02 Morning at Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  “I’m sorry, Mamma,” said Ernest.

  “I’m sorry too,” said Nicholas.

  Augusta murmured that she was sorry. But the idea of a clandestine love affair pleased her. She rose from her bed, tidied her hair, and joined Adeline and the boys. They could hear Baby Philip struggling to climb the stairs — grunting, panting, making infant sounds of triumph.

  “And that one,” continued Adeline, “is the worst of the lot. Coming, my pet!”

  In truth she was so happy she did not know what to do next to express her pleasure in life.

  XVI

  Events of the Fall

  Wilmott could not choose between the threatening storminess of the November sky and the calm of the little river that was the colour of a moonstone. The low-growing bushes by the shore still showed the green of cedar and the scarlet hips of wild rose, the glossy red cranberries. A blue heron flew low above the river, its blueness reflected there.

  Wilmott said aloud: “‘The heron, when she soareth high, sheweth winds.’”

  The voice of Titus Sharrow came from among cranberry bushes. He said, “That is very nice poetry, Boss. I’m something of a poet myself, so I am able to judge.”

  Wilmott had seen some childish verses by Titus, written in a school exercise book. “You have written some quite pretty rhymes, Tite,” he said kindly. “Very nice indeed.”

  Tite came to him and drew a newspaper cutting from his pocket. There was polite rebuke in his voice. “The editor of this newspaper liked these well enough to print them, Boss,” he said. “Would you care to read them?”

  Astonished, Wilmott read the verses. They were unashamedly sentimental, signed with Tite’s own name.

  “Congratulations,” said Wilmott. “I’m sure everyone hereabout will be surprised and pleased to find that we have a poet in our midst.”

  There was something patronizing in what Wilmott said, something a little amused. Tite responded with, “I have decided against the study of law, because I am sure I shall never succeed in that profession. I have decided to be a poet. Later on, in the winter, I expect to write a book.”

  Wilmott himself had written a novel which never had seen the light of the printing press. He felt a kind of grim pity for this cocksure half-breed.

  “Be cautious, Tite,” he said. “You would be attempting something that has defeated many men cleverer than you. It is one thing to have a few verses published in a local newspaper; it is quite a different thing to find your writings between the covers of a book.”

  “Boss.”

  “Yes, Tite.”

  “I was born for success.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, in the first place, when I was a scholar at the Indian Reserve school, I was not only the best-looking but I was the smartest. The teacher was not young but I soon found out that she was in love with me. She gave me higher marks than I deserved because she could not help herself.”

  “Everything has conspired to make you conceited, Tite, but you are not so remarkable as you think you are.”

  “I think that you are remarkable, Boss, and all these years we have been together I have tried to make myself like you.”

  Wilmott stared at him in amazement.

  “Do you think I have succeeded, Boss?”

  “Well, you say you were born for success.”

  “Do you think we are alike, Boss?”

  “The point is,” said Wilmott, “that I was born for failure.”

  “You make me laugh, Boss, and I hope you will forgive me for laughing.”

  “What is funny about failure?”

  “Boss, you own this pretty little cottage, a boat, four suits of clothes, five pairs of shoes, a gun and a lot of other things. You never work. I model myself on you.”

  “I worked hard in England. I saved what I could.”

  “What do you value most in life, Boss?”

  “That’s easy to answer — solitude.”

  “Then why have you kept me about, Boss?”

  “I’ve asked myself that question.”

  “I can answer the question, Boss. It’s because you’re a lonely man. I myself am a lonely man. The great are always lonely. Lord Byron was a lonely man. You have a book of his poems and a book of his life. I have read both and I think he was a great poet, beloved by women. I am just the same. Women long to have me for a lover. Do you remember Miss Daisy Vaughan who visited Jalna when the little boy Ernest was a baby and I was a very young man?”

  “I’ve no desire to hear that story,” Wilmott said testily.

  Tite went on, as though he had not been interrupted. “That young lady became lost in the forest. It was I who found her and claimed the reward. But first I spent a little while in the forest with her. She was very nice and she loved me dearly. She could not help loving me. It is always the same. High and low, they cannot keep from loving me. The latest was Annabelle. She thought she loved God but it was me she loved. She could not marry me, so she gave herself to the Negro, Jerry. I should not marry. I am a poet, I long for solitude — like you, Boss.”

  “I don’t know what you are trying to tell me,” Wilmott said, still more testily.

  Tite answered patiently, “I’m talking about Lord Byron and you and me, Boss.”

  Wilmott turned to walk away but Tite planted himself in front of him.

  “Boss,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You said to me once that I am like a son to you.”

  “Sons sometimes talk like fools.”

  “I am sorry if I have offended you, Boss, because I love you better than anyone else on earth, even better than my grandmother, who is the daughter of an Indian chief. On my French side I am also of noble blood.”

  “So you have told me, time and again,” said Wilmott drily. “You are of noble blood and you are a poet.”

  “With the winter coming on, Boss, we both of us need a woman to look after us — a good-natured, pretty, and hardworking young woman like Annabelle. We could have leisure for writing poetry. She could carry wood, clean fish, and cook. It would cost you very little.”

  “Explain,” said Wilmott.

  “I have a letter from Annabelle here in my pocket, Boss. She hadn’t been at home long, before she found out that Jerry had been married before the war, had a wife and two children. So she left him and is back in Canada looking after the children of a couple who have moved here from the South. She is still anxious about my soul, Boss, and aims to come and work for us. A fine writer like you —”

  “My God!” interrupted Wilmott. “Leave me out of this, Tite. You may be a poet but I lay no claim to being a writer of any sort.”

  “You can’t be left out,” said Tite. “Because you are a great man. You must be waited on.” His narrow dark eyes looked compellingly into Wilmott’s. “Do you remember how sick I was last winter and how you had to wait on me? And you yourself were not well. What a fine thing it would be, if you and I had a healthy young woman to wait on us! Belle is healthy. She is strong. She loves me. She admires you. Also she is a religious girl.”

  “Where would she live?”

  “Right here, Boss, with us.”

  “We should be the scandal of the neighbourhood. I can’t tolerate such a thing.”

  “People can get used to anything, I find. You are greatly respected.”

  “Hmph!”

  “Think how happy we could be! We have our cottage — we have our river — we should have our hand-maiden. Boss, she is used to being a slave. She asks for nothing better. Do, please, let her come.”

  “Never.” Wilmott turned away.

  “You will not agree?”

  “Never.”

  Tite became deeply thoughtful. The only sound that came to them was the resigned movement of the river as it surrendered itself to the waiting embrace of the lake and the icy threat of winter.

  Tite spoke, in a peculiarly seductive tone. “Boss,” he said, “for your sake I am willing to marry the w
oman.”

  “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” said Wilmott. “You have made extravagant remarks before but nothing to equal this. Would you marry a slave?”

  “Belle is no longer a slave. I’ve heard you remark, Boss, that none of us is free.”

  Said Wilmott, “You have boasted of your noble blood. Yet — here you are, proposing to marry a mulatto.”

  “Belle is not black, or brown, or even yellow,” Tite said proudly. “She has the eyes of a white woman.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” said Wilmott.

  “Her father,” continued Tite, “was a Virginian gentleman.”

  “All this is so unreal,” said Wilmott, “I haven’t the patience to listen to it.”

  “But it would not be unreal, if you were to wake on a winter morning and hear the crackle of a freshly made fire and smell cornmeal muffins baking. Do you remember how you were forced to call me three times this very morning, Boss, and at last throw your boot against my door? And even when I did get up, I burned the toast and cooked the eggs too long. It would be so different with Annabelle here.”

  Wilmott thought of the oncoming winter. He weakened, yet he said, “I can’t allow it.”

  “But why, Boss? Give me one good reason.”

  “You would be living in sin, as the preacher put it.”

  “Belle and I are religious young people. We would go straight to my grandmother on the Indian Reserve. The minister at the little church there would perform the ceremony. It would be simple but legal. It would be very different from Belle’s marriage to Jerry, for he was already a married man — married and as black as sin.”

  “Tite,” said Wilmott, “I will not agree to this queer union till I have consulted with my neighbours the Whiteoaks.”

  “I think that is a wise decision,” said Tite.

  During this conversation, Tite became momentarily more dignified, even judicial. He gazed at the glimmering river, at the sky that was neither silver nor gold but a blending of both; at the blue heron casting her reflection on the river.

  Oddly enough Adeline Whiteoak agreed that it might add to Wilmott’s comfort to have a wife of Tite’s in the house with him. Often, she declared, she had been anxious about the neglect Wilmott had suffered during the winters when Tite’s studies took him into the town.

  “It is madness,” she said, “for that fellow to imagine he can ever become a lawyer. You did wrong, James, to encourage him.”

  “He’s clever, you know,” said Wilmott. “I am often surprised by his understanding. He’s loyal, too, in his own peculiar way. In the many years he’s lived with me, I’ve grown very fond of him. I planned some future for him that would be better than a marriage with a cast-off mulatto.”

  Adeline spoke with decision. “In my opinion, Belle is far too good for him. She’s sweet-tempered. She’s religious. She adores Tite. When she told me that her infatuation for him was over — never for a moment did I believe her. She’ll be a good influence on him.”

  “He no longer wants to be a lawyer,” said Wilmott. “He intends to be a poet like Byron — he says. He’s had verses published in the local paper.”

  Adeline was impressed. “Really? I’d like to read them.”

  “They’re pretty bad,” said Wilmott. Yet he could see that Tite had greatly risen in her opinion.

  It was afternoon. Adeline wore a green velvet tea gown that enhanced the pearl-like lustre of her skin, the ruddy chestnut gleam of her hair which Philip called plain red, and there was firelight from silver birch logs to play on the diamonds, emeralds, and the one magnificent ruby of her rings. So many rings were in bad taste for a woman in this raw new country, Wilmott thought. Yet, he reflected, Adeline was of no particular country. She drew her background about her like a cloak. The ruby ring had been given her by a Rajah, and this, on Adeline’s finger, seemed natural.

  Now she looked out at the first snowflakes, swarming, like bees from a hive, beyond the window. Some clung to the pane, as though they would enter the room. Others swirled again upward towards the grey sky. They danced on the air, in a gay allegro movement, deceptive, courting the belief that no dirge was to follow.

  “James,” said Adeline, “are you happy in your life?”

  “As happy,” he answered, “as it is in me to be.”

  “Don’t you ever become restive?”

  “Restive! Me? Oh, I passed through all that in England. Here, I’m content as a cow out at pasture.”

  “A cow,” she laughed. “You a cow? Oh, James!”

  He gave his reluctant smile. “I chew my cud. Reflect a little on the meaning of things, and consider how lucky I am to be here. Surely you are not restive.”

  “Would you despise me if I say I am?”

  “You know very well that I could not possibly despise you, but — I sometimes wonder at you.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you have everything — beauty —”

  She laughed in derision. “Beauty? I’ve lost all I had.”

  He half rose. “When you say such things it’s time for me to go.”

  She laid a restraining hand on him. “I’ve had a letter from Lucy Sinclair,” she said.

  “Don’t tell me you are envying her.”

  “How you read my thoughts! Thank heaven Philip is not like you. We should be at daggers drawn.”

  “I look on Mrs. Sinclair,” he said, “as a very shallow woman.”

  “You are quite mistaken, James.”

  “I always am — where women are concerned.”

  “Lucy is courageous.” Adeline’s voice vibrated with the fervour of her admiration. “She endured terrible things and seldom complained. Now, at last, I have had a letter from her.”

  “So you have said.”

  “In the restricted life I lead, it is necessary for me to repeat myself, else I should have nothing to say.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Whiteoak.”

  “Mrs. Whiteoak!” she cried. “This is the last straw! To think that after all these years of friendship, I should be no more than Mrs. Whiteoak to you!”

  Wilmott bit his nail in discomfiture.

  “To think,” she went on, “that after all my many vicissitudes —”

  This brought a smile to Wilmott’s sensitive lips. “Your vicissitudes, my dear. But, feel as sorry for yourself as you will, everybody envies you. You lead a delightful life.”

  “But it is monotonous. You can’t deny that it is monotonous.”

  “Better monotony than the changes that the Sinclairs have endured. Did Mrs. Sinclair tell you what is the condition of their plantation?”

  “Ruin, James, ruin. But Curtis Sinclair has bought a fine house in Charleston, or what is left of Charleston. They beg us to visit them when conditions are more favourable.” She gave a start as the scampering of feet and shrieks of children came from above.

  “Listen to them,” she said. “It’s a horrid game they play. Old Witch they call it.”

  “Who takes the part of the Witch?”

  “Gussie — and she’s even worse than the boys.”

  “Dear me,” said Wilmott, “I thought Gussie was much too dignified for such a game.”

  “She is at a ridiculous stage. Sometimes a wild child. Sometimes a prim miss. Sometimes shy. Sometimes forward … Listen to that! Even our youngest is into it.”

  It was true. Baby Philip was noisiest of all.

  Adeline sprang up. From the bottom of the stairs she called, “Children! Come straight down here!”

  Reluctantly they trailed down the stairway, Augusta leading the youngest.

  “You are driving me,” said their mother, “into nervous frustration. Oh, how I miss that nice Mr. Madigan! We had peace in the house when he was here.”

  “It is the first time I’ve heard you say that, Mamma,” said Nicholas. “Always you said he had no discipline whatever.”

  “You may thank your stars, my lad,” Adeline brought out in solemn tones, “that Mr. Wilmott
is here or I would show you what discipline can be.”

  “Discipline, my eye,” said Ernest.

  Adeline let herself go in something approaching a scream. “Merciful heaven!” she cried. “Have I lived to see the day when I should get such sauce from a child of mine!”

  “Apologize quickly, Ernest,” implored Gussie.

  “Sorry,” said the little boy. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

  An observer might well have thought that Adeline was about to faint were it not for her excellent colour. Now she spoke in a deep tone of sorrow.

  “Bad language and bad grammar,” she mourned. “Whatever am I to do with him?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Wilmott, “but association with the illiterate. He will soon forget.”

  Baby Philip, seeing that Ernest was in disgrace, doubled up his little fist and hit him, but Ernest was not even aware of the blow.

  “It is a puzzle to me,” said Adeline, “how these wretched children are to acquire an education in this wild country.”

  “Is it wilder than Ireland, Mamma?” asked Nicholas.

  “Ireland,” returned Adeline, “is the oldest Christian country in Europe. It was from Ireland that Joseph of Arimathea went to England as missionary to the barbarians of that country.”

  When the children had drifted away Adeline said:

  “I have engaged Elihu Busby’s daughter, Amelia, the one who was deserted by her husband, Lucius Madigan, to come as governess to my children till next spring. Then we shall take the two eldest to school in England.”

  “Why don’t you send Nicholas to Upper Canada College?” asked Wilmott. “It has a quite passable reputation.”

  Adeline chuckled. “Because I’m dying for a change.”

  “This is extraordinary,” said Wilmott. “I had thought you were content at Jalna since your houseful of visitors has gone.”

  “Everybody likes a change,” said she.

  “Everybody but me,” said Wilmott.

  “Lucky you!”

  “Unlucky me — when you are away.”

  He gave her a look half-quizzical, half-tender. It was seldom that he made a remark approaching the affectionate, and she sunned herself in it. “Poor pioneer wife that I am!” she ejaculated.