02 Morning at Jalna (8 page)

It was the first time she had addressed him by his Christian name and it brought tears to his eyes. He thought of himself as a poor lonely Irishman sadly out of place in this virile pioneer country. He thought of his poor mother in County Cork and how he had not written a line to her in the last ten months.

“I take everything you say to heart, Mrs. Whiteoak.” There were tears in his voice.

“Well, I say this,” she went on. “You cannot do better than by marrying Amelia Busby.”

“But —” he exclaimed, in panic.

“Listen. It is plain to see that she is badly smitten by you. She is a healthy young woman who will take every care of you. She is good-natured. She is wild to get married, which her sisters accomplished years ago.”

“But I have no means. Nothing to marry on.”

Adeline’s persuasive voice sank almost to a whisper. “Don’t let that worry you,” she said. “Amelia is a woman of means. Her bachelor uncle left her a fine farm which she has rented. He left her also a small house in the town. You could move right into it. Amelia is going on for thirty and panting to settle down with a mate. She adores you. That’s plain.”

“But why — why?” stammered Madigan. “There is nothing about me to adore.”

“You don’t know your own value,” said Adeline. “That’s the trouble with the Irish. We are too modest. The English are so quietly self-assured. The Scotch so conceited. Take my advice, Lucius, and ask Amelia for her hand. She’ll accept you, I’ll be bound.”

Madigan clasped his hands in front of him, tried to speak, failed, tried again and brought out, “There is one great obstacle to my marriage with a girl like Miss Busby.”

“Don’t tell me you’re already married.”

“Thank God, no,” he said, “but I am a Catholic.”

Adeline was astonished but not dismayed.

“Strange,” she said, “that you did not tell me this at the first, but I suppose you feared that, if I knew, I would not engage you.”

“That was my reason.” The tutor looked into her eyes with defiance. “It was not that I was ashamed of having been brought up a Catholic, but I was desperate for a situation and I knew this was a strongly Protestant community.”

“Then,” she agreed sadly, “I’m afraid it’s all up with this marriage.”

Madigan’s contrary nature asserted itself. “I don’t see why,” he said. “Religion of any sort means little to me. I have not been to confession in five years.”

“Does your mother know this?” Adeline demanded.

“She does not.”

“Poor woman — she has a wayward son.”

“I love her dearly.”

“I hope you write often to her.”

Madigan twisted his fingers together. “Very seldom,” he confessed. He was thankful when they were interrupted by Ernest. “Come quickly and see Nero,” he said. “He’s shaking hands with Papa.”

They returned to the sitting room. There Nero was reared on his haunches, while Philip bent in front of him with outstretched hand. “Shake,” he said. Nero eyed the hand reluctantly but after the order was repeated, this time in a cajoling tone, he laid his woolly paw in the inviting hand.

“What a lovely picture!” cried Lucy Sinclair. “What confidence — what affection between master and dog!”

Philip, smiling, went to the tea table and returned with a piece of iced cake, which he presented to Nero, who devoured it in one mouthful.

The soft cushion was forgotten by all but Adeline and Madigan. Every now and again she gave him an encouraging smile. When he returned to his bedroom he took the cushion with him, and there it haunted him. If he woke in the middle of the night the moonlight was sure to be shining on it. He had no use of his chair, for he would not sit on the cushion for fear of crushing it.

And that was not all. The very next day he was encountered by Amelia Busby in the ravine, where he had gone to find refuge. She presented him with a plate mounded with cream puffs which she herself had made. Two days later she gave him a linen handkerchief with his initials L.M. embroidered on the corner. Almost before he was aware of it, he had made an appointment with her to walk to the lake shore.

The weather was hot and humid. The road was rough and stony, but Amelia seemed not to mind what it did to her shoes or feet. Before long she had a blister on her heel, but her amorous glances never faltered. She showed all her white teeth in a possessive smile.

On the beach she demonstrated that she could skip stones better than he. She longed to take off her shoes and stockings and paddle in the cool green water, but modesty forbade her. The rowdy waves that came tumbling on the sand gave her a wild feeling. Her black locks were blown across her light blue eyes. Madigan had not before noticed how attractive she was.

Adeline invited her to supper at Jalna, at table placed her next to Madigan. Amelia was so embarrassed by the presence of the Sinclairs that she could not bring herself to open her mouth excepting to put food into it. After supper she and Madigan disappeared into the porch and she sat close to him on one of the two stout oak benches there.

In private, Philip remarked to Adeline, “That young woman is after Madigan, tooth and claw. He has no chance of escape. And you are aiding and abetting her. Don’t deny it.”

“I want to see the poor man comfortably settled in life by the time we take the children out of his hands. He’ll never find another position as tutor.”

“I have a poor opinion of him as such,” said Philip. “For one thing, he drinks too much; for another, he has no discipline. You engaged him. I merely put up with him.”

“There is one obstacle to this marriage,” said Adeline. “Lucius is a Catholic.”

Philip opened his eyes wide. “Elihu Busby will never countenance a mixed marriage,” he said.

“He need not be told,” declared Adeline. “Lucius is not a practising Catholic. He has not been inside any church save ours — not in years.”

“My opinion of him has not risen,” said Philip. “I should like to stop this, but — what’s the use? The girl is out to capture him and capture him she will.”

Philip was right. While all about them seethed with plotting and counterplotting, Amelia Busby and Lucius Madigan became engaged. He scarcely knew how it happened, but he felt a great peace that was akin to happiness when the struggle was over and he was landed. Amelia’s family were on the whole glad of her impending departure. She was a forceful character, always convinced that she was in the right.

She made her own wedding dress and the pair were married in the Busbys’ homestead by a Presbyterian minister.

Amelia did not attempt to conceal her triumph. She had captured the man of her choice. No man in these parts, not even the rector, Mr. Pink, could compare with him in learning. To be sure he was of melancholy bent but she had high spirits enough for the pair of them. She was hopeful that he would (with her influence — for she felt nothing to be beyond her) secure a professorship in a university.

They went to Niagara Falls on their honeymoon. There, in the roar of the cataract, they strolled hand in hand. At night, his tongue loosed in the dark intimacy of the hotel bedroom, he poured out the poetic longings of his Celtic soul. She understood not the half of what he was saying but she was a superb listener, her round light eyes wide open in the dark, drinking in his imagined face, as her neat rosy ears drank in his words.

On their third and last night in Niagara, Madigan was moved to confide in her all he knew of Curtis Sinclair’s plans. Through scraps of conversation overheard, through Lucy Sinclair’s impulsive confidence, he had learned more than anyone at Jalna suspected. Now, intoxicated by abstinence from drink and indulgence in animal gratification, he poured out all he knew. Amelia learned to her horror of planned raids across the line, of fires to be set, of shipping destroyed. She was in sentiment, in strength of character, her father’s daughter. She hid her feelings, she clasped Madigan close, till he slept.

She spent the first sleepless night of her life.

When morning came she knew just what to do. She slipped out of bed, dressed herself without disturbing Madigan, and went out into the little town. She knew where to find the small cottage that was the headquarters of the Yankee spies, for she had been sitting in the room knitting when they had told her father. He knew she was to be trusted.

She remained for some time in the cottage telling the men there of her discovery, but she did not disclose how it had been made. She was almost breathless from excitement, but they were fairly desperate and snatched at any clue. Also Amelia wore, like a garment, an air of wholesome reliability.

In her excitement she missed the way back to the hotel and the return took her longer than she had expected. Her amorous proclivity was in no way lessened by what Madigan had divulged. Almost she ran in her eagerness to return to him. She intended merely to tell him that she had been for an early morning stroll. She would never let him know the use to which she had put his nocturnal confidence. She had a feeling of power, and even of noble rectitude. She did not realize how deeply jealousy of Lucy Sinclair entered into her feelings.

She found the bedroom in the hotel in a state of disorder. Lucius Madigan had taken himself off and all his belongings with him, leaving no word of farewell.

X

A Variety of Scenes

While Amelia and Lucius Madigan were on their brief honeymoon, the amorous affair between the mulatto, Belle, and the half-breed, Titus Sharrow, was moving to its predestined close, to the satisfaction of both. For Belle was happy in the expectation of marriage with this lithe Lothario, and he was happy in the certainty that he would seduce her.

He spoke of the good state of his spirits one morning to Wilmott, as he carried his bacon and fried potatoes to him. Wilmott raised his eyes from last week’s paper to look into the dignified but amiable countenance of his protégé.

“You look nice and cheerful this morning, Tite,” he remarked.

“I feel happy, Boss,” said Tite. “Even more so than usual. I cannot explain why but there it is. The sunshine is so yellow. The river so smooth. Yesterday I rode that old grey mare of the Whiteoaks down to the lake and it was as smooth as the river. I rode the mare out into the water till it reached her belly. She took a big drink and then turned her head to give me a look of gratitude. She was as grateful as a woman. Life is very interesting, isn’t it, Boss?”

“I suppose life is as interesting as we make it, Tite.”

“I have great curiosity, Boss,” said Tite. “When the holidays are over I shall go back to the study of law and find out still more about the right and wrong of things. You yourself have taught me a great deal, Boss.”

“You will discover more from your books than I can tell you.”

“Have you noticed, Boss, that I have become religious?”

“I have not noticed.”

Tite looked downcast, but for a moment only, then he said, “I hoped you would notice that I am more humble than I was.”

“I had not noticed.”

Tite continued, “It is not easy for me to feel humble, Boss, because I have a proud nature, but I am learning to subdue it. I have a very good example in my little friend Annabelle. She teaches me to be humble and I teach her to value herself more highly.”

“Tite” — Wilmott spoke solemnly — “I have warned you before and I warn you again to avoid any intimacy with that girl. It can only end in serious trouble for you both.”

“But we are so happy together, Boss. We have much to learn from one another.”

“I wish you would learn that I like to eat my breakfast in peace — with my newspaper.”

“There is nothing more peaceful than a week-old newspaper, Boss. You know that everything read is over and done with. It seems to me it would be a good idea if all newspapers would be delivered only when they are a week old.”

Wilmott, his mouth full of toast and bacon, uttered the one word — “Go!”

Tite, in good humour with all the world, sought the meeting place that he had chosen for his dalliance with Annabelle. This was a small open space in the heart of a dense green thicket. He and she had made meandering, scarce visible, paths to it from both Wilmott’s house and Jalna. She came to it with singing heart, full of the love of God, and of drawing the wayward Tite into that blessed communion. On his part he scarcely heard what she said. Out of his narrow Indian eyes he saw the tempting curves of her youthful yet seductive body. This was the place, this was the day. She would forget the love of God in her ardour for him. A million leaves shut them in. Among this wilderness of leaves flitted orioles, scarlet tanagers, bluebirds and golden finches, without fear. The leaves were as glossy as in springtime, though in a few weeks they would be showing the bright panoply of the fall. When a few more weeks were added, they would be blown by the will of the wind, leaving the limbs of the trees naked. But now — what luxuriance, what madness of growth! And not only the trees. Vines and creepers used the trees as foothold for their adventuring. A wild grapevine, its tendrils clinging to a young alder, reached out to embrace a young maple. Clusters of little green grapes thrived in the course of its wandering. The vine was relentless, seeking to smother what gave it support.

What seclusion was here! Half-breed and mulatto sat clasped in each other’s arms. Remote continents lay behind them.

“Tite, mah darlin’,” sighed Annabelle, “ain’t it wonnerful how de Lawd has brought us together? All the rest of mah days, Ah’ll praise Him for that.”

“Me too,” said Tite, stroking her thigh. “I’ll praise Him.”

Trying to bring him to the point of proposing marriage, Annabelle said, “One of these days my massa will be sayin’ we can go back to the South. What’s to become of me then?” Her humid eyes sought to probe the mystery of his mind.

Tite answered, “I am familiar with philosophy and what it says to me is — enjoy what comes your way and leave all the rest in the hands of the gods.”

“But, Tite, there’s only one God.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said the half-breed. “Mr. Wilmott talks of the gods, and he should know.”

Annabelle drew a little away from him, shocked by the strangeness of this remark. But he was tired of waiting for her surrender. Roughly he clasped her to him.

“No — no!” She was suddenly in panic, yet she had no power against him.

His white teeth showed between his thin lips. He reared himself like a cobra prepared to strike.

But her cry had reached other ears. They were not the only ones who knew of this densely wooded retreat. Curtis Sinclair had reached it by the wayward path that led to it from Jalna. Here he was to have consulted secretly with one of his agents.

It would have been difficult for an onlooker to have decided which of the two men was the more infuriated by the encounter. Both were in a high state of tension. On Curtis Sinclair’s part, the frustration of all his plans, on Titus Sharrow’s sensuality.

He was the first to speak and shouted, “Leave us alone, mister! We don’t want interference from you.” He was so incensed in his frustration he scarcely knew what he was saying. Such an outburst was foreign to his nature.

Curtis Sinclair, on the other hand, was not accustomed to bridling his emotions, though in the past months he had had considerable practice in self-restraint. Now he let his outraged feelings as owner and protector of the mulatto have full play. Leaning on his stick he limped into the leafy privacy of the retreat and stood scowling down at the pair — the girl almost stunned by shock.

“How dare you!” he stormed, and directed a blow at Tite with his stick. The blow struck him on his aquiline nose. Blood trickled from it. Annabelle raised her voice in a shrill scream.

“Go back to your quarters,” Curtis Sinclair stormed at her. “You deserve to be beaten. Don’t let me see your face again!”

The girl scuttled out of sight into the thicket, while her master stood planted in possession of the place of assignation. Tite plucked a large leaf from the wild grapevine and wiped the blood from his mouth and chin.

“You’ll be sorry for this, mister,” he said composedly. “I could strike you back but I wouldn’t fight a cripple.”

“Be off,” Sinclair said furiously. “I will tell your master of this, you may be certain.”

Tite spoke with dignity. “No man is my master. My forefathers were the owners of this country. Us Indians call nobody our betters.”

“Miserable loafer!” said Curtis Sinclair. “Make yourself scarce before I strike you again.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” said Tite. “Nor has Belle any reason to be afraid of you. She’s no slave but a free woman. Some day the Indians of Canada and the Negroes of your country will take possession and you white folks will be the slaves.”

“I don’t want this woman as a slave.” Curtis Sinclair spoke with vehemence. “She may go where she chooses. Shift for herself.”

He turned from the half-breed to meet two men who were slowly approaching along the path. Tite drifted away and was soon hidden in the density of the woods. He did not linger there but might have been seen moving in his swift gliding walk along the road to the homestead of Elihu Busby.

The serenity of the golden August weather was shattered by the return of Amelia to her father’s house. He was almost overwhelmed by the startling and outrageous events which pressed in on him. Not an hour had passed since his deserted daughter had appeared at his door, when Titus Sharrow came, with a still bleeding nose, to tell of the strangers in the woods.

Elihu Busby was divided between rage at the treatment his daughter had had from Madigan and furious anger at Philip Whiteoak for giving hospitality to the Southerners. He had an interview with Titus Sharrow, whom he never had liked or trusted but whose story he was willing to believe, since it involved Curtis Sinclair. But all else paled beside the bitter fact of Madigan’s desertion of Amelia. He tied his horse to the hitching post in front of Jalna which was topped by the iron head of a horse. He found Philip in the orchard. After a genial greeting to him, Philip said, “There’s a fine crop of apples coming on here. I hope yours are doing as well.”

“I grow only grain,” said Busby. “Fruit doesn’t pay.” Then he burst out with, “There’s a pretty kettle of fish in my house. If I could lay my hands on that tutor of yours I’d horsewhip him.”

“Madigan?” exclaimed Philip, his blue eyes wide.

“Who else? He married my daughter and deserted her after three days — the scallywag.”

“Where is he?”

“I wish I knew. Amelia has come home — a deserted wife.”

“Well,” said Philip, “I’ve never actually looked on him as a reliable man.”

Elihu Busby gave him an infuriated look. “He’s a scoundrel. And it was an unfortunate thing for my family when you brought him here.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Philip.

“Find out where he is, if you can. And another thing — watch that man Sinclair. He’s up to no good. It seems to me, Captain Whiteoak, that you are collecting some queer characters at Jalna. Certainly it does not raise you in the esteem of the neighbourhood.”

“I need no one’s advice on that score,” said Philip.

Not long after this he sought out Adeline where she was counting silver teaspoons. She greeted him with:

“There are three of the apostle spoons missing.”

“There’s more missing than spoons,” he said.

“What then?”

“Madigan.”

“What in heaven do you mean?”

“He’s deserted his wife. Her father has just been here to inform me.”

“Where is she?”

“At home with her luggage. You may imagine the state Elihu Busby is in.”

“Oh, the poor man!” cried Adeline.

“Who? Busby?”

“No indeed. Lucius. He never wanted to marry. Ah, he should have remained with us.”

“But,” Philip said accusingly, “you urged him to marry Amelia. You can’t deny it.”

Adeline was wholehearted in admitting that she had been mistaken. “But I thought it was for his good,” she said. “I could not guess how it would turn out.”

“Neither did you take into consideration that the young ones will have no one to teach them.”

“I will teach them,” she declared. “And you will help.”

Philip groaned. “I have not a great opinion of Madigan as a teacher,” he said, “but he was better than I should be.”

At this moment Nicholas came running into the room, a letter in his hand. “It’s for you, Mamma,” he said, his breath coming quick. “It’s from Mr. Madigan. I guess he’s telling all the news of his honeymoon. Shall I bring your paperknife?”

“Yes,” said Adeline, “then make yourself scarce. I must have peace for perusing this letter.”

“Should you like to have me read it to you?” The boy’s face was bright with curiosity. “Mr. Madigan’s handwriting is peculiar but I can read it with no trouble.”

“And so can I,” said Ernest, who had followed his brother into the room.

Adeline opened the letter but had difficulty in deciphering the erratic script. Before she was aware of it Nicholas was looking over her shoulder. He read aloud:

Dear Mrs. Whiteoak,

Pray don’t think too badly of me but I find I cannot face the life that lies before me. I am on my way back to Ireland, probably on a cattle boat. I shall always be grateful for your kindness to me. Please give my affectionate regards to my dear pupils. I should like to leave my books to them.

Yours respectfully,

Lucius Madigan

When Nicholas had finished reading the letter Adeline gave him a smart slap. “Impudent boy,” she said. “How dare you read my private letter!”

“It’s not very private,” said he. “Everyone knows Mr. Madigan disappeared and the only message he has sent was to us children.”

“Philip,” cried Adeline, “will you stand by and do nothing about the insolence of this rogue?”

Philip took a step towards Nicholas but the boy darted out of the room. “Come along,” he called to Ernest. “Let’s divide up the books!”

“Books, my eye,” said Ernest. “I want his compass and his indelible pencil.”

But when they arrived in Madigan’s room Augusta was already there, a history of the sport of cock-fighting in her hand. “I have never seen this before,” she said doubtfully. “Do you think it is suitable for us?”

“I had better be the judge of that.” Nicholas took the book from her hand. “But how did you hear the news?”