Читать книгу The Whiteoak Brothers - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 5

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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 cat-tails and clumps of watercress.

Piers stood leaning on the hand-rail 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 hand-rail 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 Vaughans’ 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 she had passed from his mind when he saw her, or just glimpsed her, crouching among the reeds at the stream’s edge. She must have been there all the while peering into the water. Had she seen him, he wondered. Whether or not she had, she plainly saw him now, for she raised her eyes to look straight into his and beckoned.

That was all he needed, that and a warning finger she held up, to bring him to her side in a dozen stealthy strides. He crouched beside her, feeling a sudden inexplicable excitement.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“Look—a water snake.”

It moved lazily, beautifully, near them, in dappled sunlit folds. Piers wondered at her not screaming, as most girls would. But she turned now to him, her lips parted, a rim of white teeth revealed, in a smile that seemed to him an invitation to a moment’s comradeship. But she was only a kid. If she had been older she probably would have screamed, as a girl naturally would.

“Isn’t it happy?” she whispered.

Well—that was a silly thing to say about a snake. As though it could be happy!

“Like to see me kill it?” he asked.

“Oh, no. I—love it.”

He broke into laughter. He had a musical laugh, and, as though she could not help herself, she laughed too. The snake, its secretive golden eyes wary of them, moved without haste into the shadowed recesses of the reeds. It had dominated the pool, now it was gone and the little white faces of the thronging bloodroot stared out from the bank.

A tremulous silence enveloped the boy and girl. The moist sweet scent of the ravine, the chatter of the stream, closed in about them. They gazed into the pool where the snake had been, and saw there the reflection of their own faces. Her dark hair and eyes turned amber in its shallow. The pink of Piers’s cheek, the blueness of his eyes, the fairness of his hair were merged into the semblance of a golden youth about to discover the meaning of spring. They gazed in silence for a space. Then his arm found her waist—his hand her side where the heart fluttered like a hovering swallow. They turned their heads and looked into each other’s eyes.

Piers had never before felt tenderness toward any human being. He had felt it toward young lambs. But now tenderness toward Pheasant welled up through all his sturdy body. Tenderness and an urge to protect her, and an urge to love her. But he only said laconically—“You’re funny.”

“So are you,” she breathed. “Not a bit like I thought you were.”

“I guess we’re both funny. Will you kiss me?”

She nodded without speaking. But the kiss was not a success. Their faces merely bumped gently together. But in some inexplicable way it drew them very close. They felt less shy, more familiar, and strangely happy.

“How old are you?” he demanded.

“Seventeen—in a few weeks.”

“I’m eighteen. Soon be nineteen.”

They could find nothing more to say. They squatted side by side in silence, as though the sum of their years had left them speechless in wonder. Only the stream spoke. A small bird flew by carrying a piece of white string in its beak, its wing-beats ardent in its urge for nest-building.

At last Piers said—“Well, I must be getting along.”

She did not say “Stay.”

“Shall you be coming this way to-morrow about this time?” he asked.

She nodded, pulling up a blade of grass and examining it.

“I’ll be here,” he said. He left her, running across the bridge and up the steep toward the lawn, as though to show his power.