02 Morning at Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  “It makes me joyful to have you here again,” said the little boy.

  Madigan’s eyes filled with tears. His hand that held the tumbler trembled. The house was silent, cloaked in snow. Augusta’s hands, elegantly shaped and of a pure pallor, lay clasped on the table before her.

  Madigan continued, “Do not let your parents send you away to school. You will be half-dead from homesickness. You will be ill-treated and miserable.”

  “What can we do?” asked Augusta.

  Madigan had downed his second drink. He looked into the amber shape of the decanter and said, “If I were in your place I should run away.”

  Augusta’s eyes rested on the snow-blanketed windowpane. She murmured, “How can we?”

  “I advise you,” said Madigan, “to put on these delightful snowshoes and disappear into the woods. Never come back.” His elbow rested on the table, his head rested on his hand. He looked desperately tired.

  “Have another drink,” suggested Nicholas.

  Madigan refused with dignity. “I must keep my brain clear,” he said. “I must find my savings. I must be away from here by daylight tomorrow.” He rose, a little unsteadily, and moved towards his former bedroom, the children following him. Augusta went slowly, her head bent, her hair falling about her pale cheeks, as though she were musing on distant things. Nicholas marched along steadily, as though he were able to cope with whatever came his way. Ernest, gentle but dogged, followed last.

  “I’m sorry,” Augusta said to Madigan, “but my dove sleeps here. I can’t have him in the room with me because he will perch on my pillow.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Madigan. “But you must tell me his name so I may talk to him.”

  “I give him a new name each season,” said Augusta. “But the names are secret, so that only he and I know them.”

  “Once,” said Ernest, “I heard you call him Mortimer.”

  “Mortimer is Guy Lacey’s middle name.” Nicholas gave a teasing laugh. “What a name for a dove!”

  The dove settled more comfortably on his perch. Augusta went to him and stroked his silky back.

  The boys pressed close after Madigan as he took his coat from the peg. When he turned it inside out they saw that the lining had been cut. Madigan put his finger inside, but there was nothing there. He gave a rueful look. “By jingo, I remember,” he said. “I took that money myself — for the honeymoon with that Busby girl.”

  Ernest corrected him. “Mrs. Lucius Madigan.”

  Madigan clenched his hands. “Do you want me to cuff you?” he demanded.

  “She slapped my face,” said Ernest.

  “That is not allowed,” said Augusta. “If any chastising is to be done, it is done by your parents.”

  “They like doing it,” added Ernest.

  Madigan sat down on the side of the bed. “I must rest,” he said. “Tomorrow I shall be up at sunrise. I must escape before the servants discover me.” He looked into the face of each child in turn. “Never shall I forget you.” His voice trembled and his eyes filled with tears. He sank on to the feather bed and almost immediately fell asleep.

  Augusta brought a thick quilt called a “comforter,” and spread it over him. The three stood looking down at him in solicitude. Outside, the wind beat the snowflakes against the pane, enfolding the house in a deep slumberous silence, broken only by the falsetto snore of Lucius Madigan.

  Augusta went to her own room and from the sill of the snow-plastered window brought what appeared to be four russet apples, brown and rather wrinkled. She gave one to each of her young brothers, then laid one with a benign gesture in the curve of the sleeper’s hand.

  XIX

  Doings of the Whiteoak Children

  In the morning he was gone and no one in the house, with the exception of the children, knew of his visit. He had not left even a footprint in the snow, for the wind had obliterated them.

  Yet his deserted wife, by some means, heard that he had been seen in the neighbourhood and ploughed her way through the drifts to Jalna to enquire after him. Her long heavy skirt was caked with snow, even to the knees. She marched into the room where the children were drawing maps and demanded:

  “Has anyone here seen my husband?”

  “He spent all his savings on his honeymoon,” said Ernest, licking his crayon for colouring Ireland green.

  She strode into the room and stood over him. “How dare you insult me?” She looked all teeth, blazing cheeks and round angry eyes.

  “Ernest didn’t mean to insult you,” said Augusta. She bent her head above her map and her silky black hair fell over her face.

  “All he had from Gussie was a russet apple,” said Nicholas. “And we’re not even sure he ate that.”

  “Yes, he did,” said Ernest. “I know, because I found the seeds in his bed.”

  “Then he spent the night here! When did he leave?” The frustrated woman strode up and down in her fury, clots of snow falling off her.

  “Miss Busby —” began Nicholas.

  “Mrs. Madigan,” she corrected, fairly spitting the words out, while her colour deepened, if that were possible.

  Nicholas continued, “It looked like a little brown apple, but actually it was a medlar. You don’t eat them till they’re rotten.”

  “This is very confusing for Mrs. Madigan,” Augusta said politely and with dignity. “We have only one medlar tree and this is the first year it has borne fruit.”

  Ernest went on as though he were giving a lesson, “Each medlar has five hard seeds. I found them in Mr. Madigan’s bed. Should you like to see them?”

  Her answer was to wheel, march out of the room, and down the stairs. Nero, who never had liked her, now appeared and, taking the hem of her skirt in his teeth, escorted her to the front door. Two floors up the children ran to the window to see her go.

  Scarcely had she disappeared in the falling snow when there came the sweet jangle of sleigh bells and Philip and Adeline arrived, a day sooner than was expected. The children tore down the stairs to meet them. Adeline, glowingly handsome in her sealskin sack and cap, gathered all three into her arms but, when her youngest was carried to her, put them aside to embrace him.

  In the days that followed, they were a happy family, in the fastness of midwinter. But such tranquility could not last — not with undisciplined children having too much time on their hands.

  “You’re a graceless trio,” declared Adeline, eyeing her three eldest and holding baby Philip close, as though he were her one treasure. “If I, in my young days, had shown as little sense, my father would have turned me out of doors, to wander with the gypsies.”

  “What fun!” said Nicholas.

  “Why do you always say ‘my father,’ rather than ‘my mother?’” asked Augusta.

  “Because,” said Adeline, “I resemble my father.”

  The children pondered on this, trying to make sense out of it, but could not.

  The rescue from illiteracy came from Wilmott. “When your young ones go to school in England, they will be jeered at for little ignoramuses, Adeline,” he said.

  “But why? I don’t understand.” Really she felt insulted. “Nicholas can play quite nicely on the piano, Gussie and Ernest both can recite poetry.”

  “What about mathematics?”

  “I have got on without them,” she answered proudly.

  “You would get on if you were completely illiterate.” It was seldom he spoke with such lack of restraint. Now to cover up the slip he hastened to add, “I was going to offer to give them lessons for the rest of the winter if you are agreeable to the idea.”

  “Oh, James, how heavenly that would be!” Before he could stop her she threw both arms about his neck.

  He drew away but not before the sweet scent of her brought a moment’s delight to his nostrils. “I should scarcely call it heavenly,” he said stiffly, “and I fancy the children will not, but I will try to make it interesting, if you will let them come to my place. Five times a week from nine
till twelve.”

  And so it was arranged.

  Now it was that the snowshoes which had been given the children at Christmas came into full use.

  It was a winter of great feathery drifts, that in shadow had a bluish tone stolen from the blue skies. At night the moon in its splendour subdued all earthly things. In time to reach Wilmott’s cottage by nine, allowing for a little loitering on the way, the children set out. They put on their moccasins when they first got up, over two pairs of thick woollen stockings, that is to say one pair of stockings and one pair of socks. Outside they tied on their snowshoes.

  In the weeks since Christmas they had become accustomed to these. No longer did the snowshoes feel clumsy or get tangled up with each other, but moved lightly across the snow, leaving prints like the shadows of birds. Often at that hour in the morning it was bitterly cold, but the children did not mind. Their stomachs were warmed by oatmeal porridge that had cooked for two hours. On their heads the boys had red woollen toques with bobbing tassels, but Augusta wore a hood of the same colour with a red silk bow beneath her pointed chin. On their backs were strapped satchels holding their books.

  Long before it was time to set out for Wilmott’s cottage Nero stationed himself in the porch, his eager eyes fixed on the front door. He too had had a bowl of porridge, to say nothing of bacon rinds and scraps of toast and marmalade and a dish of tea. He felt replete, yet all agog for the walk. Nothing could restrain him. Before the children were anywhere near Wilmott’s door, he was there, scratching on it to be let in.

  Invariably the door was opened by Tite Sharrow. Wilmott was seated at a small table and gave the young scholars a tranquil “good morning.” They clumped in their snowshoes straight through to the kitchen, Nero stopping on the way to give himself a tremendous shake. He then settled down in front of the stove to pull out the clots of snow from the dense black curls that covered him.

  Wilmott took these lessons seriously. He found the minds of his pupils an interesting contrast. He found they knew more than he gave them credit for. The Irishman had, in his erratic way, taught them a great deal. In spite of their advantages they were not such good students as was the half-breed, Titus Sharrow. He had a power of concentration which they lacked. He took such pride in what he had learned, yet sometimes Wilmott wondered if he had, in any degree, changed from the young barbarian he had first known. While the lessons were in progress Tite usually stood in the doorway leading to the kitchen, his arms folded, his intent eyes fixed first on one face, then on another. Usually he preserved a decorous silence, but when Wilmott’s enthusiasm or wit was suddenly pointed by the telling phrase, Tite would double over in silent laughter and slap his thigh.

  Nero would become so overheated that he would gather himself up with a groan, move to a cooler spot and cast himself down with another groan. But soon he would return to the heat of the stove.

  Early in the year the young mulatto woman Annabelle had found her way back to Jalna and been made welcome by Adeline and the cook, Mrs. Coveyduck. She had tales to tell of devastation in the South that fairly wrung the hearts of these two. Where their feelings were at variance was in their attitude towards the proposed marriage between Tite and Annabelle. To Adeline it was an unmixed blessing — a good-natured healthy young woman to serve Wilmott, to keep the cottage clean and to keep Tite satisfied. What would happen to Wilmott if Tite went to the West, as sometimes he threatened to do! “He’ll never stay there,” said Philip. “A lazy dog like Tite. In the West they work.”

  As for Mrs. Coveyduck, she never had trusted Tite and thought Annabelle far too good for him. The airs he gave himself were infuriating to her. Yet when she found that Annabelle loved Tite and that nothing would dissuade her, she knitted a “cloud,” as they called it, in light blue wool, to keep her warm on her honeymoon, and mittens of the same colour.

  But there was no proper honeymoon. Adeline had said to Wilmott: “James, I think you are the man to give Annabelle away. I am arranging the ceremony. It will be a bit of fun to brighten this long wintertime.”

  “Fun!” he had repeated. “I don’t call getting married fun. And if I must give anyone away it will be Tite.”

  That made her laugh. She was exhilarated by the thought that Wilmott would acquire an industrious and docile servant, at no wage beyond her keep. She brought two goose-feather pillows to the little room off Wilmott’s kitchen which Belle and Tite were to occupy. On top of the pillows she laid two frilled pillow shams on which were outlined in red stitching the words: I Slept and Dreamt that Life was Beauty. I Woke and Found that Life was Duty.

  When Tite saw these he was as deeply impressed as even Adeline could have wished.

  “Boss,” he said, “always have I desired elegance and now I have it. Annabelle and I shall sleep and dream of beauty. You, Boss, will wake with the smell of bacon and potatoes frying, making a cheerful tickling in your nostrils….” Tite was thoughtful for a space, while Wilmott ostentatiously buried himself in a book.

  “May I know what you are reading, Boss?” Tite asked.

  “The marriage service,” answered Wilmott. “I want to know what you are going to promise.”

  Tite asked, as though shocked, “Do you forget the marriage ceremony, Boss?”

  “I forget,” Wilmott said tersely.

  “I think it will be best,” Tite said, “for Belle and me to go to the Indian Reserve and be married by the minister there. My grandmother would be very happy to meet the bride and we could visit her for a few days and meet other members of her tribe. It will be educational for Belle and a great occasion for my grandmother.”

  Wilmott was relieved by this suggestion. The less he saw of the newlyweds the better pleased he would be. Sometimes he regretted that he had given permission for the pair to move into his cottage. He was so snug there but he was lonely in the long winter evenings. He missed Tite’s lively presence — there was no doubt about that.

  Therefore when, with a jingle of sleigh bells and a small blizzard, the young couple appeared one early evening at his door, he made them welcome. He had not before noticed, or had forgotten, how pretty Belle was. In fact they were a charming young couple. They established themselves without fuss in the little room off the kitchen. As Tite had foretold, Wilmott woke in the morning with the delicious smell of hot muffins in his nostrils. Never had he tasted such coffee as Belle made. Never had he realized that chicken could be so richly and yet tenderly cooked. And the young wife was as quiet as a mouse about the cottage. She wore carpet slippers. Never did she raise her voice. Tite also was quieter, more thoughtful for Wilmott’s comfort. Little did Wilmott guess the hilarity which took possession of the mulatto and the half-breed when his presence was removed, when he went to a neighbouring house for dinner or to spend the evening. Tite and Belle would sing, dance, and shout. They would chase each other through the cottage without restraint. They would fairly raise the roof.

  As the winter drew on Wilmott allowed Tite to take a hand in the teaching of the children. He discovered that Tite had an amazing talent for interesting the young Whiteoaks in their studies. He felt that here was a born teacher. At the same time he would not be sorry when the children left for England and school. He enjoyed having them as pupils, yet they took up altogether too much of his day. The children themselves had never been so happy. They had a warm affection for Wilmott. They found an exciting teacher in Tite. When Annabelle appeared each mid-morning carrying a tray on which were a pot of cocoa and a dish of hot buttered corn cake, they beamed their happiness. The boys did not look forward. They lived in the present. But Augusta awaited the spring as a time of wonderful happenings.

  The season of Lent brought still heavier snowfalls. Snowshoeing was a delight, especially when the sun, gaining heat as spring approached, softened the surface of the snow and, when the icy cold of night enveloped the land, a firm glittering crust was formed. What glorious fun to slide down their favourite hillside, squatting on their snowshoes!

  On Good Fri
day Wilmott left the teaching to Tite. Wilmott was assisting the rector with the Easter music and was spending the day between church and rectory. The children had been invited, with Wilmott’s consent, to spend the day at the cottage. Belle had prepared a feast for the midday dinner. She and Tite waited at table with mock formality, but soon the formality had disappeared and the five were seated together, eating lemon pie, eating nuts and raisins, and drinking blackcurrant cordial. Tite smoked one of Wilmott’s cigars. Now and again, stretched on the sofa, he uttered a whoop of uncontrollable animal spirits.

  Presently Annabelle grew serious. “This is a real solemn day,” she said. “The day of Our Lawd’s Crucifixion. We’d ought to be thinkin’ of dat and not jes playin’.”

  “What can we do to make us feel solemn?” asked Ernest.

  “Think of Mrs. Madigan,” suggested Nicholas.

  “She just makes me feel sick,” said Ernest.

  Annabelle sat, with eyes rolled ceilingward, in silence for a space, then she said, “Ah know what we could do. Act a religious play. I saw one at home long time ago — before the war. We could show the mob wantin’ to crucify Our Lord. We could show the Crucifixion — not really — jes pretend, Ah mean —” and she gave a reassuring pat to Ernest’s shoulder — “then we could have the glory of the Resurrection.”

  “Explain,” said Augusta. “It would be a lovely thing to do.”

  As Belle unfolded the plan of acting the sacred events, all five occupants of the room became equal — the three young Whiteoaks, the lithe half-breed, the freed slave. She indeed was the instructor. The others hung speechless on her words till Tite exclaimed:

  “I will take the part of a soldier.”

  “Do you feel that you can do it properly?” Augusta asked.

  “Just watch me,” he said fervently.

  Exalted, Annabelle stared admiringly at Augusta. “Little Missus,” she said, “you sure ought to be the Madonna, ’cause you have the right face and the beautiful hair.”

  Tite stared at Gussie, as though he had never before seen her clearly.