He agreed with Eden that it would be well to keep the Indigo Lake transaction between themselves for the present. Nicholas would be against it and he had a very unpleasant way of recalling one’s past unfortunate speculations. Such things were better forgotten. He enjoyed the intimacy of conspiring, as it were, with Eden. He had an especial feeling for his nephew who had undeniably poetic talent and a face that matched it, who appreciated Ernest’s own literary interests. They two were different from all others of the family. They two spoke a language in common. The other nephews were dear boys, but Eden …
As for Eden, any doubts that assailed him were dispersed by his next meeting Mr. Kronk. Nicholas and Ernest had bought their shares in the nick of time. By the end of that week there would not be another share available. Mrs. Kronk too had taken a great fancy to the frank young man. The Kronks, man and wife, were eager for the family at Jalna to have as many shares of the Indigo Lake Gold Mine as possible. Mrs. Kronk, a tall large-boned woman, with straight fair hair brushed severely back from her intelligent face, was especially interested in Eden. He wondered what she had found to attract her in the little bilious-looking man whom she appeared alternately to bully and to mother. He could not help noticing how her attitude toward himself changed when they found themselves alone together. Then she would stretch our her arms along the back of the sofa and speak to him in a low, matter-of-fact tone, as though they had years of familiar conversation behind them.
Spring, as far too often, seemed reluctant to come into the open. Like a chick in a hard-shelled egg, it pecked faintly at the hard shell of winter till its moist infant presence could barely be perceived. Then, apparently disheartened, it lay curled up dormant for a time, as though never to be hatched. Finally, after a night of wind and rain at the end of April it burst forth in an agony of threshing and writhing and in the morning perched on the earth, its pale gold plumage drying in the sun, its eyes little bright pools. And, like bits of the shell it had cast off, soiled patches of snow and ice lay in the hollows.
As the sun mounted it showed once more what warmth could be, how every twig that had life in it, every root that had health in it, responded. Soon the countryside belonged to spring. At Jalna none of the family was more conscious of its power than Piers. It appeared to his elders that they could see him growing, and he grew, not in a lanky awkward fashion but with all his parts in serene accord. His neck and shoulders became more muscular, his legs fine pillars to support him. The fair skin of his cheeks and chin produced an authentic yellow beard. His shaving was now worth Finch’s attention.
Piers was a favourite of his grandmother’s.
“Ha,” she would exclaim, in admiration, “here’s a stalwart fellow coming on! A back like his grandfather’s. And he’s the only one of the whelps that has. I do like a well-set-up man.”
And her son Ernest would reply — “To my mind, all the boys are well proportioned.”
“Well proportioned! Ha — I grant you that none of ’em has legs that are too short or a neck that’s too long, with a great Adam’s apple. That I do hate.”
Nicholas would put in — “Take Renny. He’s a lithe wiry fellow.”
“Aye. Take him. You may have him. He’s the very likeness of my father — old Renny Court — and you know what he was.”
“We’ve heard such different accounts of him, Mamma.”
“And different he could be — to suit the occasion — smooth as silk — or rough and tough.”
To draw her on Nicholas would add — “You can’t deny that Eden has looks.”
“Looks! Of course he has looks. The looks of his poor mother…. No — not one of ’em will ever match your grandfather.” And she would raise her eyes, from beneath their shaggy brows, to the portrait of her long-dead husband, Captain Whiteoak. Her eyes would glow with a love the years could not dim and one of her sons would take her handkerchief and gently wipe away the drop that hung on the tip of her arched nose, and she would put out her shapely old hand and grip his hand, as though to gain strength from him.
Piers, very conscious of this approval, held his back straighter, tried to put into his eyes that very expression of having been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a sword in his hand which distinguished the eyes in the portrait of his grandfather. Once, in the seclusion of the attic, Piers had got into that dashing uniform and stared at his reflection in an old mirror. Piers had been disappointed in the reflection. The uniform had hung loosely on him. It would take several years of growth before he could fill it out. Still he had made a fine figure of a Hussar and he wished he might have presented himself as such to the family.
But on this lovely morning two months after Finch’s birthday and the first Saturday in May he was happy to be as he was — free as air for the day — filled with an incomparable zest for life. He whistled to the dogs but none answered. As usual they were at Renny’s heels. He crossed the lawn where the yellow heads of dandelions were rosetted against the green velvet of the new grass like brass buttons. He passed through the wicket gate in the hedge, followed the meandering path that led down into the ravine. The stream had overflowed its banks that spring, torn at them, tried to tear down the rustic bridge, but now, its early ardour spent, had subsided to a cheerful gurgling among the stalks of cattails and clumps of watercress.
Piers stood leaning on the handrail of the bridge, considering what he would do with the day. A succession of pleasant possibilities crossed his mind. There were so many things to do, but at the moment he was content to do nothing but lounge against the bridge, his strong hands stroking the handrail from which the bark had long disappeared, pulled off by the destructive fingers of boys. Initials had been carved on it. His own — his brothers’ — his uncles’ — why had young Finch carved his name Finch, instead of just his initials? He was a conceited young duffer. There was NW for Nicholas and the date 1865. Pretty dim it was. And there were his sister’s initials, entwined with the letters MV. Piers had to think for a moment before he could remember. Ah, yes — MV stood for Maurice Vaughan, their neighbour, and once years ago he and Meg had been engaged to marry. The engagement had been broken off because of a scrape Maurice had got himself into with a village girl. There had been a baby deposited on the Vaughan’s doorstep in truly Victorian melodrama — a tremendous row and the engagement broken off. Piers remembered, with a grin, how shocked he had felt when Eden had told him the story of it when he was fourteen. Somehow Piers seldom connected Pheasant Vaughan with that story — Pheasant, a funny little kid — rather nice — he’d known her all her life. It was months since he’d seen her. It had been on a bitter cold day in January and they’d met on the road. She’d had her head bent against the wind and worn a skirt too long for her that was caked with snow nearly to her knees. She’d looked a funny figure — rather like a little old woman. When they’d said hello and parted and he had looked back at her, she’d been looking back too — her eyes large, as though she were half afraid of him. She must have a dull time of it, being in a house with only Maurice Vaughan and his grim-faced housekeeper Mrs. Clinch. Casually he contrasted it with Jalna, teeming with activity, and gave a moment’s pity to the child.
But