02 Morning at Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  The wet shivering children stared up at him entranced.

  Suddenly, without warning, he spread his wings and soared upward. Now he was no longer Gussie’s dove but a flying bird belonging to sky and lake. He did not falter in the direction he took but sped swiftly on, growing smaller and smaller, till he was no more than a bit of thistledown.

  Gussie said, “It’s just like I thought. We are drifting back to where we started from.”

  “Perhaps,” Nicholas said, in his new hoarse voice, “we shall see home again.”

  Augusta stood clinging by one hand to the mast and with the other shading her eyes from the glare of the sun.

  XXV

  The Rescue

  Adeline Whiteoak had been awake since sunrise, and that after a restless night. Sunrise had been brilliant. After a few hours of heavy sleep, induced by a sleeping draught, the fiery blaze of the sunrise struck her full in the face. Her eyes flying open discovered Philip leaning over her and her first half-unconscious thought was, “How funny he looks!” for his face was covered by a yellow stubble, and his eyes were bloodshot. All came back to her. The nightmare dreams of her few drugged hours of sleep.

  “Don’t look so terrified,” he said. “At last we have news.”

  “News?” she repeated, struggling to sit up. “News? For the love of God — what news?”

  He helped her to rise. “Not what you’d like to hear,” he said.

  She whispered, “Have their bodies been found?”

  “No. I think they may still be alive. A young man is here whose boat they have taken. Tite Sharrow brought him. You’d better come and see him. Try to control yourself, dearest.”

  She was pressing her hand against her side to quiet her heart. “Who is he?”

  “A young bank clerk from the town. He owns a small sailing boat which he is just learning to handle. He kept it in a boathouse that he built himself —”

  “Are they drowned then?” she whispered through shaking lips.

  “We don’t know. Come and talk to him.”

  He led her through the hall that somehow looked strange to her. The young man was in the porch and with him Tite Sharrow.

  The young man, fair and thin, took an eager step towards her. “My name,” he said, “is Blanchflower. I’m afraid it is my boat your children have taken.”

  “Blanchflower,” repeated Adeline, as though by the repetition of his name she would postpone the dread news he brought. “In Ireland I once knew a man of that name.”

  “I’m in the Royal Bank in town. I’ve been saving for years for that boat — it’s dreadful to think that it may be the means —”

  “You think my children may be on the lake in it?”

  “It’s not in the boathouse, Mrs. Whiteoak.” He looked at her pityingly.

  Tite Sharrow spoke up. “I discovered that this gentleman’s boat was not in the boathouse, so I went to the town to find out about it.”

  The bank clerk interrupted, “This lad,” he nodded towards Tite, “walked all the way to the town to find me. He must have walked all night. But we had a lift back here. I found that my dinghy was gone. There were small footprints about. I’m afraid …”

  “Could you see any sign of the boat? On the lake, I mean.”

  “No, Mrs. Whiteoak. And I’m afraid the lake is a bit rough.” The young man looked deeply concerned.

  Philip said, “The worst is that the young ’uns don’t know the first thing about handling a sail.”

  Tite raised his weary eyes to Philip’s face. “Boss,” he said, in his low grave voice, “I know a man in Stead who owns a small steam vessel. He takes picnic parties out in it. If I had money to offer him —”

  Philip spoke with impatience and terrible anxiety. “You must take me to this man, as soon as possible. Can you ride a fast horse?”

  “I can do anything, Boss, if it’s in a good cause.”

  “I must go too!” cried Adeline.

  She would not be dissuaded, but must change her clothes.

  Tite, serious with the weight of responsibility, set out first to interview the owner of the steamship. As he galloped over the country road, sometimes through deep puddles, he had no care for himself or for the horse. His deep engrossing thought was for the rescue of the children. Dark clouds had canopied the sky. Heavy rain threatened. Distant thunders sounded across the lake.

  Young Isaac Busby came also to Jalna — after an urgent message from Philip. Scarcely had he arrived when the deluge descended. Adeline was in despair, trailing in her long skirts from one room to another, wringing her hands after she had tried to see through the wall of rain that blurred the windows. At noonday it was twilight. Out of the dimness the white form of Augusta’s dove appeared. The rain ceased.

  The young clerk who owned the dinghy had remained with Adeline. He ran on to the soy grass to investigate, for Bessie had cried out in her excitement at discovering the ghostly shape of the dove. Adeline followed him.

  “Is it Gussie’s bird?” she asked, her hand to her throat.

  “The maid has gone upstairs to open your daughter’s window. The maid thinks that if it is the pet bird,” answered young Blanchflower, “it will fly into the house.”

  The two stood watching the gable where the dove had alighted. Now they saw it slowly, as though wearily, wing its way into Gussie’s room. To Adeline it was the final blow. She would have sunk to the ground but Blanchflower supported her. So Philip found them when he came with the news that arrangements had been made to hire the steamship.

  “The children are lost — drowned,” Adeline was just able to articulate. “The dove has come back to tell us.”

  “We must not lose hope,” he said, and ran up the two flights of stairs to Gussie’s room.

  When he came down again he moved more slowly.

  “Well?” asked Adeline.

  “It’s Gussie’s dove — looking very draggled. But I believe it’s brought good news…. Will you come on the steamship? The owner is having it got ready. Isaac Busby is here on a fast horse.”

  Young Blanchflower said in an undertone to Philip, “Do you think Mrs. Whiteoak should accompany us? Supposing we should find the dinghy floating — with no one in it?”

  “My wife,” Philip returned haughtily, “is not the sort of woman to be left behind.”

  Two hours later the steamer, fresh-painted and trig for summer service, was moving in erratic fashion about the lake in search of the dinghy with the lost children. There were on board the captain and his crew of two, Philip and Adeline, Wilmott and Isaac Busby, young Blanchflower and Titus Sharrow.

  Tite had the sharpest eyesight. He stood in the bow and it was he who first, after hours of search, sighted the dinghy. “I’ve found it!” he cried. “I’ve found it! Can’t you see?”

  But none of the others could as yet see the small boat. They crowded into the bow of the steamship. Adeline stood on a seat, Philip supporting her. Now she discovered the dinghy and the three small half-drowned figures in it. “They’re dead!” she screamed, while Philip clasped her tightly. “Don’t look,” he said. “Don’t look.”

  The engine of the steamer slowed down its speed. As the two boats drew near, Tite leaped overboard. After the splash he could be seen striking out for the dinghy. The steamer stopped.

  “Children! Children!” screamed Adeline. “I’m here! Look up!”

  Three white little faces were raised towards her. She and the others in the steamship saw Tite clamber over the side of the dinghy…. It was he who lifted the children, one by one, and placed them in extended arms.

  Young Blanchflower remarked to Philip, “That half-breed is a wonderful fellow. I’ve never seen anything more neatly done.”

  “He shall be well rewarded,” said Philip.

  “It was remarkable,” went on Blanchflower, “how he discovered my boathouse and got the idea that the children had run off with my boat.”

  “He is an altogether remarkable fellow,” said Philip. “Mr. Wilm
ott can tell you that.” But Philip hardly knew what he was saying. His eyes were fixed on the three limp figures, dripping and scarcely conscious. It was he who took them from Tite into his own arms and carried them to the cabin.

  “Gussie — Nick — Ernie —” he kept saying. “Papa’s here — you’re safe. Mamma is here — speak to her.” But only moans came from their blue lips. Nicholas was the first to show interest in his rescue. “Tite,” he got out, then could not continue. “Yes — yes —” said Philip. “Tite found you. He was the first to sight the dinghy.”

  Nicholas smiled. “I’m glad you found us,” he said.

  “How hoarse his voice is!” cried Adeline. “Oh, how miserable he looks!”

  “He smiled,” said Philip.

  Young Blanchflower carried Gussie. To him she appeared beautiful and romantic. He thought, as he crossed the doorsill into the small cabin that smelt of paint and putty, “Why — I might be an old-time bridegroom, carrying his stolen bride over the threshold of his castle!” He was a hopelessly romantic young man.

  The little steamship, after this first excursion of her season, turned about and made her way homeward. There were two slippery haircloth sofas in her cabin, and the children wrapped in blankets were laid on these. Ernest caused the greatest anxiety to his parents. In spite of frequent sips of brandy he still continued to shiver. He seemed only half-conscious. Adeline held him in her arms. Philip divided his time between the two older children, chafing their hands and feet, patting their backs reassuringly. On deck, Tite Sharrow squatted in the warm sunshine which now made itself pleasantly felt. A look of extreme peace lay like a veil on his face. For some reason Wilmott avoided him.

  The owner of the dinghy, Peter Blanchflower, descended from the steamer into the little craft. Thankful he was to have it restored to him, not damaged — only dirty. He sloshed through the water, in which floated the debris of the children’s voyage. He found an empty tin and began to bail out the water. Wilmott, leaning over the rail of the steamer, asked:

  “Would you like me to help you?”

  “Not unless you want to come, sir.”

  “Are you sailing back to your boathouse?”

  “Yes. The wind is in the right direction. We should arrive some time before the others, who must come from the pier by road. I’d like to have your company, sir.”

  Climbing with agility over the rail Wilmott too descended into the dinghy. Between them they put the sailing gear in order. Isaac Busby came to look down on their activities. He said to young Blanchflower, “In my opinion you should share equally in the reward with Tite Sharrow.”

  Blanchflower raised his face which the spring sunlight discovered as particularly candid, unassuming, and attractive. With the sail’s rope between his teeth he said, “I have done nothing.”

  Wilmott said, “I agree. The reward should be shared.” Wilmott felt that he would be more comfortable in his own mind if Tite were not given the full reward. To him there was something shady in this rescue, though he could not have told what.

  Blanchflower, however, was obdurate, refusing any part in the reward. Tite stood now, at a little distance, listening. A lithe dark figure, his beautiful torso glistening in the sunshine, he listened as though aloof from all these doings.

  At about the same time the steamer and the dinghy moved in different directions across the gay springtime lake, the steamer returning to Stead, the dinghy, breeze borne, to the boathouse. Philip called out to Wilmott and Blanchflower an invitation to come to dinner. So, having housed the dinghy and conveyed the news of the rescue to Annabelle, the two set out to walk to Jalna. On the way Blanchflower exclaimed to Wilmott, “I cannot think of a better life than that led by you and the Whiteoaks. When I take my holidays I’d like nothing so well as to come and camp by your river, if I might.”

  “You’d be very welcome,” said Wilmott, who found the young man congenial company. He even confided to him that, some years before, he had written a novel but had never yet mustered the courage to send the manuscript to a publisher. Blanchflower, a confirmed reader of fiction, said with fervour that there was nothing he would enjoy so much as reading the novel.

  By the time they reached Jalna they found the family returned, the doctor’s gig in front of the door, and the children tucked in bed. They had been given warm bread and milk, though Nicholas had great difficulty in swallowing because of inflamed tonsils. Little Ernest lay in beatific happiness, simply at being able to hold his mother’s hand and gaze out of swollen eyes into her solicitous face. He did not notice how pale she was or the blue shadows beneath her eyes. His mind was dazed by the joy of lying safe in her bed, with her beside him. Nicholas was on the sofa in the library, with Nero on the rug beside him and Philip close by. Now and again Philip would say, “All right, old man?” and Nicholas would nod, his eyes filling with tears, his hand reaching towards Philip.

  Augusta, having been given a hot bath, a drink of beef broth, was tucked up in bed. She could hear her dove cooing on the gable above. She was content to lie tranquil, unutterably tired, savouring the fact that she and the boys had been rescued from the peril of the lake.

  She dozed, but was waked by the consciousness that someone was standing by the bed, looking down at her. It was young Blanchflower standing there with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand.

  “Your mother was bringing this to you,” he said, “but she looked so weary I asked if I might.” And he added, “I have a young sister about your age.”

  She did not try to hide her weakness from him.

  He put a hand behind her shoulders and, raising her a little, held the coffee cup to her lips. She drank.

  Never again, in all her life, did any drink taste so delicious. Never again did any young man look so beautiful. She would have liked to kiss his hand. Instead she whispered, “I ran away.”

  “So did I — once,” he said, and tucked the quilt about her. “I ran — to Canada.”

  “I’m glad,” Gussie whispered. When next she opened her eyes he was gone, but, in her fancy, his image had effectually banished the image of Guy Lacey.

  XXVI

  Tite and Belle

  A week later Wilmott sat by the writing table in his little sitting room, not writing, but with his head resting on his hand, thinking. He thought of young Blanchflower and how he had read the manuscript of Wilmott’s novel, written ten years before, and been enthusiastic about it. Wilmott valued his opinion. Now Adeline Whiteoak had promised, with all her native enthusiasm, to take the manuscript with her to the very den of a publisher in London. She was pleased to do this for her friend, thoroughly resolute about it.

  At this moment Wilmott was trying to put out of his consciousness the palpable unhappiness of the mulatto, Belle. She had been broadly smiling, almost exuberantly happy. Now her mobile face expressed foreboding and gloom. Her eyes looked bloodshot, as from wakeful nights and weeping. Yet she should have been happier than ever. Here she was, married to the man she obviously, even slavishly adored. Yes, slavishly — and she a free woman — as free as any woman who loved Tite could be. Added to the other causes for her happiness was the fact that the reward offered by Philip Whiteoak had been paid in full to Tite. The half-breed had wanted to keep the cash under the mattress of his bed, and this he had done for the first two nights after possession of it. On the third night, however, Wilmott was woken by an outburst of hysterical crying by Belle. This was no outburst from an undisciplined half-savage creature but a heartbroken cry from a woman’s depth of misery.

  Wilmott had sprung up and, without knocking, strode into the young couple’s room. The room was dark except for a pale moonlight. Tite could be seen clasping Belle to his chest while, with her arms thrown about him, she appeared to be struggling to free herself.

  “Now, what is this scene about?” Wilmott had peremptorily demanded.

  Belle had completely disappeared beneath the bedclothes but her sobs still shook the bed. Tite had risen and stood, a bronze night-shirted
figure, facing Wilmott. They went into the outer room.

  “I’ve stood all of this that I can,” Wilmott said. “It’s got to stop.”

  “Belle is ailing, Boss,” said Tite.

  “Is she expecting a baby?”

  Tite spoke reproachfully. “Boss, surely you do not think I would inflict such an inconvenience on you…. No — Belle is ailing because she is too religious. She is all the while accusing herself of sin. She is tormenting herself over fancied sins.”

  “Have you any inkling as to her fancies?”

  “I have none, Boss.”

  “I will go to her,” said Wilmott. “Perhaps she will confide in me.”

  “I beg of you not to do that, Boss. It will only excite her…. What she needs is a change. My grandmother is very skilful in treating sick folks — with herbs and with good advice. If you think you can get along without us, Boss, I will take Belle to visit my grandmother on the Indian Reserve.”

  Truly the prospect of being without that dusky pair was very pleasing to Wilmott. He had relished the presence of the pretty mulatto in the house. She was so sweet-tempered, so gay, so solicitous for his comfort. Now how depressing the change! Belle had gone off most dreadfully in her looks — still more in spirits. When the pair drove off in a mud-encrusted old buggy which had appeared as from nowhere, Wilmott had watched their departure with a groan of relief.

  Yet how empty, how even desolate seemed the little house! The sound of the river, edging its way among the reeds, was lonely. His mind flew to the days when he and Tite were sufficient to each other for company. Of course he had invitations to dinner, to Jalna, to the rectory, to the Laceys and the Busbys, but still he continued to miss Tite. For one thing he was so accustomed to the physical presence of Tite, his gliding, yet so distinctly masculine movements, his low, gravely modulated voice. Wilmott had taken Tite under his roof when Tite was an almost illiterate stripling. He had found a receptive pupil, so good at his books, so seemingly ambitious, that the two had talked freely of his studying law, of becoming a famous lawyer. But it was just talk. Anyway, what chance was there for a half-breed lawyer in this country? And Tite was not truly ambitious — any more than Wilmott ever had been. The life they lived suited them perfectly. They were perfect companions.