The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (198 page)

With Nicholas and Ernest he was most at ease in these days, for, secure in the privacy of their rooms, he could indulge in happy forecasts of the future. He had given up all study. When he retired to his room to work it was only a pretence. He idled, he wrote a little poetry, and read much.

One evening he carried a book to Nicholas’s room and rapped.

“Come in,” Nicholas sang out.

“Here’s a book I think you’d enjoy.” Eden put
South Wind
into his uncle’s hand. “Are you busy? May I come in?”

“Thanks for the book. Alluring title — on a night of north wind. Upon my word, I can’t remember a windier fall. Sit down, Eden. I have been wanting to see you alone. Have a drink?”

“Thanks.” Eden bent to pat Nip, curled up on the bed, who rose, arched his back like a cat, and uttered a complaining yawn.

“Hates this weather,” said Nicholas, pouring the drinks. “Catch a spider, Nip!”

The little dog hurled himself from the bed, raced round and round the room, snuffling in the corners and barking hysterically.

“Gives him exercise,” said Nicholas. “Good for him.”

They sat down with their drinks and Nicholas then asked — “I suppose you have lots of work to do?”

“Well, not much tonight.”

His uncle looked at him keenly. “Working very hard?”

“Not particularly.” There was a defensive note in Eden’s voice. He knew well how he was wasting his time but he could, in these days of high hope, endure no probings from his elders.

“Well, well,” said Nicholas, settling himself in his chair and gathering Nip on to his knees, “I idled too when I was your age. Regretted it afterward — though not greatly. But now it’s different. A young man needs to be keen, doesn’t he? How are the stocks?”

“Fine.”

“Do you know what I’ve decided to do?”

“Sell out. I shall make a good profit and not run the risk of a drop in prices. By Jove, I don’t want to lose anything.”

“No danger, Uncle Nick. But, if you want to take your profit now, I’ll see Kronk tomorrow and he’ll fix it for you.” Nicholas smiled up at Eden. “This affair of the Indigo Lake has given us a deal of excitement,” he said. “It’s years since I done any speculating, and then not very successfully. But this — well, as I say, I think I shall take the profit and be satisfied. Now, if I were Ernest, I’d go on and on, till I should probably end by losing.”

“Not in this, Uncle Nick. But you are right, I dare say, to sell out. You’ve made a tidy sum and you’re satisfied.”

The following day Eden went to Kronk’s office to arrange for the sale of his uncle’s shares. The broker had a stenographer with him but he asked her to leave and, when Eden and he were left alone, turned to him with his cosy smile. Mr. Kronk, although well turned-out and well groomed as to hair and fingernails, always had a slightly soiled look, as though no number of baths could get him quite clean.

He said — “I sort of hope you are not here to talk business but just to have a nice quiet drink. I’ve been fairly swamped by business the last few days. Americans ring me up and buy Indigo Lake by phone. What wouldn’t I give for a rest.” And he sighed, as though for the unattainable.

But when Eden told him he had come to arrange for the sale of Nicholas’s shares, his eyes narrowed and he looked almost disapproving. He said:

“Your uncle can sell if he wants to. Certainly. Certainly he can. But I really don’t advise it. He’d make a fine profit but not as good as if he held on a little longer. Have a drink, won’t you?”

“No, thanks. Why would it be better for him to hold on?”

Mr. Kronk had all the physical habits of self-confidence. He smiled into Eden’s eyes. “Because,” he said, “the price has dropped a little, owning to fluctuations all through the market. Wall Street is really at the bottom of it.” And his smile became faintly reproving, as though, if he had Wall Street on the spot, he would be quite firm with it.

Eden was quick to take alarm. He asked — “Do you think there is danger of a further drop?”

“Possibly a very slight decline. But don’t worry. Tell your uncles and your aunts and your cousins — that’s Gilbert and Sullivan, isn’t it? — not to worry. Indigo Lake will take care of us all. Are you yourself thinking of investing something more?” He looked at Eden in a way that made him feel rather like a specimen under a magnifying glass.

Eden had still in his possession one thousand six hundred and fifty dollars which he had got on commission. He had intended this very day to invest this, as he had already invested his earlier earnings.

“Now is the time,” Mr. Kronk said, “when the price has fallen a bit.”

“It’s still high.”

“And will go much higher. I think I’m safe in saying that inside the next three months it will reach the peak — and remain there. You can put in your money and forget about it.”

“Well, I’ll think about it,” said Eden. “I haven’t very much, you know.”

“Every little helps,” beamed Mr. Kronk. “But do just as you like. It doesn’t matter to me.”

The telephone on his desk rang. He took up the receiver and a very brief but somewhat cryptic conversation took place, during which Eden decided that he did not like the look of Mr. Kronk, that indeed he had one of the most objectionable faces he had ever seen, and that he should like to take hold of it, as one might a face of putty, and mould it into a different shape.

“Long distance from Detroit,” said the broker. “A client wanting to invest another five thousand. He chose a good time.”

“Just the same, I think I shall wait for a bit.”

“Please yourself,” Mr. Kronk said curtly, and his expression was rather like that of an animal trainer who senses a rebellious spirit in one of the troupe.

At the first opportunity that evening, Nicholas drew Eden into the empty library. He asked — “Well, did you get the thing settled?”

“No, Uncle Nick. I went to see Kronk and he says you should wait for a bit. You see, the stock has dropped a few points and you will make a bigger profit if you wait till it goes up again.”

“I’m quite satisfied with the profit I’ve made. I want to sell. So please go to him tomorrow and say so.”

“Very well.”

“No matter what objections this man Kronk makes, tell him that I want to sell. Mind you, I’m very pleased by what he has done for me. But — I’m running no risks. I’m going to sell.”

Eden found Mr. Kronk in his office on the following day gave him the message from Nicholas. Eden half expected the broker to try again to persuade him to use his influence with Nicholas against the sale. But no — Mr. Kronk smilingly agreed. There was nothing he liked better, he said, than giving people their own way, guiding them when he could but always, above all things, anxious to see them mentally at ease. As for himself, he never worried. He had his own philosophy of life and that kept him steady through all vicissitudes. His greenish eyes had a soothing, almost hypnotic power. He asked — “What about that little nest egg of yours? Don’t you think you would be sensible to invest it now, while the price is down? Remember, it will rise sharply in a few days.”

Eden disliked the term “nest egg.” It made him think of hens and he did not much like hens. Then something in him rose against being guided, though ever so gently, by Mr. Kronk. He said rather stiffly:

“I think I’ll not invest anything more at present.”

Mr. Kronk gave a little shrug. He said — “About your uncle’s shares, I’ll sell them tomorrow and send him a cheque.”

W
AKEFIELD’S
D
AY

Wakefield had felt very important when first he had gone to the Rectory for lessons from Mr. Fennel. On the whole, he had thought, it was rather nice being too delicate to go to school. He had seen Finch rushing off to catch the train on bitter winter mornings. He had seen him hugging the stove in the hall when he had returned home on bitter winter evenings.

You could tell by that stove when winter had really come. In the spring it disappeared into the basement. The stovepipes were taken down and there was a great cleaning of walls and rugs. The hall seemed larger and the front door stood open, letting the outdoors into the house.

Now it was November and the stove once more dominated the hall.

The dogs had welcomed it. But now, without warning, Indian summer had poured its blessing upon the countryside. The last of the bird migrants forgot that they were migrating and settled down to enjoy this respite from flight. They perched on the mountain-ash trees and gorged themselves on those scarlet berries.

This delay in the onslaught of winter, this coy backward glance of summer, had a pleasant but relaxing effect on Wakefield. His legs seemed to weigh more and his head less. He meandered across the field, through which was the short cut to the Rectory, at snail’s pace, while his brain felt as light as a bit of thistledown. But there were pictures in it — of his grandmother giving him a kiss when he went to say goodbye while she was eating her porridge, a kiss that was a little milky. Then she had wiped his cheek on her table-napkin. A picture of Mrs. Wragge, seen through the window of the basement kitchen, kneading bread. Pictures of horses — jumping, cantering, galloping — for in these last days before the Show little else was talked of. Renny, Piers, and Dilly Warkworth were seldom seen out of their riding clothes. Nicholas and Ernest spent hours by the palings of the paddock where the horses were being schooled.

The satchel of books on Wakefield’s shoulder seemed to grow heavier with each step. He wriggled out of it and dragged it along the ground after him for a change. By the time he had reached the fence at the edge of the field he noticed that the satchel had come open and he examined the contents to discover if anything were missing. Yes — the Arithmetic was gone! He looked back across the field and thought he saw it but was not sure. Well, the ground was nice and dry. It would do the book no harm to lie there till his return.

He flattened himself on the ground and crawled under the fence and attained the road. The church on its knoll rose opposite him, the graveyard peaceful about it. He made up his mind that he would visit the graveyard on his way home. His parents, in Heaven, would be pleased to know that he visited their graves. Surely they would be pleased to see him going off to lessons every day — so studious, in spite of having a weak heart.

The door of the Rectory stood open and Wakefield entered without knocking, as he thought best, considering that he was late. He sat down at his desk in the library and swung his legs. It was some little time before the Rector appeared. He was wearing his surplice.

He apologized — “Sorry to keep you waiting, Wakefield, but I had a Communion Service this morning. I wore my surplice across the yard because it must be laundered for Sunday.”

“That’s nice,” said Wakefield, “because my grandmother is going to wear her new fur coat on Sunday.”

“Fur coat,” exclaimed Mr. Fennel, emerging from the surplice, “in weather like this? I’m afraid she’ll be much too warm.”

Wakefield emphatically shook his head. “Not my grandmother. If she wants to do a thing she’ll be comfortable doing it.”

“I think you are rather like your grandmother,” said Mr. Fennel.

Wakefield was pleased. “Yes,” he agreed, “except for the difference in our ages. There’s ninety years between us.”

The Rector looked at him speculatively. He said — “If you live to be her age, I wonder what sort of world this will be. The year 2013 — hm.”

“I hear my uncles say there’s less fun in it even now.”

“There are more important things than fun, Wake. There are your lessons. Where is your arithmetic book?”

Wakefield diligently searched his satchel. “I can’t find it,” he sighed. “I’m afraid my brother Finch has borrowed it. He’s very backward in arithmetic and it helps him to do problems out of my little book. Shall I go home and see if I can find it?”

“No, no, no. We’ll do geography. Where is the map of Ontario I asked you to draw?”

Wakefield instantly produced it.

Mr. Fennel examined it, while stroking his untidy brown beard.

“Why, this is beautiful,” he said. “But why is it signed Ernest Whiteoak?”

Wakefield ran his hand through his hair. He said — “I asked my uncle to help me a little with it and he got so interested that he finished it, and he’s used to signing everything he draws and I didn’t like to stop him.”

“I see. How much of the map is your own work, Wakefield?”

“The lake, sir. I did all of the lake. I drew that little sailboat on it, the way they did in old maps. My uncle liked that.”

“Well, I hope that next time he will leave you to do your own work. Now let us settle down to learn some history.”

The remainder of the morning passed quite agreeably but Wakefield was glad when it was over and he was free. Mr. Fennel gave him a large greenish-gold pippin to take with him, but as he did not very much like pippins he fed it to the cow which was in the little field next the church. She seemed to have great difficulty in swallowing it and made such crude choking noises that Wakefield hurried on.

He thought he would go into the churchyard for a little, and possibly even into the church. He never had been inside it alone and he thought 152 this might be a good morning for inspecting it. The gate that led into the churchyard closed with rather an ominous click, and there seemed to be a good many steps to mount before he reached the level of the churchyard. He gave no more than a glance at the family plot where lay buried Captain Whiteoak, his son Philip and Philip’s two wives, also several infant Whiteoaks who had preceded Eden in Philip’s second marriage. Wakefield knew the inscription on the granite plinth. He knew the names on each of the several headstones. There was nothing there to delay his intention of entering the church. A spiral of smoke was ascending like incense from a mound of leaves near the church, and a rake lying on the ground beside it showed that someone had been at work. Wakefield wondered if that someone had gone into the church, and he moved very quietly on tiptoe and gently pushed open the door. He closed the door as gently behind him and hesitated a moment in the porch.