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.”
V
THE POWER OF ATTORNEY
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 w
ould 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.
“Now, Gran,” he said, cheerfully but masterfully, “let’s get this little job done.”
“What job? I’m tidying my drawer.”
He put paper before her and pen into her hand.
“Just sign here — like a dear.”
“Where? I don’t want to sign away anything.”
Exasperated, he cried — “My God — you’re not signing away anything! You’re only —”
“Don’t swear at me, young man. I won’t have it.”
“Forgive me, Granny. But you do remember, don’t you, about the stocks you want to buy? The shares in the gold mine?”
“Gold! Gold!” screamed Boney. “Pieces of eight!”
“Of course I remember.” She spoke brusquely, firmly. “Give me my pen.”
He dipped it in ink for her, showed her just where to sign. She gripped the pen-handle, made one or two false starts, then signed her name, Adeline Whiteoak, quite clearly.
It was done.
“Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” Eden warned. “All the family will be up on their hind legs if they hear of it. Please remember, Gran. It’s our secret, isn’t it?”
“And I shall make a pot of money, eh?”
“You’ll double your investment.”
“Ha, that’s what I like to hear.”
Meg found them tidying the drawer together, Adeline’s best cap perched on Eden’s fair head, Boney busying himself with a crust of toast.
“And how did you get on?” cried Meg. “You do look happy.”
“Haven’t had such a good time in months,” said Adeline.
Boney cocked an eye from his toast. “Pieces of eight!” he screamed. “Gold! Ruddy gold! You old devil!”
VI
ROOM FOR SCOPE
Oh, to breathe freely — away from that room — away from everyone!Eden fairly flung himself along the winding path across the fields. The sandy loam was hard and dry and warm beneath his feet. Among the shining spears of stubble, glossy black crickets darted. A daddy-long-legs, having lost one of them, steered a wobbling course. The wind, cool in the shadow, hot in the sun, blew against Eden’s body, and an answering movement stirred his spirit.
But, even while he reached out toward freedom, he thought — “All these experiences I pass through are making me into the being that will be the ultimate me. They are necessary to me. They are part of me.” Remote pictures, almost of babyhood, flashed into his mind — himself, tossed up and caught in his father’s hands — himself, carried on Renny’s shoulder, supporting himself by a clutched handful of Renny’s red hair — then a sudden vision of that middle-aged woman who had captivated him four years ago, not from love of her but from hers for him. He laughed when he thought of that affair, which now seemed almost as far away as childhood. The glory of the sun, the brightness an expanse of the fields ran through him like a poem and he longed to write something far, far better than he had yet done. For the hundredth time he thought of the verses he had sent to an America
n magazine more than a month ago, and no word of them yet. Time was as nothing to those editors, yet his impatience was almost unbearable, for he knew, yes, he was certain he had never written anything better than those verses. What he would write tonight was already stirring his imagination.
The path led him into the pine wood, ancient trees of the primeval forest, with massive trunks and boughs heavy with pointed foliage. Here and there a fallen branch lay and, in one spot, a whole tree sunk down, not blown by a gale, but, from a rotting within, just sunk quietly to join the earth. About it there were a few bright-red mushrooms and a pallid plant called Indian pipe. He sat down on the trunk of the fallen tree, lighted a cigarette, and gave himself up to dreaming. All thoughts of the Indigo Lake Mine left him and the first lines of a poem sprang into his mind. Birds did not like this dark wood but now an unseen small bird, having found himself here, began a pensive song. Never did he get past his first lines but sang them over and over, while Eden sitting on the tree trunk got no further with his.
He heard steps approaching and turned a defensive face toward them. Finch appeared, scuffling the carpet of pine needles as he slowly advanced. Eden looked into Finch’s face, his own expression of defensiveness melting into interest. What an odd face the youngster had! Long and rather melancholy. But his eyes were a good shape and his nose too. Eden felt rather sorry for young Finch, sharing as he did a room with Piers and often roughly treated by him.
Finch raised his eyes and saw Eden. He quickened his steps, with a deprecating grin, as though to get himself as quickly out of the way as possible.
“Hello,” Eden called out, suddenly hospitable, as though the pine wood were his private room and the log his easy chair. “Come and sit down.”
Finch dropped to the log beside him, miscalculated its width and all but toppled over backward.
“Well,” remarked Eden affably — “holidays are nearly over. I suppose you’re counting the days till school opens. Nice thought, isn’t it?”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 157