“What a sweet box!” she said.
Well, she was his loveliest granddaughter and she was going far away. He put the snuffbox in her hand.
“Take it,” he said, “and when an Indian chief offers you the pipe of peace you can give him a pinch of snuff in exchange.”
No one could have been more charming and self-forgetful than Adeline during the rest of the visit. But there was tension between her and Bridget. They were quite ready to part when the last morning came. The wagonette waited at the door for Adeline’s trunks, for she went nowhere without a quantity of luggage. She stood in the hall, tall and slender, in a dark green riding habit, her hair plaited neatly beneath the small hat from which a dark feather drooped against the creamy whiteness of her cheek. Her red lips were parted in a blandishing smile.
“Ah, the beautiful visit I’ve had!” she cried, embracing Bridget. “Ah, thank you, dear cousin, for all you’ve done! When Philip and I are settled in our new home you and Corry must come and spend a year with us, for indeed ’t would take a year to repay you for all you’ve done for us!”
Bridget was shorter than Adeline. Her eyes could barely look over the top of Adeline’s shoulder as they embraced. Her eyes, protruding a little because of the fervent embrace she was receiving, stared at the paneling on which a vacant space by degrees claimed her attention. Her eyes widened still more as her brain took in the fact that the childish portrait of Adeline was missing from the wall. It seemed too bad to be true! With a cry that was almost a scream, Bridget struggled in that strong embrace. Adeline held her close. In fact, feeling the tempest that was surging through Bridget, Adeline held her closer.
“Let me go,” screamed Bridget in a fury. “Let me go!”
The men stared at the two in consternation. With Bridget’s great crinoline vibrating about them, their bosoms pressed together, their arms clutching each other, they were a troubling sight.
“What in God’s name is the matter?” demanded Renny Court.
“He has given her the picture!” cried Bridget.
“What picture?”
“The portrait of Adeline! Corry has given it to her. It’s gone!”
Everyone now looked at the wall. Corrigan turned pale. “I have done no such thing,” he declared. “If it’s gone, she took it.”
Adeline was driven to release Bridget, who now faced her in fierce accusation.
“You have taken it,” she said. “It is in one of your boxes. Peter!” she called out to a manservant. “Unload the boxes from the wagonette.”
“Let them be,” said Adeline. She turned calmly on her cousins. “I did not take the picture,” she said, “but I only took what was my own, so let’s have no more fuss about it.”
Peter stood, holding a trunk in his arms, not knowing whether to put it down or put it up. His sandy side-whiskers bristled in excitement.
“Now, look here,” said Philip, “I’m willing to buy the picture if Adeline wants it so badly.”
“And I’m willing to sell,” said Corrigan.
“But I am not!” cried the wife. “I demand to have those boxes unpacked and the picture back on the wall!” She ran down the steps and took one end of the trunk which Peter was still holding, and tugged at the strap that bound it.
Adeline flew after her. They struggled over the trunk. Adeline was the stronger but Bridget was in an abandon of rage. She stretched out her hand and, taking hold of one of Adeline’s smooth plaits, pulled it loose.
“Now, now, don’t do that!” exclaimed Philip, in his turn running down the steps. “I won’t have it.” Never in his life had he been involved in such a scene as this. He caught Bridget’s wrist and held it a while, with the other hand, he tried to make Adeline let go of the trunk.
Renny Court looked on, laughing.
“Kindly restrain your wife,” said Philip to Corrigan.
“Don’t you lay a finger on me, Corry Court!” cried Bridget. He moved warily between her and Adeline.
Philip spoke sternly to Adeline. “We’ll have no more of this. Tell me which box the picture is in.”
With a trembling finger she pointed to the box which Peter held.
“Put it down,” said Philip to the man. He did so. Philip opened it and there on the top lay the picture! He took it out and handed it to Corrigan. The child face looked out of the frame in innocent surprise. Corrigan looked from it to Adeline and back again. His expression was one of profound gloom.
Renny Court directed a piercing glance into the trunk.
“Did you ever see such extravagance!” he exclaimed. “Is it any wonder she left me bankrupt? Look at the gold toilet articles — the sable cloak! And there is my father-in-law’s snuffbox! By the Lord Harry, she’s got that too!”
“He gave it her,” said Philip tersely. With a set face he put down the lid of the trunk and buckled the strap. He turned to Adeline who stood like a statue looking on, one hand grasping her riding crop.
“Come,” he said. “Make your good-byes. You did wrong to take the picture but I must say that I think Mrs. Court has treated you very badly.”
“Good-bye, Corry,” said Adeline, tears running out of her eyes, “and God comfort you in your marriage, for your wife is a vixen — if ever there was one!” With a graceful movement she turned to her horse. Philip lifted her to her saddle. Her father sprang to his. Embarrassed good-byes were exchanged. Then Adeline turned for a last look at Bridget.
“Good-bye, Biddy Court!” she called out. “And may you live to be sorry for the way you’ve used me! Bad luck to you, Biddy! May the north wind blow you south, and the east wind blow you west till you come at last to the place where you belong!” She gave a flourish of her crop and galloped off, one long auburn plait flying over her shoulder.
Old Peter, rattling behind them with the luggage, exclaimed: —
“Ah, ’t was a quare dirty trick to do to her, and she as innocent as she was on the day the pictur’ was painted!”
That was not the last of their visits. They went to the house of Adeline’s married brother. They stayed with the old Marquis himself but nothing they saw or did weakened their desire for the New World. There was in them both an adventurous pioneer spirit that laughed at discouragement, that reached out toward a freer life.
The day came when all preparations were complete for their sailings westward.
Philip had taken passage on a sailing vessel because he believed it would be quicker and cleaner than the steamship. Adeline’s parents and little Timothy were to come to the port to see them off.
Patsy O’Flynn, the coachman, had made up his mind to accompany Adeline to Canada. He was unmarried. He had spent his life in one small spot. Now he was out for adventure. Also something chivalrous in him urged him to add another protector to her train, though he scarcely looked on her two young brothers as protectors. But he was convinced that they were going to an uncivilized country where wild animals and Indians prowled close to every settlement.
Patsy made an extraordinary figure as he stood waiting on the dock. Though the morning was mild and fair he wore a heavy topcoat for he thought that was the best way to carry it. Other bundles, from a huge one sewn up in canvas to a small one tied in a red handkerchief, were mounded upon his shoulders. His small humourous face peered out with a pleased and knowing expression, as though he alone, of all the passengers, knew just what difficulties lay ahead and how to deal with them.
In one hand he carried a heavy blackthorn stick, polished and formidable-looking. From the other hung the parrot’s cage, in which the bright-coloured occupant disported himself from perch to perch, or hung head downward from the ceiling and flapped his wings in a transport of excitement. Boney had not forgotten the voyage from India. The sight of the sea and the ship exhilarated him almost beyond bearing. At times he poured forth a stream of Hindu. At others he uttered a succession of piercing cries. Never was he still. He attracted a crowd of ragged, dirty children who screamed when he screamed, and jumped up and down in t
heir excitement. When these pressed too close, Patsy would flourish his blackthorn at them and drive them off, shouting at them in Gaelic.
The ayah had taken a fancy to Patsy. To her he seemed a macabre being but somehow benevolent. She stood close beside him, her draperies blowing gracefully in the breeze, her infant charge in her arms. The stay in Ireland had done little Augusta good. Her cheeks had filled out and she was less pale. Her hair had grown long enough to make a silky black curl on her forehead, gazing in wonder at the scene, but when her eyes rested on Patsy she would show her four milk-white teeth in a smile of delight. She had had the milk from one goat during her stay in Ireland and the goat had been given to her to take to Canada, so that no change of milk might upset her digestion. The goat, held on a halter by a shock-headed boy, stood immobile, regarding with equanimity, even with cynicism, what was going on. It had been named Maggie and Lady Honoria had tied a small bell to its neck, and the vicissitudes of the voyage were accented by its silvery tinkle.
Augusta’s young uncles had been carefully outfitted for the new life by their mother. But to Philip’s mind their clothes looked too picturesque, their hair too long, their hands too white. Conway especially — he was the one who reminded Philip of the Knave of Diamonds — looked too exquisite. They were here, there, and everywhere — giving facetious orders to the sailors who were carrying aboard the crates of hens, geese, and ducks, prodding forward the pigs, dragging the sheep and the cows.
A group of poor emigrants were guarding their luggage, clinging tearfully to those last moments with their kinsfolk who had come to see them off. A priest was among them, doing his best to keep up their spirits, sweeping the heavens with his large grey eyes and prophesying a fair voyage. He was there to put two young nieces aboard who were going out to a brother, and he could not look at them without his eyes running over.
Adeline wore a long green cloak with wide sleeves edged by fur. She stood facing the sea, drinking in the joyful breeze that struck the white sails of the ship as a dancer might strike a tambourine. The shimmering sea lay before her, and beyond — that young continent where she and Philip were to make their home. She wished they two were going on the ship alone. She drew away from the weeping people about her and, slipping her hand into Philip’s, pressed his fingers. He looked into her eyes.
“Sure you haven’t left anything behind?” he asked.
“Nothing. Not even my heart.”
“Well, that’s sensible of you. For, if you had, I should have been forced to go back for it.”
The priest came up to her.
“Pardon me, my lady,” he said. He had heard Adeline’s mother so addressed and thought it proper to use the title to her.
“Yes?” she answered, not ill-pleased.
“I am going to ask you a favour,” he said. “I have two young nieces sailing on the ship, and a terrible long and risky voyage it is for thim. Would you be so kind as to give thim a word of encouragement if they are ill or in trouble? If I could carry such a message to their poor mother, sure ’t would dry the sorrowing eyes of her! D’ye think you could?”
“Indeed I will,” said Adeline. “And, if you will give me your address, I’ll write and tell you about the voyage and how your nieces fare.”
The priest wrote his address on a somewhat crumpled bit of paper and, full of gratitude, returned to the admonishing of the two rosy-cheeked, black-haired girls whose young bosoms seemed swelling with exuberance.
The confusion was apparently hopeless. The cries of animals and fowls, the shoutings, bangings, and thumpings as the sailors carried the luggage aboard, the orders of their officers which no one seemed to obey, the wailing and circling of sea gulls, the screams of excited urchins, the flutterings and flappings of the great sails of the ship, were woven into a fantastic tapestry of farewell which would hang forever on the walls of memory.
The moment came. Adeline had dreaded it but now that it had arrived she was almost past feeling. She wished her mother’s face was not wet with tears. It was a pity to remember her that way. “Oh, Mother dear, I’ll be back! So shall we all! I’ll take good care of the boys. Good-bye! Good-bye, Father! Be sure to write. Good-bye … Good-bye …” She was enfolded in their embraces. Her body pressed against the body that had carried her before birth, against the body that had made that birth possible. She felt as though she were being physically torn; then Philip put his arm about her and led her weeping to the ship.
III
THE FIRST VOYAGE
THE BARK ALANNA had formerly been an East Indiaman. She was bound for Quebec and would return laden with white pine. The Captain was a thick-set Yorkshireman, named Bradley; the first officer a tall lean Scot, with an enormous mouth, named Grigg. There were few cabin passengers and the Whiteoaks held themselves a little aloof, for the voyage would be long and there was the possibility of being thrown to intimately into uncongenial company. Indeed Philip and Adeline had been so surrounded by relatives since their arrival from India that they longed to be alone together. They made themselves as comfortable as possible in the cramped space of their cabin. Philip arranged their possessions in the most shipshape order. Adeline, wrapped in rugs, settled herself in a sheltered corner to read The History of Pendennis. Augusta and her ayah were established near by, the tiny girl clasping her first doll, an elegantly dressed wax creature, extremely corseted and wearing a dress and bonnet of plaid taffeta. Conway and Sholto were exploring the ship and Patsy and the goat making themselves as comfortable as they could in their far-from-comfortable quarters. Ireland lay, a hazy blue hump, on the pale horizon. There was a head wind and the ship made but slow progress, though her great sails strained at the masts and a living soul seemed demonstrating its will to move westward. The gulls followed the ship a long way out from Ireland. They lingered with her, as though waiting for messages to carry home.
Besides the Whiteoaks’ party there were fewer than a dozen passengers in the Cabin Class. Of these they became friendly with only five. There were two Irish gentlemen, educated well but with a rich brogue, named D’Arcy and Brent. They were travelling for pleasure and were to make an extensive tour of the United States. There was a Mrs. Cameron from Montreal who had with her a delicate daughter of fifteen. The two had journeyed all the way to China to join the child’s father who had previously been sent there to take an important post concerned with the trade between the two countries. But, when they had arrived, they had found that a plague of cholera had carried him off. Now they were retracing the long weary way to Montreal. Mrs. Cameron and little Mary would sit huddled together wrapped in one shawl, gazing into the distant horizon, as though in their hearts they held no hope that their journeyings would ever end but felt that they would go on from ship to ship, from sea to sea, till the Day of Judgment. The young girl had indeed acquired a strange seaborn look, as Adeline described it. Her cloak and hat were faded to the greyness of winter waves; her hair hung like lank yellowish seaweed about her shoulders; her wide-open light eyes had an unseeing look; her face and hands were deeply tanned. Only her mouth had colour and between her lips, which were always parted, her small pearl-like teeth showed. Her mother had degenerated, by sorrow and exhaustion, into little more than an element for the protection of Mary.
“Why doesn’t she do something to make the child happy, instead of brooding over her like a distracted hen!” exclaimed Adeline, on the second day out. “Really, Philip, I am excessively annoyed at that woman! I shall tell my brothers to make friends with Mary. It’s unnatural for a young girl to look like that!”
She did so. However days passed before the boys were able to persuade Mary to leave her mother’s side. Mrs. Cameron indeed was unwilling to let her child out of her sight. She looked worried rather than pleased when finally Mary went for a promenade along the sloping deck, supported on either side by Conway and Sholto. They made an extraordinary trio, the boys in their elegant new clothes, the girl travel-stained; the boys bright-eyed, alert to everything that passed about the
m, the girl seeming in a kind of dream; the boys continually chaffing each other, she looked from one face to the other, scarcely seeming to take in what they said.
The remaining passenger with whom the Whiteoaks became friendly was an Englishman, a Mr. Wilmott who, like themselves, was going out to settle in Canada. He was a tall thin man with sharp but well-cut features and short brown whiskers. He was reserved concerning himself but a fluent talker when politics were under discussion. He and the two Irishmen soon provided entertainment for the rest, for they argued without open rancor. Mr. Wilmott was ironic, with flashes of wit, the Irishmen humourous and ever ready with the most violent exaggerations. Philip had been so long out of England that he felt unequal to political discussion. Also, in any such argument concerning their two countries, he would have had Adeline as his opponent, and the thought of this was distasteful to him.
Adeline’s mind was occupied by her desire to bring Mr. Wilmott and Mrs. Cameron together. Here they were, two lonely people (Mr. Wilmott certainly wore a sombre look at times) who would do well to link their lives together. And what a protector, what a father he would make for little Mary! She felt that Mrs. Cameron was melancholy, rather than heartbroken, over the loss of her husband. She was wrapped up in her child. How could a woman be mother before mate, Adeline wondered, as her eyes drank in Philip’s strength and beauty. Not she — not she! Her man would always come first. She despised the too maternal woman.
So a new world was created on board the Alanna, very different from the world on board the ship that had brought them from India. This was a much smaller, closer world, more cut off from the old life. The last voyage had been a voyage homeward. This was one into what was new and unknown. The last had been a linking up; this was a cutting off. Adeline was conscious of an odd detachment, an exhilaration, as though she were adventuring into a spiritual as well as a material distance.
For a week they pressed forward in fair weather. Then the head wind increased in strength and the ship struggled on against it and against the rising green waves that crashed on her bow, enveloping her in spray. It was no longer possible to stay on deck. They must spend the long hours below where there was not only the close air but the smells and noises from the steerage to be endured. The ayah became seasick and Adeline had the care of the baby on her hands. Mrs. Cameron and Mary adored little Augusta and took a large share of her care. But at night she was restless and Adeline and Philip did not get their proper sleep.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 5
