The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (54 page)

“Tick-tock, tick-tock,” said the baby.

“My favourite child,” declared Philip. “I see him as the future master of Jalna.”

“Not for many long years, I hope,” said Adeline gazing at him with sudden fondness.

“Come and sit on my other knee,” he said.

And she did.

While these things took place in the house, the three older children had hidden themselves in the wood. The bond among them was so close, possibly because of the scarcity of friends of their own age, that when one of them was in disgrace, they all felt themselves to be in disgrace. Equally they shared the burden of it, even though but one bore the stripes.

Nicholas lay breast downward beneath the low-spreading branches of a magnificent beech. Ernest had stretched his slender length beside him in the self-same attitude. Augusta sat, her hands folded in her lap, brooding over her brothers. Ernest said:

“Do you suppose we shall ever be happy again?”

“I doubt it,” said Augusta. “We may be less unhappy but it’s quite a different thing to be happy.”

“I had to tell what had happened to Mr. Sinclair,” said Nicholas. “Elihu Busby had brought the news. The blacks were bound to hear it. I thought I should be the one to tell them.”

“I think that perhaps Papa wanted to be the one,” said Augusta.

“Anyhow,” said Nicholas, “he was in a towering rage. Should you like to see my bruises?”

“No.” She turned her head away. “It would not do you any good and would turn my stomach.”

“It wouldn’t turn mine,” Ernest said. “I’d like to see them. I guess they’re no worse than some I’ve had.”

“You’ve had nothing equal to this.” Nicholas sat up with a groan.

Ernest too sat up and moved closer to him. Nicholas stripped off his fine white shirt, with the fluted collar, and drew his underpants from his buttocks. “Whew!” cried Ernest. He was so impressed, so almost exhilarated by what he saw, that he rolled over twice and again ejaculated, “Whew!”

“Oh, Gussie.” He could scarcely articulate for excitement. “You ought to see! Really you ought to see.”

Augusta took one glance out of the sides of her eyes. She said, “If Papa were to come this way and see you so nearly undressed he’d give you another whacking.”

“For some reason,” said Ernest, “I feel less unhappy.”

Augusta gave him a critical look. “It’s rather heartless to feel less unhappy when you see welts on somebody else.”

“Well,” said Nicholas, “I like to show them.”

“It’s just as wrong,” Augusta said, “to boast of beatings as to boast of getting prizes.”

“I got a prize for my pony at the fall fair last year.” Nicholas spoke through the shirt he was pulling over his head.

“I got a prize,” said Ernest proudly, “for taking a dose of castor oil.”

“What would you have got if you had refused to take it?” asked Augusta.

Ernest felt insulted by this question. He scrambled to his feet and walked a short distance away. When he returned he was eating beechnuts. Augusta firmly took them from him. “You’re a naughty boy,” she said. “Those nuts will not be fit to eat till we’ve had frost.”

“Even then,” Nicholas put in, “they’ll give him bellyache and he’ll keep me awake half the night crying.”

Ernest turned his back on them. “I’m going home,” he said. “I want my dinner.”

The two older children watched his small figure disappear along the path, flanked by delicate white birch trees. Twice he looked back at them and the second time waved a hand.

“He didn’t stay unhappy for long,” remarked Nicholas.

“He’s hungry,” said Augusta. “It makes such a difference.”

“I suppose,” said Nicholas, “that Mr. Sinclair will never be hungry again. Not if he knows he is going to be hanged.”

“I wish,” Augusta’s voice trembled a little, “I wish that Mr. Madigan were here.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know, except that he makes light of serious things. It takes the weight off you.” She lifted her heavy hair from her forehead and drew a deep sigh. “It’s well to be young like Ernest,” she added. “He can be unhappy and happy again in short order.”

“If he had had the hiding I got,” said Nicholas, “he’d have howled the rest of the day.”

“But he is delicate.” She spoke with a gentle folding of her hands. “We must remember that.”

“Yet he thinks well of himself,” said Nicholas, “and he can be very sarcastic. Think how he will say ‘My eye!’ with a sneering look.”

“That’s something that must be stopped.” She looked disapprovingly after the small figure being swallowed by the leafiness of the wood.

But, after a few moments, he came tearing back to them. “I’m afraid to go alone,” he gasped. “I keep thinking of Mr. Sinclair. Do you suppose they’ve hung him yet?”

“
Hanged
is correct,” said Augusta.

“I know,” he agreed, then repeated, “Do you suppose they’ve hung him yet?”

“You are incorrigible,” said Augusta, rising and taking him by the hand. “I will go with you. What are you eating?”

“Wintergreen berries. Farther along they are as thick as blackberries.”

Augusta promptly took them from him.

She turned then to Nicholas. “Fasten your collar,” she said. “There’s someone coming.”

“It’s Guy Lacey,” said Nicholas. “He’s home on leave from the Royal Navy. Doesn’t he look fine in his uniform?”

The handsome slender young officer now called out to them, “Hello, you there! Do you remember me?”

In unison they murmured that they did. They were a little shy but he was self-possessed, a travelled man of the world. “How you’ve grown!” he exclaimed. “I should hardly have recognized you.”

He laid his hand on Ernest’s head. “This fellow was a very small codger then.”

“There are four of us now,” said Nicholas. “There’s the baby — Philip.”

“A baby, eh?”

“Well, he’s on his feet.”

“I hear you have guests from Carolina. I’d like to meet them. We of the Royal Navy have great sympathy for the South. I hear that France is putting a finger in the pie. Certainly Washington could not have done what he did without help from the French. But all this, I guess, is Greek to you young people.”

“We have heard a great deal,” Nicholas said proudly.

“You’re lucky,” said Guy Lacey, “to be living in this lovely spot.” His eyes ranged from the hazy blue of the sky, glimpsed between the gently moving, leaf-laden boughs of the forest trees, where birds flitted, calling sweetly to each other, and lively red squirrels and chipmunks peered down in fearless curiosity at the young people below.

“Yes, you’re lucky,” continued Guy Lacey, “to live here. It’s like the garden of Eden and you, Gussie, are a romantic-looking Eve. I hope you don’t mind my calling you Gussie, the way I used to?”

“Oh, no,” she murmured, her pale cheeks burning in embarrassment.

“We boys,” said Nicholas, “are Cain and Abel. I’m Cain and I’m going to murder this young fellow.” He put his arms about Ernest and bore him to the ground where they lay laughing.

Guy Lacey said, “There’s a burr in your hair, Gussie. Did you know? Do you mind if I take it out?” With a sailor’s assurance, he took the long black tress in his hand and gently removed the burr. “What silky hair!” he exclaimed, and smiled into her eyes.

Augusta was so embarrassed that she turned to the two boys who now were on their feet, Nicholas’s tear-stained cheeks still recording his punishment. “You two young ’uns,” said Guy Lacey, “should go into the Royal Navy. It’s a good life.” With a little bow to Augusta he strode away.

“Royal Navy, my eye,” said Ernest.

Slowly Augusta followed her brothers homeward. The long lock of hair, from which Guy Lacey had taken the burr, hung over her shoulder. She raised it in her hand and looked at it in wonder. It no longer seemed quite to belong to her. Shyly she pressed it to her lips and kissed it.

Slowly the three children entered the quiet house. Once inside, Augusta flew up the stairs to see if all went well with her dove. From the moment when first she possessed it, she had loved it, but now for some reason she could not divine, she loved it even more.

Nicholas lingered in the hall, awaiting with humility the meeting with his father. Ernest noticed that the door of the small room at the end of the hall was closed. This was unusual and at once he ran lightly to it to investigate. He opened the door and peeped in. What he saw was Cindy, Annabelle, and Jerry stretched motionless on the floor. He banged the door shut and, with a shriek, ran back through the hall.

“The blacks are dead!” he screamed. “Every one of them! Dead of broken hearts!”

At his cries Adeline came out of her room. When he saw her he scampered straight to her arms. She lifted him and he clung to her still screaming. He wrapped himself about her, absorbing the comfort of her body.

R
EWARD

In the days that followed the news of Curtis Sinclair’s capture by the federal forces, tension at Jalna was almost unbearable. Not one beneath that roof was unaffected. For the first time since the building of the house Philip shrank from returning to it, but spent his days in the fields or stables. He visited a number of fall fairs, taking Nicholas and Ernest with him. Adeline was glad to know they were out of the way, for she was short-tempered and found the managing of her household and the comforting of Lucy Sinclair almost more than she could cope with. In truth Lucy refused to be comforted, had frequent fits of hysteria and at night terrible dreams in which, with awful clarity, she witnessed the execution of her husband. The Negroes incurred the anger of Doctor Ramsay, for when she lost her self-control, they lost what little self-control was theirs and loudly wailed with her. It was not unusual for Adeline to find the three of them in the bedroom with Lucy, all four weeping in unison. At all hours the blacks prayed, “Oh, Lawd, save our massa!” Yet, even while they prayed, they were convinced that he was a dead man. They forgot his occasional severity and dwelt on his kindness till he became, in their eyes, a saint and a martyr.

Three of the household were less affected than the others by the tragedy of Sinclair’s fate. These were — first the piccaninny, which Cindy had named Albert, after the Prince Consort, of whom she had heard for the first time, since coming to Jalna. This infant throve amazingly, his time divided between guzzling at his mother’s breast, and dark primitive slumber. The second was the blond youngest Whiteoak who was struggling with all his might to escape from babyhood. He attempted to run and, falling, scrambled to his feet without tears. What did make him weep was to be picked up and carried when he wanted to walk, or, worse still, to be set on the chamber pot. He had few words and appeared to feel that these would be sufficient to carry him through life, for he took no trouble to add to his vocabulary.

The third member of the household somewhat aloof from the melancholy speculations concerning the fate of Curtis Sinclair was Augusta. There was a dreamlike quality about her in these days. Often she appeared to be lost in thought, yet it would have been impossible for her to tell what her meditations concerned. One object of her thoughts was the memory of her meeting in the wood with Guy Lacey. To her he embodied all that was wonderful and exciting in young manhood. She wandered alone in the woodland with the tenuous hope of meeting him, yet when once she saw him coming she hid among some alders till he passed. Once she walked into the sitting room where he was talking with Adeline. He had been sent by his mother to enquire after the health of Lucy Sinclair. Mrs. Lacey, from resenting Lucy’s flirtatious ways, had come to be deeply sorry for her. She had sent a blancmange and a pot of grape jelly to tempt her. When Augusta saw Guy Lacey, who had brought these delicacies, she was overcome as by a blinding apparition and, in panic, fled from the room.

Later Adeline said to her, “I was ashamed, Gussie, to see you so mannerless in front of Guy Lacey. You scuttled off like a frightened hare.”

Gussie just stared.

“Why did you do it?” demanded Adeline.

“I — I don’t know,” stammered Gussie.

“Why, when I was your age,” said Adeline, “the boys were fighting over me.”

“Duels? With pistols?”

“Mercy, no. Fists and hair-pulling.”

Gussie stared in wonder, then drifted away. Over her shoulder she said, “I shouldn’t like that.”

Later Adeline remarked to Philip, “I don’t know how we came by such a daughter.”

“She’ll likely be the comfort of our old age,” said Philip complacently.

“She may be the comfort of your old age but I don’t intend to live past my prime.”

“Red-haired people are notoriously long-lived,” he said.

Giving herself a glance in the mirror, Adeline remarked, “Thank heaven, none of my children inherited my hair.”

“I agree with you for once,” said Philip.

“Contemptible Englishman!” she cried. “Why did you pursue me?”

“I was under the impression that you pursued me.”

This might have ended in a quarrel had they not seen the slender form of Tite Sharrow glide along the hall. “He cannot have knocked,” said Philip. “I’ll have something to say to him.”

“Perhaps he has heard news of Curtis Sinclair.” Adeline pressed ahead of Philip to meet the half-breed.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” he said, “but I was told in the kitchen that I might find Madame Sinclair here.” He spoke with Indian dignity and what he considered to be French courtliness.

“Why should you wish to speak to her?” demanded Adeline.

“I have news for her,” Tite said with gravity.

“Is her husband dead?” Adeline spoke in a hushed, fearful voice.

“He may be,” said Tite, “but I do not think so. I have here a letter from him, in his own handwriting. It came through a secret agency with which I am connected.”

“I don’t believe a word of this story of yours,” said Philip. “Give me the letter.”

Tite shook his head. “No, Boss. I promised, on the honour of my ancestors, not to give this letter to any but Madame Sinclair, but I will show it to you.” He moved a pace away, took an envelope from his breast pocket and held it warily in front of him for the Whiteoaks to see.

“It’s Sinclair’s handwriting,” Philip exclaimed. “By Jove, it is!”

Tite returned the letter to his pocket. “You see, Boss, I speak the truth and nothing but the truth,” he said.

“I have kept in close contact with the Government of Upper Canada,” said Philip impressively. “I have read every newspaper I can lay my hands on, but I have discovered no reference to Mr. Sinclair.”

Tite said, with something like a sneer, “Perhaps the gentleman is not so important as we think he is, Boss.”

A strange procession now descended the stairway. It was led by Lucy Sinclair, in a trailing dress of black cashmere which appeared too heavy for this mild autumn weather. But then, she was always cold in these days and Cindy, who followed her, was carrying a huge plaid shawl with deep fringe. Close behind was Annabelle, holding in her arms an earthenware bottle filled with hot water. Close on her heels came Jerry, bearing a tray with a pot of coffee, a tiny decanter of brandy, and an ornately cut glass bottle of smelling salts. Also on the tray was a silver muffin dish.

The Whiteoaks gazed upward at the descending procession in apprehension. Tite’s eyes were on Belle. Jerry rolled his humid black orbs in hate at Tite.

“Ah, dear Captain Whiteoak and Adeline,” said Lucy Sinclair in a weak voice, “I am ashamed to bring all this confusion into your house but — I am so ill — so heartbroken.”

Philip put out his hand to help her down the remaining steps. Tite came boldly forward and held up the envelope for her to see. Seeming about to faint, she gasped, “His writing! His very own writing!”

She snatched the letter from the half-breed and held it to her breast. Then, turning to Philip, she said:

“I can’t read it, Captain Whiteoak. I dare not. Please tell me what it says.” She put the letter into his hand, then supported herself against the carved newel-post while he tore it open. It consisted of only a few lines. Philip read:

I have been captured along with Vallandigham. I understand that Lincoln is going to send us through the Northern Army’s lines down to Richmond. Do not worry about me. I shall turn up again. My love to all. As ever,
Your,
Curtis

With remarkable resilience she gathered herself together and, assisted by Philip, descended the remaining stairs, followed by the blacks, and went into the sitting room.

“This should be a heavy load off your mind, Mrs. Sinclair,” Philip said.

Clasping the letter to her, she said, in a controlled voice, “It is! But when I think of my husband in the power of that beast Lincoln — that baboon — I could die of rage.”

“Try not to let your mind dwell on that.” Philip’s deep voice soothed her. “Think only that he is alive.”

She raised her large blue eyes to his face. “Shall I ever see him again?”

“Of course you will,” he said heartily, though he felt far from certain. He patted her gently on the back.

Her three servants had followed close behind her and stood like decorative ebony statues about her. They could be heard to breathe but otherwise seemed scarcely alive, such was their power of obliterating themselves. Through the window Titus Sharrow was moving darkly among the trees like some lithe forest animal. With every gust of wind, showers of bright-coloured leaves were blown to the ground, yet scarcely were they missed, so dense was the foliage.

Adeline, after bursting into tears of joy at the good news and embracing Lucy Sinclair, had hastened to the basement kitchen to order fresh tea for everybody. Three times had she pulled the bell-cord in the dining-room but there had been no response. The household was disorganized. The tea-kettle, which was always on the boil, was sending up a dense spiral of steam, the lid was literally jumping from the pressure. Adeline put six heaping teaspoonfuls of Indian tea into a silver teapot on the top of which was a plump silver bird. She went to the larder for milk. Two large pans of Jersey milk stood on a shelf waiting to be skimmed. She dipped a cup into one of them and filled a jug. It looked so good that she took a mouthful, leaving her mobile upper lip decorated by a creamy moustache. She was unconscious of this and carried the tray up to the sitting-room, quite pleased with herself.

Philip eyed her with disapproval. “Lick your lip,” he said. “You’ve been drinking out of the jug.”

“I never touched the jug,” she denied, facing him like a big unrepentant child.

The sight of her released the tension of Lucy Sinclair’s nerves. She laughed, for the first time since her husband’s departure. At the sight of her worn face suddenly alight, at the sound of her laughter, a transformation took place in the three slaves. They gave way to joyous laughter. Jerry slapped his thigh and exclaimed:

“Massa’s alive! Massa’s safe in the South!”

The women, Cindy and Belle, joined in this jubilation.

Outside, the dark shape of Tite Sharrow moved subtly among the trees. Only when he had seen Philip leave the house, seen the three blacks in a confab in the vegetable garden, heard Adeline in her bedroom sing “I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,” somewhat off-key, did he venture to return to the presence of Lucy Sinclair.

He stood looking down at her as she lay with closed eyes on the sofa, the curtains drawn against the yellow September sunlight. So stealthily had he entered that she heard nothing. She knew nothing of the thoughts awakened in him by the sight of her lying there, thoughts dimly adumbrated by old tales he had been told of helpless white women taken captive by his Indian forebears.

Now, like a cloak, he put on his best French manner.

“Madame,” he said.

Her blue eyes flew open.

“Madame,” he repeated.

“Who are you?” She spoke as though at the next moment she would cry out for help.

“I am the one who brought you the good news,” he said gently.

“Yes. I remember.” She sat up, her eyes looking with desperate earnestness into his. “How did you get possession of the letter? May I see the man you had it from?”

“Madame, I had it from many men. I risked my life to get it. It was for your sake because my heart is overflowing with compassion for you. I am only a poor student, working my way through college, but I am of noble blood, from both French and Indian ancestors. There is a saving Noblesse Oblige. I try always to remember that.”

Lucy Sinclair said accusingly, “You made my little Annabelle love you. She has been very unhappy.”

“Annabelle taught me to love the Lord,” he said. “She loved me the way a shepherd loves a poor lost sheep he is bringing into the fold. I am very poor.”

“What do you want me to do?” Lucy Sinclair asked, with a suddenly decisive manner.

“I have thought,” said Tite gently, “that you might like to give me a reward. Something — not too small — to help me through college.”

New vigour had flowed into the veins of Lucy Sinclair since the coming of the letter. She rose to her feet. “Where is Jerry?” she asked. “He knows where my money is kept.”

Tite’s face, usually inscrutable, now perceptibly fell. “It would be better,” he said, even more gently, “not to send for Jerry. But do not trouble yourself, Madame, I will do without the reward. It is enough for me that your heart is less heavy.”

“You shall have your reward.” She spoke with vehemence. “I will myself bring it. Wait here.”

The house was now quiet. The children had gone with their mother, in the phaeton, to carry pumpkins, ears of corn, clusters of purple grapes, white asters, and pale-blue Michaelmas daisies to the church for the Harvest Festival. Augusta’s dove, being under the impression that spring was approaching, uttered continuous gurgling cooing sounds. These amorous cooings so stimulated the fancy of the parrot, Boney, that he puffed himself to twice his normal size, turned round and round on his perch and rolled his eyes in a madness of lust. The front door stood open. Through it coloured leaves had been blown and lay on the rug.

New hope gave new strength to Lucy Sinclair. She climbed the stairs with less effort than it had cost her to mount them for weeks. In her bedroom she found the wallet her husband had left her, with banknotes for travelling expenses. Several times she had counted this money but the result was never twice the same. She glanced at herself in the looking-glass. There was reflected a face no longer wan and weary from anxiety, but bright with a new hope. She hastened down the stairs. In the sitting room Titus Sharrow awaited her. He stood up very straight, aloof yet watchful.

He gave a little bow.

“Madame,” he said.

Her hands trembled so that she could not properly count the banknotes. One fluttered to the floor. Tite picked it up and looked at it doubtfully. “This is Confederate money,” he said.

“But it’s perfectly reliable,” she answered. “How much would please you? Of course, if I gave you the whole amount it could not repay you for the relief you have given me.”