The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (11 page)

“I suppose Mary is off somewhere with those brothers of yours,” she said. “I’ve never seen such a change come over a girl. I used to know exactly where she was. She almost never left my side. But now, half the time, I have no notion of her whereabouts.”

Adeline’s sympathy, which had been focused on the mother, now veered suddenly to the daughter.

“Well, after all,” she said, “Mary is very young. She must have a little fun.”

“Fun!” repeated Mrs. Cameron bitterly. “Fun! If she can bear to have fun — after what we’ve been through!”

“You cannot expect a child to go on mourning forever.” Adeline spoke rather curtly. She was tired and Mrs. Cameron was altogether too mournful an object, planted there in her black bonnet and dolman. No wonder the girl wanted to be off with other young people.

“She is nearly sixteen. She’ll soon be a woman. She doesn’t seem to realize it. That’s what I tell her. She’s a regular featherbrain.”

“I saw her carrying a cup of tea very nicely to you, not so long ago.”

Mrs. Cameron flared up. “I hope you are not insinuating that I do not appreciate my own child, Mrs. Whiteoak! She is all I have in the world! My mind is always on her! I’d die a thousand deaths rather than a hair of her head should be harmed!”

“You’d do well to get your mind off her for a bit,” returned Adeline. She was growing tired of Mrs. Cameron.

The vessel gave a sudden heave. She seemed to have glided down a steep slope and to be now laboriously mounting another. Adeline’s stomach felt suddenly squeamish. Was she going to be sick? She must lie down in her berth for a little.

Mrs. Cameron had burst into tears.

Adeline exclaimed — “Oh, I didn’t mean that you are not a perfect mother! I’ll go and find Mary for you this minute. I’ll tell my young brothers to keep away from her. Pray go and lie you down and I’ll send her to you in a jiffy.”

Mrs. Cameron stumbled back to her cabin. Adeline listened outside the one occupied by Conway and Sholto. There was silence within. She entered.

There were two portmanteaux standing in the middle of the tiny room. There were odds and ends of things thrown on the lower berth. But what was that on the pillow? She leant over to see it. For some reason her heart quickened its beat.

It was an envelope pinned to the pillow and addressed to her in Sholto’s best schoolboy handwriting. She was trembling as she opened it, though she did not know what she expected to read. She tore it open. She read: —

My own dearest Sis
,

Conway is making me write this as he says he is the man of action and I am the man of letters. Be that as it may I feel pretty sick at what I have to disclose. I am writing
this in the hotel the night before the ship sails. We shall go with our luggage on board and then, while everything is confused, we shall return to the dock and conceal ourselves in the town till you are gone. Dear Adeline, forgive us for not going with you to Quebec. During the voyage we wished ourselves back in Ireland a thousand times. It seemed too good to be true when the ship turned her bow homeward again, we were that homesick.

Now this is the part Conway himself should have written but you know what a lazy dog he is. Mary has decided not to go to Canada either. She has decided to remain in Ireland and marry Con. I should hate to be in his shoes when he faces Father with Mary on his arm. Mary tired to write but she cried and messed up the paper outrageously. So, dearest Sis, will you please break the news with great tact and sympathy to Mrs. Cameron. Mary says this will be quite a blow to her but, as Mary’s happiness was always her first consideration, she will be reconciled to it once she thinks it over.

When you arrive in Quebec will you please put
all
our belongings (that is of course including Mary’s) on the next east-bound ship and address them very clearly. We don’t want to lose anything, especially as after all the outlay for Con and me, Dad will be an old skinflint for years to come.

Mary will write a long letter to her mother and send it by the next ship. Conway will also write.

We all three join in wishing you
bon voyage —
no storms
—
no leaks
—
and a glorious time in Quebec.

Ever your loving brother,

Sholto Court

Adeline stood transfixed when she had finished reading the letter. She had a sense of panic. She felt that she wanted to run to her own berth, get under the covers, draw them over her head and
remain so till Quebec was reached. Then disbelief and relief swept over her. It was all a joke! Her brothers were always up to pranks. It could not be true. She would find Patsy O’Flynn and perhaps he would know all about it, know where the three were hiding.

She sped along the passage and down the steep stairs that led to the steerage. Here in the common room people were settling themselves for the voyage, untying canvas-covered bundles, opening packets of food, drinking out of tin cups which a couple of barefooted cabin boys were filling with tea. In one corner a decent-looking Scotchwoman had gathered her brood of children about her and was putting large buns into their hands. A nursing babe still clung to her breast as she moved among the others.

Adeline asked her — “Do you know the whereabouts of my man, Patsy O’Flynn, the one with all the clothes on him and eyebrows that stick out?”

The woman pointed with the bun she held. “Aye, he’s yonder, whaur the hens are. Shall I fetch him to you, ma’am?”

“No, no, thank you. I’ll go to him.”

She found Patsy stretched at ease on his greatcoat which he had spread out on the poultry coops. To the accompaniment of crowings and cacklings he munched a slab of bread and cheese. “Heave ho, the winds do blow,” he was singing like a seasoned tar, between mouthfuls, for he wanted to make his bread and cheese last as long as possible. Maggie, the little goat, had somehow loosed her tether and stood at his feet nibbling one of his dangling bootlaces. The pair were a picture of devil-may-care contentment.

“Oh, Patsy-Joe!” cried Adeline. “Do you know where my brothers are? I can’t find them anywhere on the ship.”

He leaped to his feet and bolted a large mouthful of bread and cheese.

“I do not thin, your honour, Miss,” he answered, jerking his head forward for the cheese was still in his throat. “But I’ll set out to look for them this instant moment.”

“Patsy-Joe, I’ve had a letter from Master Sholto and he says they’ve gone back to the town and little Miss Cameron with them.
Oh, I dare not let myself think it’s so, for it would kill her poor mother and my brothers would be to blame. Have they said aught to you about running away home?”

“Aye, many was the time they said divil take the ship and they hoped they never set eyes on her again.”

“But you should have told me what they were saying.”

“Ah, wisha, I thought it was just their way o’ spakin’. And did ye say the young geerl was off with them?”

“Yes.”

His little eyes twinkled. “Sure, I’m not at all surprised for I saw her with thim on the shore last Sunday marnin’, and I said to mesilf she was too free with Mr. Conway and himself with time heavy on his hands. And did ye say they’ve left the ship entirely?”

She was only wasting her time talking to Patsy. She hurried back up the stairway and at the top met Philip. Each saw the concern on the face of the other.

“What have you heard?” she demanded.

“A sailor tells me that he saw your brothers and Mary Cameron walking separately back to the town just before we left.”

“My God, why didn’t he tell us?”

“He thought we knew. When he saw the carriage drive up he thought it had come to meet them. How did you hear?”

“I had this letter.” She took it from her pocket and put it in his hand.

“Those boys ought to be flogged,” he said, when he had read the letter.

“Oh, if only they hadn’t taken Mary! Oh, how can we break the news to her mother?”

“You did wrong, Adeline, to encourage that friendship. It’s let to a pretty kettle of fish.”

She took hold of the railing and two tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I know — now that it’s too late,” she said, in a trembling voice. Then, after a moment, she broke out — “We must go back for them! I’ll pay the cost from my own pocket!”

“We cannot. It’s impossible.”

“What do a few hours more matter — in such a case?”

“Listen to reason, Adeline. If those three scallywags were waiting on the dock eager to be picked up we might do it — at a pretty cost to you. But they don’t want to come back to the ship. Doubtless, by this time, they are well on their way in quite another direction.”

“Oh, whatever shall I do?” she groaned.

“You’ll just have to go and tell Mrs. Cameron what her daughter has done. After all — it’s her fault. If the girl had been properly brought up she’d not have dreamed of doing such a thing.”

“Philip, darling, would you go and break the news to the mother?”

He looked aghast at the idea.

“I couldn’t possibly,” he said. “You’ll have to do that.”

“Well, will you stand beside me, in case —” She hesitated.

“In case what?” he asked distantly.

“She will be terribly upset. She will probably faint.”

“I shall stand at a little distance — within reach but out of sight.”

“That will do … Do you think I might write her a letter, as Sholto did me?”

“By gad, if I had my hand on those boys! Yes — write her a letter, if you prefer that way.”

“Perhaps you would write the letter. I believe she would take it better from you.”

“I am no letter writer,” he answered testily. “Your family excels at that.” He took her by the arm. “Come into the salon and I’ll get a glass of sherry for you. That will put heart into you.”

In the little room, graced by so high-flown a name, Adeline sipped the sherry and thought miserably of what she had to do. At one moment she would ejaculate — “Oh, the young villains!” And at the next — “Oh, the poor mother!” — or — “It were better the ship had gone down with all of us!” But the sherry did her good and finally she sprang up exclaiming — “I’ll do it now and have it over.”

“That’s a good girl,” he said.

She scowled. “Don’t you ‘good girl’ me! After all, you should be breaking the news to her. You’re a man and ’tis your own brother-in-law has done the mischief!”

“Adeline, I cannot.”

He followed her down to the door of Mrs. Cameron’s cabin. She rapped, trembling in every limb.

“Yes?” came the voice from within.

“Mrs. Cameron, I have something to tell you.”

“Come in.”

She found Mrs. Cameron putting things in order and still wearing a hurt air. But there was something touching about her. She was small and neat and you could see she had been through a great deal. Adeline spoke gently.

“A while ago you said you supposed Mary was off somewhere with those brothers of mine. You were right. She is.”

Mary’s mother only stared.

“She is off with them,” went on Adeline. “Right off the ship and away home!”

“Are you mad?” said Mrs. Cameron. “What nonsense are you telling me?”

“It is the truth. They left the ship — Mary and my two little brothers — but they’ve gone home. She’ll be quite safe.”

Mrs. Cameron had turned a ghostly pale. She put her hand to her throat and demanded: —

“Who told you this?”

“I had a letter from Sholto. And my husband was told by one of the sailors who saw them.”

Mrs. Cameron spoke in a hoarse whisper.

“Show me the letter.”

Adeline handed it to her. She riveted her eyes on it as though she would tear the written words from the page. At the end she reeled across the cabin but she recovered herself. She faced Adeline in a fury, her hands clenched at her sides.

“It’s your fault!” she cried. “It’s all your fault! You encouraged them. You begged me to allow Mary to go about with that
wicked boy. Oh — ” As she was struck by the possibilities of the situation her voice rose to a scream — “Oh, what has he done to her! My little ewe lamb! She was as pure as the driven snow till we came on board this accursed ship! Oh, can’t something be done? Where is the Captain?”

She pushed her way past Adeline, thrust aside Philip’s restraining hand, and bounded up the companionway. So flimsy were the partitions that a general consternation was caused by her outbreak. People came running from all directions (some thought a fresh disaster had befallen the ship) while Adeline and Philip followed after, miserably conscious of what had really happened.

“What’s this — what’s this, madam?” asked Captain Bradley, coming to meet Mrs. Cameron.

She flung herself against his shoulder.

“Oh, save her! Save my little girl!” she cried hysterically.

“Where is she?” he asked, in his resonant voice.

“There!” She pointed landward. “She left the ship with those horrible Irish boys! I call everyone to witness that she was as pure as the driven snow! Oh, what shall I do?”

“What’s all this about?” Captain Bradley demanded on Philip.

“The girl has eloped with my young brother-in-law, a lad of eighteen,” he replied gruffly. “But from what was said in the letter they’ve gone straight to his father’s house.”

“If you’d like to go back for them, Captain dear,” put in Adeline, “I’ll pay for the cost of it.”

It was to the Captain’s shame that he looked more tenderly on Adeline than on Mrs. Cameron, whom he regarded as a complaining woman of depressing appearance.

“Do you think the young gentleman will marry her?” he asked Philip, in a low voice.

“I’m sure he intends to,” said Philip, with rather more certainty than he felt.

“Come, come, it may not be so bad as you think,” the Captain comforted Mrs. Cameron. To Adeline he said — “Look backward, Mrs. Whiteoak! The ship’s been flying away like a bird. You
must understand that it’s impossible for us to return for a young runaway couple.”

“It’s all her fault!” shrieked Mrs. Cameron. “She’s as wicked as her brothers. We don’t want their kind in our beautiful young country! They’re evil!”