the window, then entering composedly by the door. Pheasant was waiting with dignity at the table.

He dropped into the chair opposite her. He said:

“I don’t often meet you. What I mean is you don’t go about much, do you?”

She answered sedately — “I’ve no need to go about a lot.”

“How’s that?” he asked, looking suddenly and deeply into the golden-brown of her eyes.

“Well, I’ve everything I need at home.”

“You mean you don’t
want
to go out?”

“When I want to go, I go,” she said severely.

“That’s funny,” he said, and they lapsed into a rather depressed silence.

The smell of coffee came to them. Then the woman appeared with a small tray, the coffee pot, cream jug, and two cups. “Anything to eat?” she asked.

Pheasant looked at the bags containing the Chelsea buns and the ladyfingers. She said — “We have plenty to eat, thank you.”

Piers gave her a quelling look. With a jerk of the head toward the glass case he said — “Bring us some of those splits, with the whipped cream inside.”

The woman now seemed to admire him. She gave him a look that suggested it and then brought a blue plate with six round white buns on it, whipped cream thickly filling their two halves.

“Shall I pour?” Pheasant asked.

He nodded and gave all his attention to her pretty manipulating of the cups.

“Would you like forks?” the woman asked.

“It would be better,” said Piers.

They ate, and sipped their coffee in silence for a little. In spite of all his care over the whipped cream Piers got a little moustache of it. He turned his face mischievously to Pheasant.

“Look,” he said.

She looked, and the sight was enough to send her off into soundless laughter. Feeling doggish, he joined in laughing at himself. The woman looked back from the front of the shop and smiled.

Pheasant could not eat more than two buns, so Piers devoured the other four.

“Funny,” he said, “we don’t often do this.”

“We couldn’t,” she said decisively.

“Why not, I’d like to know?”

“We shouldn’t be let.”

“Well — for heaven’s sake! I’d like to know who’d stop me.”

“Maybe not you, but I shouldn’t.”

“Are they very strict with you? I mean Maurice and Mrs. Clinch.”

Looking rather remote, she answered — “I do what I like. Generally, I mean.”

“Then why do you say what you said?”

“Well, people might talk.”

“Do you mean say we’re engaged or something like that?”

Her only answer was an embarrassed little laugh.

He went on — “I suppose the day will come when we’re both engaged.”