02 Morning at Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  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 fa
ce 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.”

  “I do not like to accept more than you can spare, Madame.” His greedy eyes were on the wallet which bore in gold-embossed letters the initials C.S.

  She put it into his hand.

  “Count,” she said. “I can’t.”

  His deft greedy fingers ran through the notes.

  “There seem,” he said, “to be more than six hundred dollars.”

  “Take two hundred and I wish I could give you more.”

  He returned the somewhat thinner wallet to her. With a deeper bow than usual, his slanting eyes downcast, he said, “Mille remerciements, Madame.” With her he was determinedly French.

  “If you are able to bring me any further news of Mr. Sinclair,” she said, “I shall be most grateful.” She smiled a little and suddenly looked pretty, with the appealing prettiness of a girl.

  Tite Sharrow, drifting rather than walking from the house, came suddenly on Jerry, or the Negro came purposefully on him. With dignity Tite sought to avoid him. This heavily built black man was not one with whom Tite would be willing to be involved in a quarrel. Not that Tite was a coward but he preferred peaceful ways of settling disputes or rivalries.

  Now Jerry, with an incredibly swift movement, whipped out a knife.

  “See this,” he growled in his thick voice. “Ah’m gonna run this right into yo’ guts, if yo’ don’ keep away from mah gal Belle.”

  “Nigger!” said Tite.

  “Yo’ better be careful if yo’ don’ wan’ yo innards ripped out,” Jerry yelled, forgetful of his nearness to the house.

  Philip Whiteoak appeared, as it were from nowhere, and placed his stalwart body between them. Like figures of the night dispersed by the sun god they drew away.

  “No more of this,” he said, “or I’ll knock your heads together. There’s trouble enough without your getting into a fight.”

  “Boss,” said Titus Sharrow, “I am a peaceful man. I don’t want a fight with one of my own race. I am above tussling with a nigger.”

  “This won’ be no tussle,” growled Jerry. “This will be the end of you. De Lawd is on mah side.”

  “The Lord don’t think well of you,” said Tite. “If He did you’d not be a slave.”

  Philip Whiteoak said, “Get along with you, Tite. Hand over that knife, Jerry.”

  Jerry sullenly parted with the knife. Philip felt its edge with distaste. “This is a nasty weapon,” he said. “We don’t use knives in this country. If you want to fight, go at it with fists.”

  Philip watched the two young men disappear, Jerry ambling, Tite gliding; Jerry ebony-faced, Tite dusky as the twilight; Jerry lumpish, Tite lithe. Philip was accustomed to the Indians of the East and thought that helped him to understand Tite. A clever rascal. About Negroes he thought there was little to understand. Animals. Possibly quite useful on a plantation, but not the sort of animal an Englishman would want underfoot in his own house.

  He stood watching a pair of red squirrels scampering among the branches of an ancient oak, from the short thick trunk of which massive branches spread. It was also a tree of great height and had produced a vast number of leaves that still were glossy and green. The squirrels were collecting acorns for their winter store but stopped every now and again to chase each other. “Empty-headed little rascals,” Philip said aloud.

  He did not see Elihu Busby till he stood beside him.

  “Fine old oak,” remarked Busby.

  “Yes. It’s been standing here for hundreds of years, I suppose. I’m very fond of it. It branches out so low that my youngsters have no trouble in climbing it.”

  “Surely Gussie doesn’t climb trees.”


  “She certainly does. Why not?”

  “Well, I always look on you as a conventional British father who would insist on his daughters behaving like little ladies.”

  “Do you really?”

  There was a silence which Philip looked capable of continuing for a long time. However, Elihu Busby had sought him out with a purpose.

  “I want to say” — he brought it out doggedly — “that I’m sorry for my harshness towards those Southerners. It must have seemed even unfriendly towards you. But I felt strongly on the subject of slavery and I felt bitter about the way my poor daughter had been treated by that rascally tutor of yours.”

  “Have you changed your mind?” asked Philip.

  “Not in the least. But I’ve always been on good terms with you folks. My wife seems to blame me for things being different. I know I spoke harshly about the South. My sympathies are strong for the Yankees.”

  “You’ve always seemed proud,” said Philip, “that your forebears were United Empire Loyalists and that they came to Canada after the Revolution. If you’re so fond of the Yankees, you must be sorry that your people ever left the States.”

  Elihu Busby’s colour rose. He found it hard to be calm. “I would not live in that country,” he said, “not if they gave me back all the valuable property my folks left behind there.”

  Philip gave him a bland inscrutable look.

  “I took it hard,” said Elihu Busby, “that Jalna should be a centre of plotting by these slave owners. I was glad when I heard that that man Sinclair had been captured before he’d had time to carry out his accursed schemes. I’d have been glad to hear that Lincoln had hanged him.”

  “I don’t see why you’re telling me what I already know,” said Philip.

  “Because I want you to understand that I’m sorry for that poor little woman. I hear she’s a gentle soul. She’s in an awful position stranded here with those miserable slaves of hers. I can tell you I’ve lain awake nights worrying over her and being sorry I said the things I did.”