Mr. Tilford kissed Adeline’s hand. “Goodbye, dear lady,” he said. “May we meet again under happier circumstances.” He added, in a lower tone, “You must not for a moment worry about Mrs. Sinclair. I will see to it that she and her servants reach their destination in safety. Also remember that I have ample funds for every contingency.”
“Ample funds!” The children overheard those words and, when the horses and carriages had moved away, they gathered about Adeline.
“Mamma,” Nicholas asked, in an ingratiating tone, “did Mrs. Sinclair return our presents?”
“Grasping, greedy boy!” cried Adeline. “How can you think of presents at such a moment as this? Certainly she did not return them.”
“Then we have nothing,” said Nicholas, “for all our trouble. Even Ernest has lost his gold pen.”
“It may turn up,” said Ernest.
Augusta gave him a long look out of her large serious eyes.
Philip had accompanied the travellers to the railway station.
How different was this setting out compared to the previous one! Then, emotionally uplifted, Adeline and her children had waved goodbye from the porch. Thrown kisses, held up their beautiful gifts to show their pleasure in them. Then, confident that all would be well, they had awaited Philip’s return. Now Mr. Tilford had taken everything into his own hands. Philip would be a spectator. Yet Adeline would scarcely have been surprised if the entire party had returned with him.
Although she had warned Mrs. Coveyduck that this might be possible, Mrs. Coveyduck had thrown herself with passion into the obliterating of all traces of the foreigners (so she called them). She and Bessie scrubbed, polished, swept, dusted, threw wide the windows to let the gusty wind blow away “the smell of the darkies,” which she declared lurked in every corner.
Philip drove up the drive and reined in his horses in front of the porch sooner than Adeline would have believed possible. Coveyduck, thickset and cheerful, was awaiting him there. Philip sprang out of the wagonette and the three children scrambled in, to drive to the stable.
“Don’t be long,” Adeline called out. “Cook is making a boiled pudding with custard sauce!”
“Hurrah!” shouted the boys.
Philip ran up the steps to Adeline’s side. He gave her a hearty embrace. “They’ve gone,” he said. “The train was on time, for a wonder. Everything was done in order.”
“Are we actually by ourselves again?” she asked, looking at him as at one returned from a long and perilous journey. “Is this house actually ours?”
“We are — and it is,” he said, and added, “Thank God!”
He snatched up his youngest and sat him on his shoulder.
“Off we go,” he said, and galloped prancing along the hall.
There was an unbelievably holiday feeling. Clean sheets were blowing wetly on the clotheslines. The pudding was merrily bubbling in the pot. Twin Jersey calves were born in the stable. Mulberries were lying darkly on the lawn. Yet, though effort was involved in these activities — the sheets had had to be washed, the pudding concocted, the cow had laboured to produce the calves, the tree had struggled against storm and drought to produce the mulberries, Philip and Adeline had been through stress and strain during the long visit from the Sinclairs — yet, on this day of Indian summer, all might have been spontaneous and without effort, so happy were all living creatures at Jalna.
Augusta said, “It seems to me that this would be a good day for a picnic.”
“I was just going to remark,” said Ernest, “that this would be a good day for a picnic.”
“A lovely thought,” said Adeline. “We’ll have a picnic by the lake and go in bathing. I’ll pack a hamper with good things to eat. We’ll invite James Wilmott and the Laceys. Will that suit you, Philip?”
“It’s just what I need,” said Philip, “a picnic by the lake.”
“I was going to remark,” said Ernest, “that what I need is a picnic by the lake.”
Philip fixed him with a cold blue stare. “We can do without any remarks from you,” he said.
“He pushes into everything,” said Nicholas, “as if he were the most important person in the house.”
Ernest hung his head. Yet he was not subdued for long. Soon he was taking part, as well as he could, in preparations for the picnic. There was much running up and down stairs with bathing suits; much panting up and down, from and to the basement, on the part of Mrs. Coveyduck and Bessie with provisions. Messengers were dispatched by Philip with invitations for the Laceys and James Wilmott.
Wilmott appeared, wearing a light-coloured jacket, tight trousers, large dark cravat, and wide-brimmed straw hat. He carried a basket containing fillets of salmon that had been stored in his ice-house — on ice cut from “his own river,” as he called it. All the way from the sea these salmon came to spawn in the river, so he said. He deplored the fact that every year there were fewer of them.
The Laceys too came happily to the picnic — the parents, the two little daughters who were the age of Nicholas and Ernest, and their son, Guy, who was still on leave from the Royal Navy. The sight of him was as thrilling to Augusta as the sight of the azure lake that sent its countless gleaming ripples to the edge of the sandy beach, on which a flock of sandpipers strutted without fear of the picnickers, till Nero routed them with boastful barks. Curly-pated, woolly footed, he romped up and down the beach. There was nothing he enjoyed more than this annual picnic by the lake.
Baby Philip also was of the party. It was his first sight of the lake and he stood thunderstruck by its immensity. He had not known that any body of water could be so large. He, every night at bedtime, was put into his own tin bath. It was painted blue, like the lake, and to his mind was large enough for any purpose.
Now his father picked him up and made as though to throw him into the water.
The little one in fear clutched the lapel of Philip’s jacket. “No — no!” he whimpered.
Nicholas and Ernest came to see the fun.
“Papa,” said Ernest, “would you really throw him in?”
“Of course I should,” shouted Philip. “Hoopla, out you go!”
Augusta had had enough of such teasing. “Papa,” she said firmly, “please give Baby to me. If he is frightened he is sure to wet himself.”
In haste Philip tossed the little one into her arms. He said sternly, “That’s a very bad habit and he should be broken of it.”
“Males,” Augusta said sedately, “are more addicted to wetting than females.”
Philip had no answer to that. He stared truculently at his daughter out of his rather prominent blue eyes and then strode off to throw sticks into the lake for Nero to retrieve.
It was decided to have a dip in the lake before supper. This Mrs. Lacey and her husband would not take part in, but retiring behind some shrubs with her little daughters, she put them into flannel nightgowns and drawers gathered at the knee, to serve as bathing dresses. Philip and Adeline wore navy blue outfits, his somewhat tight, for it had been made some years ago; hers with a sailor collar and full skirt reaching to the knee, both collar and skirt trimmed with rows of white braid. Nicholas and Ernest had proper bathing suits of grey flannel with red belts of which they were very proud, even though they were not quite comfortable. Augusta had, with the help of Lucy Sinclair, made herself a bathing costume of light blue serge, the skirt rather short, the sleeves reaching only halfway to the elbow. With this she wore long white cotton stockings and shoes with elastic sides. It was the first time this garment had been worn.
Augusta emerged from the bushes feeling very self-conscious. She wondered whether she were indeed decently covered. She envied Adeline her self-possession, even while she disapproved of her flaunting of herself in front of Admiral Lacey and his son.
Everybody now turned to see Augusta. The two small boys had just been ducked by Philip and ran dripping out of the lake.
“Look at Gussie!”
“Hello, Gussie!”
&
nbsp; “Do you think you’re a mermaid, Gussie?”
They shouted at her, dancing up and down, half-mad with spirits.
Admiral Lacey said patronizingly, “You look very nice, m’dear. Quite comme il faut, eh, Guy?” But he had eyes only for Adeline.
Guy Lacey had made friends with Baby Philip and held him in his arms. But the little fellow wanted to go to Augusta. “Gu-gussie,” he stammered, marvelling at the strangeness of everyone’s appearance. This was a new world to him.
Augusta took him into her arms. In an odd way she felt that his small familiar body would be a shield for the inadequacy of her bathing dress. He clasped her tight.
Guy Lacey’s appearance was even more embarrassing to Augusta than was her own. It was all very well for her father and brothers to romp on the beach in semi-nakedness, but — this young man whom she was accustomed to meet in uniform!
“Come on in,” said Guy.
“Yes,” called out Adeline. “Go on in, Gussie.”
Adeline took possession of her youngest. Guy took Gussie firmly by the hand. They walked sedately, as though for a ceremony, into the bright water of the lake. Gussie felt that she should make some conversation. The trouble was she could think of nothing to say excepting, “The lake is very large.” When those words had passed her lips, she saw them in her imagination as a sentence at the top of a page in a copy book. “The lake is very large.” Write carefully, children. No blots, please. Then she saw a primer, a first reader, with a lesson that began: “The lake is very large. I see the lake. It is as big as the sea.” She could not stop herself from saying, in her clear voice which, when she was grown up, would be contralto, “It is as big as the sea.”
Guy Lacey gave his light easy laugh. “Have you ever seen the sea, Gussie?”
“Not to remember. When I was a baby I went in a sailing ship from India to England — then came to Canada.” She was proud of having travelled so far, but Guy Lacey only said, “This lake is tame compared to the sea.”
“Is it?” she breathed, her eyes on the dim blue horizon; then added, “Is the sea colder than this?”
“Do you find the water cold?” he asked solicitously. “Then the thing to do is — duck.”
“Duck?” she repeated.
“Yes. I’ll count three. Then we’ll both duck.”
“Do!” she giggled, and so unusual it was for Augusta to giggle that instantly she looked serious.
Guy was counting. “One — two — three — duck!”
Down they went, he now gripping her two hands. They were engulfed, half-drowned it seemed, in the immensity of the lake. She held her breath.
Then it was down again and up into the balmy air, her long tresses — Guy thought of her hair as “tresses” — streaming over her shoulders.
“Why, Gussie,” he exclaimed laughing, “you look just like a mermaid — that lovely black hair — those alluring eyes.” His white teeth gleamed in his wet face. He had a lock of yellow hair plastered on his forehead.
They danced up and down, holding hands. Gussie was no longer cold. Her blood raced through her veins. She felt wild, reckless, as she had never felt before.
“Hoopla!” shouted Philip, and bore down upon them.
He was followed by the two boys, Guy’s little sisters and Adeline. A battle of splashing ensued. The small boys sought to duck Guy but it was he who ducked them. Adeline delighted in this sort of wild play. None of the young people was so boisterous as Philip and she. Those remaining on the shore were well occupied. Admiral Lacey was in charge of Baby Philip who, from the safety of the Admiral’s arms, watched his family apparently about to drown and, being safe himself, enjoyed the spectacle. He clasped his hands over his round little stomach and laughed in glee. Every few moments Admiral Lacey would shout to his daughters:
“Be careful, girlies!”
Or to his son, “Watch over your sisters, Guy!”
Not one of them paid the slightest attention to him or indeed heard him.
Mrs. Lacey was well occupied in unpacking the picnic hamper and laying the table for tea. The cloth was spread on the fine clean sand and, considering the haste of the arrangements, there was a generous supply of ham sandwiches, hardboiled eggs, cucumbers in vinegar, and plain fruit cake.
James Wilmott had not brought a bathing suit but was occupied in building a fire for the boiling of a pot of water to cook corn and make the tea. He was an expert at this, choosing stones of the right shape to support the large black pot. But his chief concern was the salmon he had himself donated. As the sun sank toward the horizon the breeze fell and the air became deliciously warm. The bathers felt that they could remain in the lake all night. But Wilmott was anxious about the salmon. He had made a miniature cellar among the shrubs to keep it cool. Every so often he took it out and sniffed it. It retained the freshness of its odour. Nevertheless he was anxious.
He went to Mrs. Lacey and said, “I am of the opinion that the salmon should be eaten. It cannot stand this heat without spoiling.”
Mrs. Lacey, her face crimson, asked, “Has the pot boiled?”
“It has boiled.”
“Then I shall put in the corn.” One by one she dropped the symmetrical ears of corn into the bubbling pot. She called to her husband:
“Tell the children to come at once. They have been too long in the water as it is.” To Wilmott she remarked, “I’m surprised that Mrs. Whiteoak allows little Ernest to remain so long in the lake. He is a delicate boy and might easily get his death.”
Wilmott said gruffly, “Mrs. Whiteoak has no more sense than a child.”
Mrs. Lacey was delighted to hear him speak disparagingly of Adeline because she had been under the impression that he almost too warmly admired her. Mrs. Lacey found James Wilmott now more congenial to her than she had thought possible. Again she called out to her husband, “Order Guy to bring in his sisters at once.”
Admiral Lacey set Baby Philip on the sand, cupped his own hands about his mouth and shouted, “Ship ahoy! Ethel! Violet! Come ashore! Your mamma orders!”
“Supper,” shouted Wilmott, with a scornful look in Adeline’s direction.
The bathers now emerged dripping. They sought suitable retreats for drying and dressing themselves among the scrubby cedars. Philip and Guy together, the three young girls, each with her own towel and modesty, Nicholas only half drying himself before he pulled on his tight ankle-length trousers, his undervest, his cambric shirt, his jacket trimmed with silk braid. Already his hair was drying into charming waves about his ears and neck. “Really such hair is wasted on a boy,” Mrs. Lacey observed to Adeline, who had just appeared in a flannel wrapper, with Ernest by the hand. The little boy was delicate, and for fear he might take cold she had given him a brisk rub down and wrapped him in a plaid shawl. He was in high feather and danced along, the fringe of the shawl trailing after him.
The party seated themselves on the sand about the tea-cloth. They were hungry and could scarcely bear to wait for the first course. This was the steaming hot corn on the cob, to be eaten with salt, pepper, and plenty of butter. Wilmott carried the pot round the festive cloth and laid a glistening ear of corn, with its pearl-like kernels, on the plate of each. The only two who were left out were Baby Philip and Nero. Adeline had her little one on her lap and now and again fed him enormous spoonfuls of bread and milk with brown sugar.
“How angelic Baby has been!” said Mrs. Lacey. “He’s never cried once.”
“I’m ravenous,” declared Ernest, and at that Adeline espied the ear of corn on his plate. She nipped it up and laid it in front of Nicholas. “Ernest must not eat corn,” she said. “It gives him a terrible bellyache.”
“But I’m hungry!”
Mrs. Lacey looked offended by the word bellyache.
“What can I eat?” Ernest’s lip trembled, yet he knew his mother did right in taking the ear of corn from him.
Wilmott rose with alacrity. “You shall have the first helping of salmon,” he said, and strode to where
he had buried the crock containing it. The crock felt delightfully cool when he unearthed it. The salmon looked tempting when he uncovered it. Ernest’s eyes shone when the firm pink slice of the fish was laid on his plate.
“Are you going to say thanks?” asked Adeline.
“Thank you very much, sir,” Ernest said, his hunger mounting. He was greedy for the first bite but scarcely was it in his mouth when he spat it back on to his plate.
Every eye was on him.
“Whatever is wrong?” demanded Wilmott.
He picked up the plate and sniffed the fish.
“It stinks,” said Ernest.
Philip and Adeline fixed stern glances on their son.
“How dare you spit out a special present?” she asked with severity. A kernel of corn hung on her red underlip.
“How dare you say it stank?” demanded Philip.
Ernest began to cry. “Leave the table,” ordered Philip.
“Oh, I say!” exclaimed Guy Lacey. “The poor little beggar!”
“This is none of our business,” said his father.
Mrs. Lacey said to her daughters, “Ethel — Violet — don’t stare.”
Wilmott rose with dignity. He emptied the salmon from Ernest’s plate back into the crock, rose and stalked away with it across the sand.
Nero who all this while had been gazing hungrily at the party about the table and avidly sniffing the scent of the salmon, now slunk after Wilmott with an air so patently criminal in its intent that only the picnickers’ absorption in their own doings prevented his being detected.
When Wilmott had buried the salmon deep, rinsed the crock that had contained it in the purifying water of the lake, he returned to the table. Philip at once proffered a plate heaped with ham sandwiches.
“Have some, old man,” he said. “They’re first-rate. Have some cucumber. Too bad about the salmon but those things will happen. I remember a picnic in India —”
02 Morning at Jalna Page 15
