Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  She exclaimed — “But I come from a business family. Cotton mills. I know a great deal about business. I wish I were into this gold mine affair — if it were ever so little. It would give me something new to think about.” A shadow crossed her face and Eden remembered she had a disappointment in love.

  He said gravely — “The shares cost little, considering the potentialities. But they’re being bought up very fast.”

  “What do they cost?” She spoke with almost abrupt shrewdness.

  Eden explained the present position of Indigo Lake shares with a skill equal almost to that of Mr. Kronk. He smiled as he heard himself use the broker’s very phrases. He had little hope that she would buy shares, yet the mine loomed so large in his thoughts that he could no resist talking of it. But Dilly was surprisingly receptive and showed herself eager to learn all he had to tell her of Indigo Lake. Suddenly she said:

  “I have a thousand dollars which my trust company has deposited in a bank here — for travelling expenses or in case of emergency. But I don’t want to travel. I want to stay here in this delightful house — that is, if you think your family can tolerate me.”

  “Oh, they all — we all, love having you.”

  She said happily — “Then I’ll do it!”

  “What if an emergency crops up?”

  “Then I could sell my shares, couldn’t I?”

  “Of course. And at a profit.”

  It was too easy, he thought. The girl had more money than brains. Almost he wished he had been more reticent. Now there would be six investors at Jalna. Eden smiled to himself considering all he had accomplished in so short a while, and to the benefit of all six. Looking up into the mulberry tree, he forgot Dilly, and saw himself strolling along a street in Paris, past shrubs in green-painted tubs, in front of pavement cafés where those seated at the little tables had a gaiety he longed for. Their glances seemed to beckon him. Then he was on the Corso in Taormina watching the goatherd driving his little herd to be milked in the purple twighlight.

  “Dreams,” said Dilly, and he felt her hand on his hair.

  He started, bringing himself up with a jerk.

  “Now I’ve shocked you,” she cried.

  “Lord, no.”

  “But I had to touch it. It’s so beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” He stroked down the rumpled lock.

  “I know you think I’m forward,” she said, “but I never was what you’d call shy, and this coming to a new country has excited me. I feel ready for anything. Have you ever felt like that?”

  An odd smile bent Eden’s lips. “A few times.”

  “Oh, tell me.”

  He was relieved by the appearance of Pheasant Vaughan, who could be seen through the trees that rose above the ravine making her way toward the stables.

  “Who is she?” demanded Dilly. “Is she in riding clothes?”

  “Yes. She’s the daughter of a neighbour. She’s going to ride one of our horses at the Show.”

  “What fun!” But Dilly, for some reason, did not look amused. “How old is she?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “How ridiculous — she’ll never do it properly.”

  “She couldn’t make a fault on that horse. Besides she’s very good, though my brother has only been training her for two months. Should you like to come over to the paddock and watch them?”

  Dilly sprang up with an elastic strength and buoyancy. “I’d love to.”

  She led the way, as though restive. “Do you think your brother would lend me a horse to ride? I adore riding.”

  “I’m sure he would,” Eden promised, not being at all sure.

  At the white-painted palings they found Renny and the two grooms Scotchmere and Wright. Piers and Pheasant were trotting round the paddock mounted on two beautifully groomed show horses. To see them was to feel the happiness that emanated from them. Two stable-boys set up a bar and the two riders leaped it with graceful ease.

  Scotchmere, chewing a straw, remarked — “She’s coming on — the young lady, I mean. But she ain’t got the judgement she needs for the Show — when the band is playing and the crowd cheering. You’ll find that out, sir. I told you at the first you’d made a mistake and I stick to it.”

  Wright said — “All that little mare asks is someone to set on her and hold the reins. She’ll go over the jumps herself.”

  Scotchmere spat out the straw. “Of all the silly remarks I ever heard that’s the silliest,” he said bitterly. “Any horse needs to be rid properly.”

  “Well, now, just look at her,” exclaimed Wright and his ruddy young face glowed in admiration as the mare skimmed lightly over the bar now somewhat raised. Piers followed, felling in this moment of splendid exhilaration a desire to follow Pheasant to the ends of the earth.

  Renny turned to Dilly. “Pretty sight, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Isn’t it fun!” she laughed, showing more of her white teeth than he had heretofore seen any woman show. He looked speculatively into her mouth, as though she were a horse whose age he was about to assess.

  Pheasant, proud of her increasing skill, filled with love for Piers and the mare, was careless. Down rattled the bar to the ground. Piers’s horse shied. The mare danced skittishly, and Renny sang out:

  “That won’t do!”

  Round the corner of the stable Meg appeared. It was seldom she came in this direction, for not one member of the family was so little interested in the activities of the horses as she. And of all the family she was the one whom Renny least wanted to see there. He knew how bitterly Meg would resent Pheasant’s riding of one of his horses at the Show. He had hoped, in a primitive masculine way, to hide what he knew could not be hidden, or in any event to conceal it to the last possible moment, even to the moment when Meg in their box at the Show would see Pheasant ride on to the tanbark. His brothers had taken care not to mention Pheasant’s daily presence in the paddock to Meg. Eden indeed thought little about it, for his mind was intent on other matters, and Piers, of his own desire, was even more eager than Renny to keep the secret.

  But now she was upon them and saw the girl mounted and flying, with happy thud of hooves, toward the next jump. In the first moment Meg could not be sure who was the rider, for it was seldom that she saw Pheasant. Then, as the mare passed closed to the palings, she was made certain indeed and her heart caught up the thud of hooves and joined its own wrathful beating.

  With her hand pressed to it, she went to Renny, who watched her approach with a grimace of chagrin.

  “What does this mean?” she demanded.

  “Keep your voice down,” he said.

  “What does it mean — that girl here on one of your horses?”

  He returned, frowning sulkily — “I had to find someone to ride for me.”

  “What utter nonsense!” she cried.

  “Keep your voice down.”

  She raised it. “She did not ride for you last year or any other year!”

  “I was not then entering a horse in this event. Now I can.”

  “But Renny” — now tears came bright into her eyes — “think of me.”

  “That’s right,” he said, “tell your whole history to the world…. Anyhow, that’s nearly sixteen years ago. Everyone has forgotten it.”

  She spoke more quietly. “I have not forgotten it.”

  He too spoke quietly and laid a sympathetic hand on her arm.

  “Meggie, you know how badly I felt over that. But I see no reason for remembering it in this instance. It is a matter of business that I should have someone to ride this mare for me as she should be ridden.”

  “I will refuse to go to the Show.”

  This to him was not only unreasonable but was to deny herself one of the great pleasures of the year. Now she not only looked at him with tears in her eyes but a sob shook her plump body. At the same time things were going badly in the paddock, for Pheasant — with a shock — had seen Meg. The mare, conscious of her nervousness, twice refused, then, when
at last she jumped, did so in a helter-skelter fashion. Piers’s mount, temperamental and excitable, danced about like a skittish colt though he was eight years old.

  Scotchmere approach Renny and Meg, a scowl darkening his wizened face.

  Young Wright, looking as though the end of the earth had come, ran into the paddock to tighten the mare’s girth. Finch, hanging over the palings, gave vent to hysterical giggles.

  “I’ve said all along,” continued Scotchmere, “that the little lady is too young. She hasn’t experience and it ain’t possible to give it to her in a couple months.”

  Though Pheasant was astride the mare her spirit was gathered tremblingly into the little group now discussing her. She could not see, she could not hear, but, in a chaos of bewilderment and apprehension, felt that she knew all.

  As Wright straightened himself and drew away Pheasant said in an undertone to Piers:

  “Your sister … she doesn’t want me.”

  “Nonsense. Come — forget them all! We’ll show them.” He patted the mare.

  His own horse was still misbehaving and he brought the whip down on its flank. The pair trotted back to the starting point. No one quite knew how it happened but at the first jump Pheasant was thrown. She was tossed off and was on her feet by the time Renny had vaulted the palings and reached her side.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “No — oh, no. I don’t know why I was thrown…. Just stupid, I guess.” She was panting and she gripped her elbow.

  Renny pushed up the sleeve to discover a skinned spot. Patting her arm, he said:

  “I’m glad it’s no worse. But you had better go home and take it easy for the rest of the day.”

  He hesitated, then added — “Come into my office first and let me put some ointment on it. I have the very best kind.”

  Wright was holding the mare by the bridle. She looked gently at Pheasant out of her great liquid eyes. Her head, in naked beauty, was motionless, as though carven from bronze. Only her nostrils moved with her breathing.

  Pheasant laid her hand for a moment on the mare’s neck. “Goodbye,” she said, and followed Renny into the stable.

  Piers had dismounted and now walked beside them. He said — “Everybody has a bad day now and then.”

  She turned her face away.

  Renny said — “You had better take Pheasant home, Piers. She’s a bit shaken. But leave her to me now.”

  In the little room that he called his office, where there was a shiny desk and a revolving chair, a file containing the records of all the horses he and his father had owned, and where lithographs of famous horses decorated the walls, he said, after closing the door — “It’s just as Piers says —” Then he stopped, because he saw that in comforting her he was going to break her composure. Opening a cupboard on the wall, he took out a small pot of ointment. But after another look at her elbow he frowned. “I must put iodine on it, I’m afraid. It will hurt.”

  “Go ahead. I don’t mind.”

  “Good girl.” He made a swab with cotton-wool and applied the iodine, asking — “Does it hurt very much?”

  But she was glad of the pain, hugging it to her as a relief from the sharper pain.

  When the elbow was neatly bound he looked down into her face. “You know, Pheasant, it’s not that I haven’t a good opinion of you as a rider; you’ve come on wonderfully. You have fine stuff in you. You have good hands on the rein —” He broke off thinking how terribly young she looked.

  “I know,” she said, in a small shaky voice. “But I’m not good enough for the Show.”

  “I was wrong to think I could train you in so short a while.”

  The sound of the mare’s hooves on the cement of the passage came to them. She was being led in and, either in protest or in pleasure, she raised her voice and whinnied. It was too much for Pheasant.

  “I’m going,” she said breathlessly, and ran toward the door.

  But he caught her by the back of her jacket and held her. “No, no,” he said, “not like that. Come now, be a brave girl. You’ll ride for me some other time —”

  She interrupted — “Please let me go.”

  She struggled and he released her. Almost ceremoniously he held open the door for her, then watched her run along the passage, through the wide door of the stable, and vanish. Scotchmere appeared, carrying a saddle in his hands. He looked after Pheasant with a speculative grin.

  “Too high-strung,” he said. “But she’ll get over it. I guess we’ve done with her.”

  With a taciturn look Renny turned back into his office, reflecting on how difficult it was to do anything without interference. Yet he was not altogether sorry that things had turned out as they had, for in these last days his doubts of Pheasant’s ability to face such an important event had disturbed him.

  Scarcely had the door closed when it was again opened and Meg stood there.

  “Come in,” he said genially, but the look on his face was forbidding.

  She spoke gently. “Scotchmere tells me that you have decided not to allow that girl to ride for you. I’m so thankful.”

  “I’ve said nothing of the sort to him.”

  “Oh, but he knows you so well. And — after what I saw —”

  “Your appearing on the scene had a lot to do with it.”

  “Good heavens, Renny — am I such an ogre?”

  “You have never shown Pheasant any friendliness.”

  “And no one in his right mind could expect me to.” Now her blue eyes were swimming in tears, their pupils enlarged.

  He flung himself into his chair with an exasperated “ha,” and, picking up a nail-file, concentrated on a broken thumbnail.

  She exclaimed — “It sets my teeth on edge to see you do that so roughly. Look — let me.” She took the file from him and also taking possession of his hand proceeded tenderly with the operation. “Such nice hands,” she said in a cooing voice, “and you use them so badly.”

  Ignoring this, he said — “If the mare won at the Show I could sell her for a good price, and I may remark that I need the money. You know this has been an expensive year both for repairs to the house and the stables. You know that one of our best horses died.”

  She clasped the hand she held against the delicious softness of her bosom. “I know, I know, and don’t imagine I’m not sympathetic, but I couldn’t bear —” Her voice trembled and she broke off, actually not knowing, for once in her life, what to say next.

  He said — “Then you put your own personal prejudices above my welfare.”

  She found her tongue. “Never! But — oh, you see how it is. I could not go … she must not ride … even Wright says she won’t do … why not ask Dilly to ride for you? She’s dying to.”

  “Dilly!” He was astonished.

  “Well — she’s been hinting, hasn’t she?”

  “She’s always hinting about something. Why Aunt Augusta brought her here I can’t imagine.”

  “She is a charming girl.”

  “Our ideas differ. What experience of riding has she?”

  “She was practically brought up in the saddle. You know what life in Leicestershire is. Do let her ride the mare. In any case give her a trial.”

  “Gladly. Where is she?”

  Meg’s smile was ineffably sweet. “Oh, she has gone to the house to try on my riding things. You know, I can’t get into them now. I’m sure they’ll fit her.”

  XII

  PHEASANT

  She ran along the path homeward faster than she had ever run before. Her feet scuffed through the fallen leaves, making that sound she ordinarily delighted in, but now she heard nothing. Oh, to be home — in her own room — with the door locked! In that safety she longed to be hidden.

  A projecting root caught her foot and she fell. So confused was she that, for an instant, she thought she had again been thrown from the mare. She felt disgraced to be thrown a second time and gave a little whimper of protest. Then her mind cleared and she lay still, l
ooking up into the blue depths of the sky through the russet oak leaves.

  She heard footsteps padding on the path and scrambled to her feet.

  For a wild instant she thought it might be Renny come to take her back, to say all was well. But now she saw Piers running toward her.

  “Oh, Pheasant,” he called out, “here you are,” and hesitated, a little embarrassed to see her tragic expression.

  Now he moved toward her slowly, his healthy fair face clouded by concern.

  “It’s a damned shame,” he began, but she put out her hand as though to ward him off.

  He stood motionless, reflecting on the peculiar change going on within himself. He felt at one and the same time a confusion of spirit and a sense of power, a desire to be alone and a longing to take Pheasant into his arms and comfort her. Yet the sense of power was so demanding that the longing to comfort became a wish to dominate.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he began, but she interrupted:

  “I won’t talk about it.”

  “You needn’t talk. Just listen to me.” He drew nearer. “Pheasant —”

  She let him put an arm about her and for an instant laid her head on his shoulder. Then she pushed him from her and turned and fled along the path. He did not follow, but stood looking after her, considering how easily he might overtake her if he chose.

  She, as though she heard footsteps in pursuit, ran her swiftest, her heart beating fast in her throat. She did not stop till she was within sight of her own home. Then she slowed to a trot and entered the cold, dim hall on tiptoe. This house, in spite of Mrs. Clinch’s efforts, always had a faint smell of dust and mustiness. To Pheasant this smell was always associated with the thought of home, and with the loud ticking of the clock with stood at the foot of the stairs and sent out its metallic tick-tock and what always seemed to her its angry strike, both below and above.

  Surprisingly she met her father on the stairs.

  “Hullo,” he said, “and how did the riding go?”

  She forced her voice to be steady. “Not very well. They don’t think I’ll do after all.”