What seclusion was here! Half-breed and mulatto sat clasped in each other’s arms. Remote continents lay behind them.
“Tite, mah darlin’,” sighed Annabelle, “ain’t it wonnerful how de Lawd has brought us together? All the rest of mah days, Ah’ll praise Him for that.”
“Me too,” said Tite, stroking her thigh. “I’ll praise Him.”
Trying to bring him to the point of proposing marriage, Annabelle said, “One of these days my massa will be sayin’ we can go back to the South. What’s to become of me then?” Her humid eyes sought to probe the mystery of his mind.
Tite answered, “I am familiar with philosophy and what it says to me is — enjoy what comes your way and leave all the rest in the hands of the gods.”
“But, Tite, there’s only one God.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” said the half-breed. “Mr. Wilmott talks of the gods, and he should know.”
Annabelle drew a little away from him, shocked by the strangeness of this remark. But he was tired of waiting for her surrender. Roughly he clasped her to him.
“No — no!” She was suddenly in panic, yet she had no power against him.
His white teeth showed between his thin lips. He reared himself like a cobra prepared to strike.
But her cry had reached other ears. They were not the only ones who knew of this densely wooded retreat. Curtis Sinclair had reached it by the wayward path that led to it from Jalna. Here he was to have consulted secretly with one of his agents.
It would have been difficult for an onlooker to have decided which of the two men was the more infuriated by the encounter. Both were in a high state of tension. On Curtis Sinclair’s part, the frustration of all his plans, on Titus Sharrow’s sensuality.
He was the first to speak and shouted, “Leave us alone, mister! We don’t want interference from you.” He was so incensed in his frustration he scarcely knew what he was saying. Such an outburst was foreign to his nature.
Curtis Sinclair, on the other hand, was not accustomed to bridling his emotions, though in the past months he had had considerable practice in self-restraint. Now he let his outraged feelings as owner and protector of the mulatto have full play. Leaning on his stick he limped into the leafy privacy of the retreat and stood scowling down at the pair — the girl almost stunned by shock.
“How dare you!” he stormed, and directed a blow at Tite with his stick. The blow struck him on his aquiline nose. Blood trickled from it. Annabelle raised her voice in a shrill scream.
“Go back to your quarters,” Curtis Sinclair stormed at her. “You deserve to be beaten. Don’t let me see your face again!”
The girl scuttled out of sight into the thicket, while her master stood planted in possession of the place of assignation. Tite plucked a large leaf from the wild grapevine and wiped the blood from his mouth and chin.
“You’ll be sorry for this, mister,” he said composedly. “I could strike you back but I wouldn’t fight a cripple.”
“Be off,” Sinclair said furiously. “I will tell your master of this, you may be certain.”
Tite spoke with dignity. “No man is my master. My forefathers were the owners of this country. Us Indians call nobody our betters.”
“Miserable loafer!” said Curtis Sinclair. “Make yourself scarce before I strike you again.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” said Tite. “Nor has Belle any reason to be afraid of you. She’s no slave but a free woman. Some day the Indians of Canada and the Negroes of your country will take possession and you white folks will be the slaves.”
“I don’t want this woman as a slave.” Curtis Sinclair spoke with vehemence. “She may go where she chooses. Shift for herself.”
He turned from the half-breed to meet two men who were slowly approaching along the path. Tite drifted away and was soon hidden in the density of the woods. He did not linger there but might have been seen moving in his swift gliding walk along the road to the homestead of Elihu Busby.
The serenity of the golden August weather was shattered by the return of Amelia to her father’s house. He was almost overwhelmed by the startling and outrageous events which pressed in on him. Not an hour had passed since his deserted daughter had appeared at his door, when Titus Sharrow came, with a still bleeding nose, to tell of the strangers in the woods.
Elihu Busby was divided between rage at the treatment his daughter had had from Madigan and furious anger at Philip Whiteoak for giving hospitality to the Southerners. He had an interview with Titus Sharrow, whom he never had liked or trusted but whose story he was willing to believe, since it involved Curtis Sinclair. But all else paled beside the bitter fact of Madigan’s desertion of Amelia. He tied his horse to the hitching post in front of Jalna which was topped by the iron head of a horse. He found Philip in the orchard. After a genial greeting to him, Philip said, “There’s a fine crop of apples coming on here. I hope yours are doing as well.”
“I grow only grain,” said Busby. “Fruit doesn’t pay.” Then he burst out with, “There’s a pretty kettle of fish in my house. If I could lay my hands on that tutor of yours I’d horsewhip him.”
“Madigan?” exclaimed Philip, his blue eyes wide.
“Who else? He married my daughter and deserted her after three days — the scallywag.”
“Where is he?”
“I wish I knew. Amelia has come home — a deserted wife.”
“Well,” said Philip, “I’ve never actually looked on him as a reliable man.”
Elihu Busby gave him an infuriated look. “He’s a scoundrel. And it was an unfortunate thing for my family when you brought him here.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Philip.
“Find out where he is, if you can. And another thing — watch that man Sinclair. He’s up to no good. It seems to me, Captain Whiteoak, that you are collecting some queer characters at Jalna. Certainly it does not raise you in the esteem of the neighbourhood.”
“I need no one’s advice on that score,” said Philip.
Not long after this he sought out Adeline where she was counting silver teaspoons. She greeted him with:
“There are three of the apostle spoons missing.”
“There’s more missing than spoons,” he said.
“What then?”
“Madigan.”
“What in heaven do you mean?”
“He’s deserted his wife. Her father has just been here to inform me.”
“Where is she?”
“At home with her luggage. You may imagine the state Elihu Busby is in.”
“Oh, the poor man!” cried Adeline.
“Who? Busby?”
“No indeed. Lucius. He never wanted to marry. Ah, he should have remained with us.”
“But,” Philip said accusingly, “you urged him to marry Amelia. You can’t deny it.”
Adeline was wholehearted in admitting that she had been mistaken. “But I thought it was for his good,” she said. “I could not guess how it would turn out.”
“Neither did you take into consideration that the young ones will have no one to teach them.”
“I will teach them,” she declared. “And you will help.”
Philip groaned. “I have not a great opinion of Madigan as a teacher,” he said, “but he was better than I should be.”
At this moment Nicholas came running into the room, a letter in his hand. “It’s for you, Mamma,” he said, his breath coming quick. “It’s from Mr. Madigan. I guess he’s telling all the news of his honeymoon. Shall I bring your paperknife?”
“Yes,” said Adeline, “then make yourself scarce. I must have peace for perusing this letter.”
“Should you like to have me read it to you?” The boy’s face was bright with curiosity. “Mr. Madigan’s handwriting is peculiar but I can read it with no trouble.”
“And so can I,” said Ernest, who had followed his brother into the room.
Adeline opened the letter but had difficulty in decipherin
g the erratic script. Before she was aware of it Nicholas was looking over her shoulder. He read aloud:
Dear Mrs. Whiteoak,
Pray don’t think too badly of me but I find I cannot face the life that lies before me. I am on my way back to Ireland, probably on a cattle boat. I shall always be grateful for your kindness to me. Please give my affectionate regards to my dear pupils. I should like to leave my books to them.
Yours respectfully,
Lucius Madigan
When Nicholas had finished reading the letter Adeline gave him a smart slap. “Impudent boy,” she said. “How dare you read my private letter!”
“It’s not very private,” said he. “Everyone knows Mr. Madigan disappeared and the only message he has sent was to us children.”
“Philip,” cried Adeline, “will you stand by and do nothing about the insolence of this rogue?”
Philip took a step towards Nicholas but the boy darted out of the room. “Come along,” he called to Ernest. “Let’s divide up the books!”
“Books, my eye,” said Ernest. “I want his compass and his indelible pencil.”
But when they arrived in Madigan’s room Augusta was already there, a history of the sport of cock-fighting in her hand. “I have never seen this before,” she said doubtfully. “Do you think it is suitable for us?”
“I had better be the judge of that.” Nicholas took the book from her hand. “But how did you hear the news?”
“Everyone knows it,” she said. “Even the blacks. Also I was standing in the passage when you read the letter. So I came straight up.”
“Here is the compass,” said Ernest triumphantly. “Now I shall know whether I am going north or south. I’ve always wondered. Gussie, will you take the cushion?”
The news of Madigan’s desertion of Amelia had indeed spread like wildfire. However, there were five people at Jalna for whom it had little interest. These were the Sinclairs and their servants. Their thoughts were concentrated on what, to them, was a far more important event. This was the departure of Curtis Sinclair on the following day.
He and his wife were together in their bedroom, she in a state of tremulous excitement that she sought unsuccessfully to conceal. Her hands were shaking, her sensitive lips trembling.
“For heaven’s sake,” he said, “try to control yourself. It’s not going to be pleasant for me to leave you in such a state.”
“But I am so afraid for you. You are going into danger.”
“I’m going into action — what I’ve been waiting for this long while.” His sudden sweet smile lit his face. “Be happy for me, my dear. Remember the five thousand Confederate soldiers we’re going to free at Camp Douglas. Others will join us. The accursed Yankees will get their fill of us. They can’t hold us in the Union.”
“If only we can secede — save our country.”
“We will. Luck is with us. Right is with us.” Then he added testily, “I wish you’d let me make my preparations in peace. It confuses me to have you buzzing about — always on the point of tears.”
“I’ll try,” she said humbly.
The servant Jerry entered, carrying some freshly laundered shirts. “Ah’ve brought an extra pair of boots for you, massa,” he said, “along with the shirts.” He showed them, well polished.
“I don’t think it’s well to carry so much. One pair should be enough.”
“These is your mos’ comfortable ones, massa. Let me try them on you.”
Curtis Sinclair seated himself and the Negro knelt at his feet, trying the effect of the boots on him. “Ah wish,” said Jerry, “Ah might go with you, massa. Yo’ ain’t used to dressin’ yo’self. Yo’ need me to look after yo’.”
“There will be something more important for you to do,” said Curtis Sinclair. “I hope that before long your mistress will be able to join me. You will be needed to travel with her. Unless you want to remain in this country.”
“De Lawd forbid.” Jerry kneeling rolled his eyes ceiling ward. “Ah wants to go back to our plantation. So does Cindy. She wants to show her new baby to its pa. She ain’t nebber heard news of him. He may be livin’ and he may be dead.”
“Well, we shall soon know everything,” said his master. “In the meantime hold yourself in readiness to take charge when I send for you.”
When the Negro had gone, Curtis Sinclair walked up and down the room in some agitation, while his wife kept her troubled eyes on him, trying to discover all that was in his mysterious mind. The truth was that he was so occupied by the campaign in hand that he had little thought for domestic problems. At last he went to a drawer and, taking out an envelope containing bank notes, put some of them into her hand. He said:
“This money is for your expenses when I send for you. I would to God it were more.”
Lucy stared at it almost in consternation. She was so unused to any responsibility. “Wh-what shall I do with it now?” she stammered.
He snatched it in some irritation from her, put it in a leather wallet and returned it to the drawer. “Leave it there,” he said, “’till the time comes, then give it into Jerry’s keeping. He’s to be trusted. As for those two women, I don’t care a tinker’s curse whether they return with us or remain in Canada. Cindy has complicated travelling by producing a baby. I doubt whether her husband begot it. Annabelle is probably with child by that rascally half-breed.”
“No, no, I won’t believe that,” she cried. “Belle is a religious girl. She’s cried her eyes out over your anger. I mean when you caught them spooning by the river.”
“I gave him a bloody nose,” said Curtis Sinclair with satisfaction.
“These Indians are so revengeful. I am really afraid of what he may do.”
“He can do nothing to harm me.”
A shadow of suspense brooded over the house all that day. The following morning the Southerner and his host set out, mounted on spirited horses which seemed as eager to be gone as Curtis Sinclair. “I cannot attempt to thank you and Captain Whiteoak for what you have done for me and mine,” he had said to Adeline. “I never shall be able to repay you, but I hope that, in happier times, you will come to visit us in the South. We have the name of being a hospitable people, but nothing could surpass the hospitality of Jalna.”
“We have enjoyed every moment of your visit,” declared Adeline.
The two wives stood together in the porch watching the departure. Their arms were about each other and they smiled as they waved a goodbye. Yet a strange foreboding enveloped them. It seemed to rise out of the very earth which suddenly had taken the aspect of autumnal resignation. Grass and trees looked less green. A few leaves were fallen and a gusty wind shook the branches, as though eager to tear off the fragile armour of summer and expose their limbs to the onslaught of the equinox.
When the horsemen were halfway to the gate a figure in a blue cotton dress darted from between the trees and on to the drive. It was Annabelle. She fairly flung herself at her master’s stirrup and, clasping his spurred boot in her hands, raised her streaming eyes to his face.
“Forgive me — forgive me, massa,” she sobbed. “Ah didn’t mean no harm. Ah don’ wanna be left behind when you all go home!”
Philip Whiteoak laid a soothing hand on the neck of Curtis Sinclair’s restive horse and looked down with distaste into the distorted face of the girl.
“I won’t have any half-breed babies about,” Sinclair said harshly.
“No — no — dere won’t be none,” Annabelle sobbed, desperately clinging to his stirrup. He asked:
“Where is that fellow?”
“Ah don’ know. He’s gone away.”
“See him once more and you’ll be left behind!”
“Is yo’ goin’ to sell me, massa?” she wailed.
“I cannot sell you in Canada and no one would want you as a present.” He urged his horse forward. The pair trotted to the gate, held open by Jerry.
“Good luck, massa!” he called out. He stood watching them disappear down the roa
d.
It was nightfall when Philip returned. Adeline drew him into their bedroom and closed the door.
“What news?” she demanded.
While she spoke excitedly, Philip answered with deliberation. “Sinclair was met,” he said, “by confederates. He is full of hope but, thinking it over, it seems to me a risky business. He will cross the border into the States tonight. Then his campaign begins. How is Lucy?”
“She’s bearing up well,” said Adeline, “but she’s very wrought up. Upon my word, I shall be thankful when we settle down into our own life once more.”
He was surprised. “I thought you enjoyed the Sinclairs’ visit.”
“So I have, but I’m a little tired of Lucy’s melancholy. She’s not always congenial. Also I’m tired of those blacks who are here, there and everywhere.”
Philip told her of the encounter with Annabelle on the driveway. “Why do women insist on being miserable?” he exclaimed. “There’s that negress. There’s Lucy Sinclair. There’s Amelia Busby. All determined to be miserable. It’s extraordinary.”
“Not in the least,” said Adeline. “In every instance it’s the men who make them miserable. As for me, I’m at my wits’ end to keep any sort of order now that Lucius Madigan is gone. God knows he was not much of a disciplinarian but better than none.”
“You have yourself to blame for Madigan’s marriage.”
“I had thought it would be easy to find a tutor to replace him but it seems impossible. Just look at that trio. They are completely out of hand.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 44
