Before the summer had well begun Eden had persuaded his sister to invest in the Indigo Lake Mine. Meg had little of the speculator in her nature and was averse from acknowledging to the family that she had anything more than enough for her barest needs. Yet she tempted and at last succumbed. When Eden was able to tell her of the rise in the stock of Indigo Lake she was so elated that, if he had not restrained her, she would have hurled all she had into the speculation.
But his young brother, his sister, and his uncles were small catches for Eden. He longed for an investor possessed of substantial means and more and more often his thoughts turned to his grandmother. The great obstacle was her age. Could he make her understand what the proposition was? Would it be possible to accomplish a transaction without the knowledge of her lawyer, Mr. Patton? All the family were aware that her fortune was invested in the most conservative way, and her sons held it regrettable that this was so and that consequently her income was not as large as it might have been. Not that they ever saw more of it than sufficed for her few needs and the occasional present she gave.
Several times Eden went to the door of her bedroom before she was up with the determination to sound her on the subject, but each time his courage failed him. She might give the whole affair away to the family and bring down blame on himself for having suggested such a speculation to her. Of late he’d had quote enough censure over his failure in his exams to last him the rest of his life. Yet — he could not keep his mind off the delightful prospect of landing such a glittering fish as she. And it would be all for her own good! She might indeed be so grateful to him that she would increase the legacy he was sure she had already left him in her will.
This indecision could not continue and it ended one morning when, in passing her room, he saw that the door stood open and she herself was seated in a low chair beside a stool on which stood a basin of water. She was washing the rings which she wore every day — her wedding ring, her engagement ring, and five others, too many to be in good taste for any woman, to say nothing of a woman of her great age. But somehow they suited her, and her family could not picture her shapely old hands without them.
She saw Eden’s reflection in the mirror and called out — “Come in, Eden, come in, and tell me what mischief you’re up to.”
Their eyes met in the mirror. They smiled and he came into the room, closing the door behind him.
Once he was inside that room and the door shut, its atmosphere enfolded him. She had been reared in a less sanitary period than this.
She distrusted night air and did not mind having her parrot free in her room, or his seeds or feathers scattered about.
Now, however, it was almost noon, the window stood wide open and the heavy white plumes of the lilac tree beyond it added their scent to the air.
Eden bent over her and kissed her between the eyes. The hairs of her eyebrows were strong and he was conscious of the fine white ruching on her cap.
“What mischief now” she demanded.
“No mischief, Gran. Business.”
She appeared not to take this in but applied herself, breathing audibly, to the washing of her rings.
“I like that ruby ring,” he said.
“Aye. It’s a fine stone. A rajah gave it me.”
“I wish I knew all your past, Granny.”
That caught her humour and she chuckled.
“Some day I’ll tell you and you may make a poem about it.”
“An epic, Gran.”
“You’ll not get it out of me by flattery.”
“You’ve tremendous suds in the basin. Would you like me to wash the rings for you?”
“No, no. I like something to busy myself with. When you get to my age it doesn’t take much to amuse you…. A little soap and water. A few rings to wash.”
Eden dropped to his knees and his bright glance sought her. Seeing his face thus close she had a good look at it. She said — “You’re too handsome. You’ll have trouble with women.”
“Renny’s the one they’re after.”
“Him! I hope he’ll make a better husband than did my father that he’s the spit of.”
“I love when you’re common, Granny.”
She grinned. “Who was it? Longfellow? Who said that about not losing the common touch?”
Hilarious, Eden answered — “Longfellow. The best thing he ever wrote.”
She dried the rings and restored them to her fingers, then spread out her hands to admire.
“Not bad-looking hands for a woman of my age, eh? I’ve had them for near a hundred years.”
“I’ve always admired your hands, Gran.”
She clasped them on her stomach and flung at him suddenly — “This business. What’s it about?”
He’d half made up his mind not to tell her of his scheme. It was too dangerous. She perceived the hesitation on his face. “Come now,” she said, “tell me. I like to hear about business affairs — if they’re sensible.”
“I don’t think this would interest you, Gran.”
“Then why did you shut the door?”
The moment had come. He could not resist it. He took her hand, with the rings still moist and warm on it, in his. He said low — “It’s a gold mine, Granny. Up in the North. A wonderful chance for anyone who has money to invest. It’s just being developed. A wonderful rich vein. Fortunes are being made out of it. I know a man —”
“Gold!” she interrupted with avidity. “Gold, eh?” Had it been silver or any other metal she would not have been interested. But the word “gold” fired her imagination. Gold she could understand.
Her parrot, which had been tossing seeds from his cup in search for his favourites, now cocked his head and rapped out — “Gold! Gold! Gold! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!”
Adeline Whiteoak clapped her hands together. “Hark to him! He knows every word we say.”
“It’s a good omen,” laughed Eden, taking her two hands in his. “Listen, Gran.”
“Yes, yes. Tell me all.” She was not only interested but complaisant to hear the whole story of the Indigo Lake Mine. Eden, now becoming a glib promoter, poured it out, embroidering the material recital with colourful and poetic words. She leant closer, drinking it in, her mouth open a little, the strong curling hairs on her chin quivering. The parrot sprang from his perch and alighted on her shoulder screaming — “Gold — gold — pieces of eight — pieces of eight!” in passionate repetition.
Eden showed her the coloured folder, the machinery of the mine pictured against a turquoise-blue sky with Indigo Lake beyond. She made him fetch her magnifying glass from the bureau and she pored over the pictures. She had investments, sound ones, good ones, but nothing in gold. Her imagination, with little to feed it nowadays,