“What were their names?”
He looked blank. “How could I remember?”
“Then, I suppose, you’ll forget my name — later on.”
“Oh, you’ll be taking a new name, one of these days.”
“What, for instance?”
“Whiteoak, perhaps.”
At this they both laughed rather nervously, then a silence fell. To break it Pheasant said — “If there’s one thing above another that I do like it’s a necklace. I mean a real one. Not just a string of beads.”
“I suppose,” he probed, “that you have a very good one.”
“I have beads but no necklace.”
Now he knew what her Christmas present was to be. A necklace. A really good one, with pretty semi-precious stones in it.
They were gay and laughed for sheer pleasure in the skimming round and round the little pond, with the western sun reddening their faces.
Piers was a little sobered by the price he had to pay for the necklet he chose. Yet what a moment it was when Pheasant opened the blue velvet box and discovered it lying there in its nest of white satin ... the fine gold chain, the flowerlike pendant of turquoise and tiny pearls.
“Not for me! Not for me — surely!” she cried.
He had brought it at a lucky moment. They were alone in the living room at Vaughanlands. Piers had chosen a time when he knew Maurice to be in town with Renny.
“Yes, for you.” He tried not to look important.
“But it’s beautiful!”
“It is rather nice.” Nonchalantly he took his chin in his hand and stared out of the window.
“Nice!” she cried. “Oh, Piers — why did you ever do it?”
Now he looked straight at her. “I like you, don’t I?”
“Well, perhaps ... I suppose you do ... but then —” she faltered.
“Then what?” he asked, as though trying to corner her.
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know anything except that I love it.”
“It,” repeated Piers.
“Why not?”
“Why not me?”
“Of course I do — at this moment.”
“Only at this moment!”
“All the time — naturally.”
They laughed nervously, as though at some witty but rather dangerous repartee.
She was wearing a high-necked blue serge dress and she now took the necklet from its box and said, controlling her voice — “Thank you, again and again.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said stiffly. Then he added — “What about trying it on?”
“With this dress? Never.”
“But I’d like to see it on you.”
She bit her lip in embarrassment. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t anything fit to wear with it, excepting my brown satin best dress.”
“This thing,” Piers said, as though contemptuously, “should be worn on the skin.”
“With a low-necked dress, you mean?”
“Of course.”
“I’d better put it away till summer,” she said. “I’ll get a new summer dress especially for it.... What about Maurice? What will he say?”
“Good Lord, Maurice mustn’t see it. He’d think it odd. He’d likely tell Renny and ...” Piers could not go on. He could not tell her of the row he’d get into at home if — Now he said, his breath coming quick — “I wish you’d wear it every day, under your dress. Then nobody will see it till —” he hesitated, looked about him, as though for some way of escape. But he could not escape from himself and the urge that drove him.
“Till when?” she asked, large-eyed.
“Till we come out into the open.” His voice was husky. The palms of his hands moist. A paralysing silence enveloped them. It was a relief to hear Mrs. Clinch coming.
Piers was a favourite with her and she smiled when she saw him.
“You’re quite a stranger,” she said.
“I’m a working man now, Mrs. Clinch,” he laughed.
“It’s news to me,” she said, “when I hear of any of the folks at Jalna working.”
“Now I call that insulting.” He gave his jolly smile. “We do a lot of hard work.”
“Hard work! None of yous knows what real work is.”
“My grandfather was a pioneer, like Pheasant’s grandfather.”
“Gentry, all of them,” said the housekeeper, “with plenty of money to hire other folks to work for them. Not but what I like your sort better than some of the upstarts I see nowadays. Money is all they have.”
“We certainly haven’t much.”
“Would you like a cookie?” she enquired. “I’ve some in the oven.”
“Thanks. I’ll go to the kitchen for them.”
“No. I’ll bring ’em in here.” Piers’s boyish vitality put new life into her. Angular though she was, she almost bustled from the room.
Like two culprits Piers and Pheasant smiled secretly at each other.
“Got it safe?” he whispered.
She patted the front of her dress. “In here.”
“Shall you wear it?”
“All the time. Underneath.”
“I think it’s rather nice, don’t you?”
“Perfectly lovely.”
He frowned judicially. “It isn’t a cheap thing, you know.”
“It must have cost the earth!”
He smiled, gratified. “Well, not quire.”
She said, almost tragically — “You shouldn’t have done it, Piers.”
“Why?” he demanded, as though defying all of his family, with Maurice and Mrs. Clinch into the bargain.
“Oh, because.”
“Because why?” He came close to her and looked deep into the golden-brown depths of her eyes.
“You know,” she whispered.
“I only know,” he said, “that you’re the sweetest ...”
Mrs. Clinch’s step was approaching. They drew apart, and when she appeared with a plate of cookies they were examining with rapt interest a steel engraving of Lady Butler’s “The Roll Call.”
During these winter months Dilly’s pursuit of Renny was as earnest as Piers’s pursuit of Pheasant. Yet it was more difficult, because while he was more accessible to attack, he was, at the same time, even more shy, and decidedly fiercer. They were like two hunters, out after two different sorts of prey. They differed also in their motives, for Piers did not yet know whether he intended a direct kill or whether the pursuit itself was enough, but Dilly was quite sure of what she wanted. She wanted to see the red-haired master of Jalna lying mortally wounded at her feet.
He was fleet in avoiding her, for he perceived the huntress’ glitter in her eye. Safe in his bedroom he counted the days till her departure on the shiny calendar that hung above his washstand. Ruefully he examined his reflection in the looking glass as that of a man about whom the toils were closing. The women of his family were on Dilly’s side. His grandmother was constantly reminding him that the girl had brass, and God knew he needed it. His aunt remarked what a handsome pair they made, and told him of the fine property in Leicestershire to which she was heir. His sister told him how she had learned to love Dilly and how she was the only girl she ever had met whom she could welcome a a sister at Jalna. Even Wakefield developed a clinging attitude toward Dilly (nobody but he and she knew how many chocolates she fed him) and showed such a partiality for her that Meg became a little jealous. One thing was certain, the child had small appetite for his meals and suffered two bilious bouts inside a fortnight.
His uncles had a decided affection for the girl but they said nothing to push Renny into this marriage.
Ernest said, stroking his long, finely-boned face with his long white hand — “I have remained single and shall remain single to the end of my life. There is a spirit in me which refuses to bend the neck to the yoke of matrimony. But you my dear boy, would, I imagine, find great pleasure in the companionship of a congenial woman. The question is — is Dilly congenial?”
Renny asked — “How did this question come up? I didn’t bring it up.”
“Really, I don’t know,” answered Ernest. “It’s the long winter I suppose.”
Renny stared at him. “I wish the family would get something else on their minds.”
“It’s difficult for them — you see I don’t include myself —” returned Ernest, “when there is such a desirable young woman in the house — and you.”
“Leave me out of it.”
“Yes, indeed, I quite agree.”
“If she is so desirable, why didn’t that other fellow toe the scratch?”
“From what Augusta tells me, Dilly did well to escape.”
“I wish I could.”
Ernest laughed heartlessly. “You are well able to look after yourself, dear boy.”
Nicholas now joined them, and Ernest said to him — “We have just been speaking of Dilly.”
Nicholas, filling his pipe, growled — “Steer clear of matrimony. I tried it. Never would again.”
Ernest objected — “But Renny must marry. He must carry on the name.”
Nicholas said — “Piers is bound to. He’s the type. Let him do it.”
“Just the same,” said Renny, “this girl is a menace. I wish she’d go.”
“I shall miss her bright presence in the house.” And Ernest drew a comfortable sigh.
“From now on,” said Renny, “I intend to live more and more in the stable.”
He kept his word, and there were days when he was scarcely seen in the house. He had two rather peculiar horsy friends who visited him often but were not made welcome by Meg. They would sit in his little office in the stable, discussing the characteristics, the pedigrees of various horses by the hour. They would drink whisky and water, smoke till the air was blue, even sometimes have a game of cards, all in the peaceful knowledge that, in the stable beyond, there were no complications of human intercourse, but only the direct and godlike simplicity of beautiful and powerful beasts.
“I love the harness horse,” Mr. Chase would say. “And I saw a beauty last week. She was for sale and you ought to buy her, Mr. Whiteoak.”
“I don’t go in for breeding harness horses, as you well know. It’s a waste of time.”
“That there Cora of yours is a lovely mare,” Mr. Crowdy would add. “What a shoulder! What a firm, level back! What legs!”
“Yes,” Renny would agree. “Money can’t buy her.”
And on and on they would talk till the early dusk began to fall, when the two friends would depart in their old Ford and Renny would stand in the door of the stable, staring longingly at the lights coming out of the house. “Upon my word,” he thought, “it hardly seems like home any more.”
He went back into his office and looked at the calendar and counted the days till she would go. “By God, she’ll get me yet,” he thought, as he felt himself weakening.
The very next day she appeared at the stables wearing her riding clothes. It was the first of March and a great thaw had set in. Huge snowdrifts which had withstood the ever-increasing power of the sun now succumbed, sank, drew into themselves, and disappeared. Little rivulets chased each other all about the farmland. Sparrows fervently took baths in icy puddles. The earth presented its dark face to the sun’s inspection.
Dilly came right to the office and knocked peremptorily on the door.
He knew who it was before opening it and he looked about him, as though for a place to hide. Then she knocked again, playing a little tune on the door with her knuckles.
He opened it and greeted her with an unamiable grin. “Well,” he said, “so it’s you, Dilly.”
“I didn’t know a winter could be so long,” she said. “Couldn’t we go for a ride.”
“We could indeed, if you like riding in icy slush. The horses certainly don’t.”
She came into the office. “I heard Piers say at lunch that the roads are quite good now and I heard you say last night that the horses need exercising.” Her eyes rested on the calendar. “What a pretty calendar! Why have you made a circle with a red pencil round the twenty-first of March?”
He looked at that date as though he had not seen it before, then he answered — “It is the Equinox. Surely you know that.”
“I want to know what it means.” She stood straight, looking into his eyes.
“Why, the sun crosses the equator, doesn’t it?”
“I cross the Atlantic!” she cried. “Do you mean to say that you’re making a red-letter day of it?”
“Is that the date when you leave?” he asked innocently.
“It is. You know that very well. Really — you have the most perfectly, abnormally sadistic nature I have ever known.”
“Go on,” he said, “this is just the way to make me love you.”
“I don’t want you to love me! I want you to go on hating me.”
“Come to the stable,” he said, “and get on the scales and let me weigh you. I believe you’ve gained considerably since coming to Jalna.”
“I’d rather,” she cried, “be too plump than thin as a bone like you are.”
He answered tranquilly — “Curves in a woman can be very alluring.”
“You suggest weighing me to sneer at me.”
“No. To put you in good humour. Children always like to be weighed.”
“You think I behave childishly,” she wailed.
He moved his arm so that he could see his wristwatch. “We have time for a ride,” he said. “Supposing we go. I’ll ride Cora and you shall ride Prince Eitel. He’s a fairly new acquisition. He’s well-behaved, though a bit lively. Do you mind?”
“There’s nothing on earth I should like so well,” she cried, melting as the snowdrifts had melted. “Now we’re friends again, aren’t we? How heavenly!” And she held out her plump white hand which he at once clasped in a determined air of masculine reconciliation.
As they passed the various stalls and loose boxes their occupants, by some subtle means of communication, let it be known to the farthest corner that there was riding in the air. The winter had been so long. To be sure, a canter on well-packed snow was a pleasant thing, but the wind could be bitter cold and the deep ruts of winter roads were not liked by horse or rider. But now there was warmth in the sunshine that turned the clean straw to spears of gold. Through the open upper half of a door came a new smell. Elegantly sculptured necks were arched in anticipation. Lustrous eyes glowed and deep-throated whickers demanded — “Am I to be chosen?”
Cora and Prince Eitel were saddled and led out. Renny looked Dilly over, with an appraising eye, as she was mounted. He thought he never had seen her so attractive. She stroked Prince’s neck and called him “darling.” She seemed to feel that he was going to do something for her.
As they trotted past the house, there was Meg on the porch, wearing only a cotton dress and hugging herself with her plump arms.
“Have a nice ride,” she called.
“It’s divine to be on horseback,” Dilly called back.
“He’s a beauty — the horse you’re on!”
“He’s like a rocking chair.”
Meg shouted — “You two look lovely together!”
Pretending not to have heard, Dilly asked — “What did she say?”
“She said we looked funny together.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“That’s what she said.”
“I heard. And she said lovely.”
“Rather a silly remark. But I suppose she meant the horses.”
“You never would agree that I could look lovely.”
“You’re not my type, as I’ve told you.” He cast a critical glance at her. “Your right knee is out.”
She clamped it to Prince’s side and they disappeared from Meg’s gaze into the green tunnel of the drive where the lowest branches of the spruce and hemlock swept the ground and the topmost now welcomed the first crow.
“Listen,” exclaimed Renny, when it uttered its bold caw. “Sprin
g is coming!”
“It must be divine here in springtime,” she said, raising her eyes to the promise of black wings now spread against a pale-blue sky.
“It is,” he agreed. “It comes suddenly and everyone is glad. Though for myself I enjoy all seasons. Just as I enjoy all moods in a woman.”
“You can be very sweet,” she said. “But, when you’re disagreeable, the effect on me is devastating. Oh, there’s some terrible lack in me! You feel it, I know. Can you tell me what it is?” She rode close beside him now through the big gate and on to the road.
“Yes,” he answered tersely. “Horse sense.”
“You devil,” she said, pushing so close to him that Cora capered in annoyance, slipped, and went dangerously close to the ditch.
The road was a little muddy, with melting snow at the sides and a subdued gurgling in the ditches. On either side the farmlands still looked wintry. There was that air of flat desertion, as though all slept, not in peace, not in serenity, but in the season that was no season, in a longing without object.
“Which way are we going?” she asked in a small meek voice.
Always showing off, he thought, and answered — “To the lakeshore road. It will be better there.” His eyes were following with admiration the easy grace of Prince Eitel’s gait. He had been a good buy.
The pair exchanged amiable words as they ambled along the miles to the lakeshore road which the sun had almost dried and where they passed two wagons and met a single motor-car.
Prince Eitel, Renny thought, carried himself as a prince should. He moved with charm and distinction. Not that he was better than Cora. No horse could surpass her, but he was wonderfully good, and Dilly had never appeared to greater advantage. Renny was conscious of his thoughts warming dangerously toward her, and she, when she spoke, said the right thing. Her eyes, when she turned to look into his — but no — better not meet that look of challenge and promise — for if he gave in to her, though she might pretend that she did not care a rip for marriage — he saw that in the pout of her lips now — she would marry him in the end — as sure as she sat astride Prince.
He knew that road, yard by yard, not mile by mile as a motorist would know it. He knew the rise beyond a clump of cedars, where a huge old stump lay, at which Cora invariably ducked her head and shied. He knew the very bend in the road where the icy wind struck you. He knew that place where the lake was washing away the shore, nearer and nearer the road. The ditch into which a runaway horse had once thrown him and broken his leg.
06 The Whiteoak Brothers Page 26