01 The Building of Jalna (16 page)

The Whiteoaks gave a still larger party at mid-Lent. The guests were asked to wear the costume of the reign of Louis XVI. How they were transformed by powdered hair and patches, by the elegance of their costumes! Philip and Adeline were charming hosts. They were in their element. The house in the Rue St. Louis echoed laughter and the music of the dance, as it had not since the days of the Duke of Kent. During the supper a cageful of artificial singing birds which Adeline had been given by Philip as a Christmas present broke into song to the delight of the company. Monsieur Balestrier drank a little too much champagne. Adeline danced rather too often with Wilmott, though it was small wonder for he danced perfectly in his satin breeches and silk stockings displayed the shapeliest of legs. He was wrong in having spent so much money on a costume whose usefulness was for no more than a night, but such was Adeline’s ill influence on him, he told her, smiling somewhat grimly down into her eyes.

The elderly brother and sister, Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Granville, wore authentic costumes of the period brought from France in the early days. He wore the costume with melancholy distinction which, as the night wore on, changed to a strange gaiety. He was Adeline’s partner in a quadrille when suddenly he stopped dancing, fixing his eyes on her with a look of terror.

“What is the matter?” she asked anxiously.

“
Maman
!” he said, in a choking voice. “
Maman
! Don’t leave me!”

He stood transfixed, his fine face frozen into a mask of fear. His sister came hurriedly and led him away. Those who noticed the incident remarked only that poor Monsieur de Granville had had another of his attacks of nerves but his sister perceived something more serious and early next morning sent for Dr. St. Charles. He could do little to stem the violence of the fever and delirium that followed. All the haunting horror which had darkened Monsieur de Granville’s life burst upon him like an electric storm that throws a vivid light into the darkest shadow. He recalled everything. The dimly remembered horrors of his childhood were as though they had happened yesterday.

For almost a week he was in this state, then the fever left him. He became calm. He had no recollection of what had happened. He spoke regretfully of his having to leave the charming party of the Whiteoaks and begged his sister to see to it that his costume was carefully folded and laid away. That night he died in his sleep.

The death of Monsieur de Granville was a shock to Adeline. Birth and death had visited the adjacent houses in so short a time! If only she had not given the fancy-dress party, poor Mademoiselle de Granville would not now be going to Mass weighed down by black, with black rings under her eyes! A bronchial cough kept Adeline indoors. The weather was bitterly cold. It had been a severe winter and surely it was time for spring. But day by day it grew colder. Great snowfalls made the streets impassable; snow weighed upon the roofs till, having formed a mass too great for the slope, it slid off with a crash into the street. All day long men in mufflers and ear muffs shoveled the snow, building high walls of it on either side of the roads so that to see anyone on the opposite side was impossible. Milk was delivered in frozen blocks. Meat was frozen. One morning Pat O’Flynn found a dog frozen stiff on the doorstep. Philip had his ears frozen when returning home from dinner at the Fort. The thermometer sank to thirty degrees below zero. The lights of the Lower Town twinkled palely at night
like little cold stars. The sun, aloof all day, blazed at its setting into crimson grandeur across the ice-bound St. Lawrence. Like ice made manifest the metallic clangor of church bells sounded in early morning across the town. Adeline could hear the closing of the door and Marie’s footsteps crunching on the snow as she hastened to Mass. Gussie made herself a little shrine in a corner of the kitchen out of a white table napkin laid over a box on which stood a picture of the Sacred Heart and, in front of it, a candle in a tin candlestick. She genuflected when she passed this. She knelt before it crossing herself and moving her lips as in prayer. And she scarcely two! Marie’s eyes filled with tears as she watched her. Was the little one perhaps too good to live? Nicholas’s nurse exclaimed to Adeline: —

“The child is turning into a papist, ma’am. Right here, under our eyes.”

“She might do worse, Matilda. If it pleases her to make a little shrine, I shan’t interfere.”

A new member of the household and one who took up a good deal of room was Nero, a huge black Newfoundland dog. Though he was young he was burly and possessive. He behaved as though he were master of the house and his coat was so thick that he was puzzled to know whether a beating was in correction or play. He usually rolled in the snow before coming into the house. Once inside, he gave himself a tremendous shake, creating a fair snowstorm, then took his place on the best rug, at Philip’s feet, and set about licking his great snowy paws.

He was the centre of the Whiteoaks’ first “family group.” The photographer arranged Adeline on a Louis Quinze chair which her billowing garments quite concealed, with Nicholas on her lap. She wore he sealskin sacque and little cap beneath which her hair escaped in thick curls. The infant on her lap was clothed in white rabbit skin with the exception of his dimpled feet, which were bare. Gussie stood at her mother’s knee, looking almost as broad as long in her white lamb coat and velvet bonnet. Philip, in his fur-lined coat, stood proudly beside his family and at their feet lay
Nero, also manifestly impervious to twenty-below-zero weather. Behind the group was a somewhat Grecian landscape but this was offset by the impressive snowstorm that enveloped all.

The Whiteoaks and their friends gazed long at this picture. Philip bought a magnifying glass, the better to discover its details. Two dozen photographs were ordered, twenty-three of which were carefully wrapped by him and posted to friends and relations in England, Ireland, and India, from which countries came in return letters admiring, jocular, and commiserating as regards the climate of Quebec. The twenty-fourth picture was framed in maroon velvet and stood on a marble-topped table in the drawing-room, along with an alabaster casket and ivory and jade figures from the East.

The cold was indeed trying. It was still winter when April came. Wilmott had definitely made up his mind to go to Ontario. He did his best to persuade the Whiteoaks to do the same. Philip already had a friend, a retired Anglo-Indian Colonel, who had settled on the fertile shore of Lake Ontario. Colonel Vaughan was an older man than Philip. The Colonel had known him in India, and his attitude toward him in this new land was almost fatherly. He urged him to remove to Ontario where they might be neighbors. “Here,” he wrote, “the winters are mild, we have little snow, and in the long fruitful summer the land yields grain and fruit in abundance. An agreeable little settlement of
respectable
families is being formed. You and your talented lady, my dear Whiteoak, would receive the welcome here that people of your consequence
merit
. If you come, our home shall be yours till you have built a suitable residence. My wife joins me in this offer in the most whole-hearted manner. Our house is comparatively large and, though we live simply, I think we could make you comfortable.”

The transplanting to Canada had stimulated Adeline’s venturous nature. She was ready to move on, from province to province if need be, till the ideal situation was found. She had made friends in Quebec but she could go back to visit them. Her health had not been what she had hoped for there. She dreaded another winter in that cold draughty house. The death of Monsieur de Granville
had affected her deeply. She felt in a small degree responsible for it. And the crêpe-clad figure of Mademoiselle de Granville was a sad reminder. More than any of these, her desire to retain Wilmott as a friend influenced her. His friendship meant more to her than that of anyone in Quebec. If he went to Ontario this would be lost to her. She consented to the migration.

Once Philip and Wilmott had won Adeline over, they threw themselves heart and soul into the preparation for the journey. The property in Quebec was disposed of, though for a lesser sum than Philip had hoped for. The packing of the furniture, the innumerable small preparations, took time and energy. Only a year had passed since they had thrown themselves with enthusiasm into turning the house in the Rue St. Louis into an abode to their liking, and now it was dismantled! It resumed its air of melancholy. They had made no impression on it.

All the Balestriers wept at parting from them. From Monsieur Balestrier downward, they wept with less and less restraint till, when it came to Lou-lou, the youngest, he clung to Adeline’s neck screaming and kicking. To comfort him she gave him a little mechanical dancing monkey he had long admired. His tears were turned to joy. Pleasure swept upward as it had progressed downward till at the last Monsieur Balestrier was able to smile as he kissed Philip on both cheeks and bad him return to Quebec when he found Ontario unbearable as certainly he would.

The furniture was to be stored in Quebec till sent for; only their personal luggage, their livestock, consisting of Nero and Maggie, the goat, journeyed with the family and their two servants. It was a heartbreak for Maggie to part with Gussie. She cried till her features were blurred and Gussie cried too, though she was pleased to be going on a journey with her Mamma and Papa. She would have liked to leave Nicholas behind, for she had as yet no love for him. She had real affection for Nero and Maggie.

She remembered vaguely her sea voyage and, when she realized that they were going to travel by ship again, her mouth went down at the corners and she clung tightly to her nurse’s skirt. But this
was a fine steamer and its progress was made up the bright river in complete comfort and serenity. At Lachine they left the steamer and were installed on splendid “bateaux” drawn by the lively French-Canadian ponies. Gussie was enchanted. She gave a cry of delight when Patsy snatched her up exclaiming: —

“Look, yer honour, Miss! There is a pretty sight for ye!”

“Who are dose mens?” demanded Gussie in her limited English.

“Sure, ’tis the Governor of the Northwest, they say, and him goin’ back to his seat. Ah, that’s the life I’d like! Look at the fine clothes on him and the red Indians in war paint to escort him!”

All the party stood gazing at the governor. A crowd had gathered and a cheer arose. Officers in uniform were with him and eight noble canoes manned by Indians were his escort. Their bronzed faces fierce with war paint, their gay bead-embroidered jackets, the feathers that swept from their jetty hair to their muscular shoulderes, filled Adeline with delight. She grasped an arm of Philip and of Wilmott on her either side.

“Oh, what a letter I shall write home!” she cried. “I shall tell all this to my father in a way to astonish him.”

In dignity the stately boats swept by. Three dozen paddles rose and dipped, as though guided by one arm. A British flag on every prow spread its crosses to the sun. The Indians sang as they paddled, in rich but mournful tones: —

“A la claire fontaine,
M’en allant promener,
J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle,
Que je m’y suis baigné.
Il y a longtemps que je t’aime
Jamais je ne t’oublirai.”

Gussie raised her voice and joined in the song which she had so often heard from Marie. She joined in, to her own satisfaction though no one heard a sound she uttered.

Through canals, along shores where orchards flourished, past wild rapids and peaceful slopes, now by barge, now by stagecoach, the party leisurely made their pleasant way. The sky arched high and turquoise blue, the land smiled its promise. There seemed no limit to the possibilities of this country. From the stagecoach they alighted at taverns with painted floors and French cooking. On they journeyed till they came to taverns with unpainted floors and a flow of hard spirits. Philip, Adeline, Gussie, Nicholas, Matilda his nurse, Patsy O’Flynn, Nero the Newfoundland dog, Maggie the little goat, Wilmott, who studied maps and deplored the way Philip scattered money about, all moved westward to their new home. Only Wilmott did not go as far as the Vaughans’ but remained in the nearest village to inquire about the possibility of buying a small place for himself.

D
AVID
V
AUGHAN HAD
acquired from the government, at a very moderate cost, several hundreds of acres of beautifully wooded fertile land. He had built a comfortable but unpretentious house with a wide verandah across the front, on which he and his family spent much of their time in fine weather. He had now lived there for three years and he regarded them as his happiest years. He was one of those fortunate men who can look back on the greatest undertaking of their life and say it was well done, who can look forward to the future secure in the thought that they are settled exactly where they want to be and that no further change is to be considered. He loved and admired his wife. He was proud of his son. It was his most cherished wish to draw congenial people to the corner of the province where he had settled, and, with their help, establish the customs and traditions of England, to be enjoyed and cherished by their descendants. To these he wished to add the breadth and freedom of the New Land. He believed the combination to be the ideal one for comfort, tolerance, and content. He remembered Philip Whiteoak as a man who would fit admirably into this pattern of living. He had not met Philip’s wife but he had heard that she was distinguished-looking and
animated in her conversation. To him it seemed worth a real effort to persuade such desirable people to settle beside him.

As the trouble of a prolonged visit from the Whiteoaks would fall on Mrs. Vaughan she was less enthusiastic than he. She earnestly hoped they would not stay as long as he had suggested. However she prepared two bedrooms, one for the nurse and two infants, the other for their parents — Philip had forgotten to mention Patsy O’Flynn, the Newfoundland dog, and the goat — with a sense of cheerful anticipation. There was such an abundance of game and fish, almost at their own door, that the question of food was not too exacting. Later in the season, wild strawberries, raspberries, and blackberries would provide fruit. There was no better bread or butter than was made in her own house. She defied anyone to make as good cheese as she herself could. No, it was not the meals that hung over her, it was the thought of outsiders always denying their privacy and she felt hurt that her husband seemed not to mind that. As for her son, Robert, he was delighted. But what else could you expect of a boy of nineteen who sometimes found life a little too quiet in the country?