The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche

by de la Roche, Mazo

  “She’s dead,” he announced.

  “You silly little duffer.” Nicholas regarded his junior with scorn. “She’s just acting Sir Richard properly. Now it’s up to you to lower his body ‘with honour down into the deep.’”

  Ernest manfully laid hold of Augusta. He gasped: “Where is the deep?”

  “At the edge of the carpet. Heave ho, lads!”

  Augusta lay with her hands crossed on her breast. Try as Ernest would he could not lower her into the sea. His face flushed with the effort. His mouth trembled. In a sudden burst of temper he shouted, “I can’t do it! I can’t — and I’m damned if I’ll try!”

  Up from the deep rose Augusta. She took him firmly by the hand and led him away, into her own room.

  “Give him a good smack!” Nicholas called after her.

  Inside her bedroom Augusta closed the door.

  “Why will you persist in using bad language?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it because you like bad words?”

  “No.”

  “Who did you hear saying he’d be damned?”

  “Mamma.”

  Augusta looked thoughtful. “Grown-up ladies sometimes use language that is not suitable when they’re excited. But that is no reason for a small boy to use it.”

  “I wasn’t a small boy when I said it. I was a Spaniard.”

  “But you can’t deny,” said Gussie, keeping her face stern, “that you have a leaning towards bad language?”

  “Mr. Madigan said it was better to deny everything.”

  “Ernest.”

  “Yes, Gussie.”

  “Do you consider that Mr. Madigan is a better man than our rector, Mr. Pink?”

  “I’d rather listen to Mr. Madigan’s talk.”

  “Talk is not preaching. Sermons are not talk. They are meant to be listened to solemnly.”

  Nicholas now came pounding on the door. He called out, “It’s stopped raining! I’m off for a walk. Coming?” They heard him rattling down the stairs.

  “Ernest,” said Gussie, “do you promise to try hard not to use bad language?”

  “I promise,” he said fervently.

  She flew down the stairs to join Nicholas. Before Ernest followed her he went into the room once occupied by Lucius Madigan. He opened the smallest drawer in the chest of drawers and peeped in at a little pile of linen handkerchiefs. Each had an M embroidered in the corner. He had been told not to touch these, but he now decided to take one, because his nose was dribbling a little as it had a way of doing. He examined the initial in the corner. If it was turned upside down the M became W, his own initial. He carried the handkerchief into Augusta’s room and dosed it liberally with scent from a bottle Mrs. Lacey had given her on her birthday. He could hear Nicholas calling to him from outdoors. He ran lightly down the stairs. The tiny Philip was toddling through the hall, dragging a small toy horse on wheels. He at once toddled to Ernest.

  “Me go too,” he begged.

  “No. You’re too little. I’m going for a walk.”

  “Me walkee too. Me big boy.”

  “Big boy, my eye!” said Ernest.

  But the little one insisted, clinging to Ernest. “Take Baby too,” he begged, his pink hands surprisingly strong.

  “I’m damned if I will.”

  Realizing the language he had been using, Ernest clapped his hand over his mouth and ran out of the house.

  Little Philip stared after him a moment, then raised his infant voice and shouted, “Lucee! Lucee!” He began laboriously to mount the stairs.

  Lucy Sinclair ran down to gather him into her arms and carry him up to her room. The truth was that she doted on this tiny boy and did everything in her power to spoil him. Yet so sweet was his nature that in spite of all he retained his endearing ways. Of all people in the house, the one he liked best was the piccaninny, Albert. The very sight of Albert was enough to send him into happy laughter. He would rapturously hug Albert, press his flowerlike face to the chubby black face. If Albert cried, he would put on an act of crying also.

  He loved the supreme disorder of Lucy Sinclair’s room where he was allowed to handle all he chose, where he hid under the bed when his nurse came in search of him. This nurse was a bouncing country girl, constantly at odds with the three Negroes. She had other duties besides looking after little Philip, whom she often neglected. Yet it angered her to see how he preferred the blacks to her, and she sometimes gave him a smart slap when he showed this preference. She would do this right in front of the Negroes, who would burst into abuse of her and even strive to take him by force from her.

  This girl, Bessie, was now in search of him. When Philip heard her in the passage, calling his name, he delayed not a moment in scrambling under Lucy Sinclair’s bed. Bessie now appeared in the open doorway.

  She had no manners and blurted out: “Have you seen anything of Philip?”

  “I have not seen him,” answered Lucy pleasantly.

  “I’ll wager,” said the girl, “he’s followed them other young ’uns outdoors. He’s no sense and they’ve no sense. They’ll all be as wet as rats.”

  When she had left, Philip crept from under the bed, ran to Lucy and hugged her. Well he understood that she had lied to protect him. “Lucee — Lucee,” he repeated, hugging her. “Give Baby toffee.” She popped a toffee drop into his mouth and he ran to the window to see Bessie going in search of him.

  Now Jerry came into the room. “Ah’ve been thinkin’ about all that money Massa left,” he said. “Don’t you want me to count it over, Missus, and see if it’s all dere?”

  He made straight for the drawer where the wallet was kept. Lucy cried out, “It’s all there! I counted it yesterday!”

  But she could not stop him. He took out the wallet.

  “Missus,” he cried horrorstruck, “dere’s two hundred dollars gone! Oh, my Lawd — it’s been stole!”

  “Don’t make such an outcry,” she begged. Then added calmly, “I gave it to Tite Sharrow for bringing the letter.”

  Jerry broke into noisy weeping. “Lawd ha’ mussy! What’s gonna happen nex’? We nebber gonna git home!”

  “We shall have plenty of money,” said Lucy.

  “Oh, dat Injun,” shouted Jerry. “Why didn’t I rip him up wid mah knife! Ah’ll do it yet — you just wait!”

  Little Philip toddled to Jerry. “Don’t cry, man,” he said. “Take Baby walkee.” He clapped his hands in anticipation.

  “A very good idea,” said Lucy. “That nurse of his is searching for him and he doesn’t want her to find him — do you, sweetheart?” She fondled the little one.

  “Oh, how Ah hate dat Bessie! She’s mean to dis li’l’ boy. We won’t let her catch us, will we, Baby?”

  Jerry snatched him up and shortly might be seen marching in the direction of the stables with the child on his shoulder, Philip grasping a handful of Jerry’s kinky hair.

  Lucy Sinclair tried in vain to achieve order in her belongings. She felt that at any moment she might be sent for to join her husband. The greater the energy put into the preparations for departure, the greater the confusion. Cindy and Belle constantly washed, ironed, mended, carried bundles upstairs and downstairs, packed and unpacked portmanteaux, increasing day by day the dire confusion. Quarrels in the kitchen became so frequent, so noisy, that they could not be ignored. Cindy was subject to attacks of weeping, for she was becoming convinced that her family in the South had been murdered by the Yankees or that her husband had taken himself a new wife. Jerry was doggedly urging Annabelle to marry him, and she as stubbornly putting off the day. To put it mildly, things were at sixes and sevens at Jalna.

  Like a thunderbolt, word came from Curtis Sinclair that his wife was to join him. He wrote from his father’s plantation. She and her servants would be met at the border by a reliable escort who would have money for travelling expenses. The jubilation that followed brought sheer chaos in its train. Then Adeline took matters in hand. With promptness a
nd exactitude she supervised the packing, set Cindy and Belle to washing and ironing Lucy Sinclair’s intricate and much embroidered lingerie. The basement reeked with the smell of steaming suds, the rub-a-dub of the washboard. Their backs bent over the washtub, their knuckles fairly skinned from rubbing over the corrugated surface of the washboard, they lifted their voices in songs of rejoicing. Lucy Sinclair gave, in spite of Philip’s protests, extravagant presents to all the family. To Adeline a string of pearls. To Augusta a moonstone ring which she insisted the young girl should be allowed to wear at once. To Nicholas a gold watch and chain. To Ernest a gold pen. To baby Philip a pin set with turquoise, to hold his bib in place. She lay awake for hours trying to decide on a present for Captain Whiteoak. Finally she offered him a ring belonging to Curtis Sinclair set with a splendid carbuncle.

  “No, no, my dear Mrs. Sinclair, I cannot accept this. In the first place it is much too grand for me. As you see, I wear only a seal ring with my family’s crest. It belonged to my father. In the second place, your husband will probably demand it of you as soon as you join him.”

  “He would be delighted if he knew I gave it to you.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Then I will tell him it has been lost.”

  But Philip would accept no present. To Adeline he remarked, “Lucy is a little liar. But then, I suspect all women lie to their husbands.”

  When the excitement of leave-taking was at its height, Annabelle suddenly decided that she was willing to marry Jerry at once and would like to travel southward as his wife; would feel safer travelling as a married woman, for she had heard terrifying reports of Yankee soldiers’ attacks on girls. She wanted the ceremony to be performed by the Negro preacher, who still continued to hold meetings regularly. Scarcely a week passed without the addition of a few more Negroes to the group, stragglers who came, it seemed, from nowhere but always were made welcome. Elihu Busby did much to assist them to find a roof to cover them and work for their support. He was generous with his money.

  It was arranged that the marriage should take place after the midweek prayer meeting. Adeline Whiteoak gave the bride a white muslin dress with a wide plaid sash. She wore a straw bonnet covered with red and yellow flowers. Jerry, for the first time in his life, wore a white starched collar so high that it caused him real suffering. Yet he was a proud man wearing it. The Negro women present wore bright-coloured shawls or, failing these, red blankets over their shoulders. This was the first wedding in their midst. They demonstrated their joy in it by vociferously singing the hymns, by stamping of feet and clapping of hands. Later they were given a supper by the Whiteoaks.

  To Philip and Adeline these last days of the long visit from their Southern guests were a trial. It seemed that the day of departure would never arrive. But finally the morning dawned, clear and joyously windy. Philip was to drive Lucy Sinclair, her servants, and luggage to the railway station where they were to be met by a Mr. Tilford, a Carolinian who had lived for many years in New England. He was a man of influence, a man to be depended on to escort Lucy to where she would be met by relatives.

  As the wagonette stood before the door on the gravel sweep, Adeline, with her children about her, waved goodbye from the porch. She had put on the pearl necklace given her by Lucy Sinclair and, though it was not in accord with the everyday dress she wore, it expressed her lively appreciation of the gift. Gussie held aloft her hand that wore the moonstone ring. Nicholas stood upright with the gold watch in the pocket of his jacket, its chain across his chest. Ernest made as though to write on the air a message with the gold pen. Baby Philip threw kisses which caused Lucy to shed tears.

  “Goodbye!”

  “Goodbye!”

  The loving words echoed among the falling leaves.

  When the Whiteoaks had been newly settled at Jalna, Philip’s sister in Devon had sent out to them a married couple named Coveyduck, as gardener and cook. This comfortable couple had been the domestic mainstay of the house for years, but they were persuaded to go to Manitoba, where relations of theirs were, as they wrote, making more money than could be made in Ontario, leading in every way a better life. Now suddenly, on the very day of Lucy Sinclair’s departure, they appeared at Jalna and asked if they might be given their old situations. Such a felicitous surprise it was that Adeline hugged Mrs. Coveyduck to her in rapture, and slapped Coveyduck on the back. It was a summerlike day. Adeline kissed each of her children and carried little Philip to the basement kitchen. Mrs. Coveyduck had not before seen him. “Oh, what a little luv!” she exclaimed. She held out her arms to him. “Will ’ee come to me, luv?”

  Philip would go to anyone regardless of colour or unfamiliarity. At once he took possession of Mrs. Coveyduck. She and her husband were thankful to be again at Jalna. They had had quite enough of the rigours of Western life. They had lost their fresh complexions, looked thinner and older. But they were full of energy and scarcely was their tin trunk unpacked when they set to work to restore order. Time and again Mrs. Coveyduck exclaimed that never, never had she seen a kitchen and pantries so dirty. Indeed, she would not be satisfied till she had, with Bessie’s help, housecleaned from attic to basement. Adeline could scarcely bear to wait for Philip’s return that she might tell him the crowning event of that wonderful day — like a conjurer produce the Coveyducks. All day she went about the house singing, sometimes on the tune, more frequently off it.

  By early evening Adeline began to feel anxious lest Philip might have had an accident. Why was he so late in returning? The children waited by the gate to welcome him. The days were growing shorter. Soon it was dark. An owl began to hoot. A chilly wind whistled among the dying leaves.

  Adeline was about to go to the gate to discover why the children lingered so long. Really they deserved to be punished. That little Ernest would be catching one of his colds.

  Then suddenly she heard them running and, right on their heels, the sound of horses’ hooves. Nicholas was first to appear. He was almost beside himself with excitement.

  “They’re coming!” he shouted.

  “Your father?”

  “All of them!” he shouted. “They’re back!”

  Now, out of the twilight, appeared horses and wagonette. It was crowded as when it had set out that morning. Jerry jumped out and stood at the horses’ heads. They were restive, anxious for their evening meal. Philip alighted.

  “What has happened?” cried Adeline.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing! Then why are you back?”

  “We were not met. The stationmaster held the train while I went through every carriage enquiring. There was another train in six hours. We had a good meal at the hotel. You can imagine Mrs. Sinclair’s disappointment. We met the second train. No better luck. So I had to bring them back. I don’t know what the devil to think.” He stared ruefully into Adeline’s distraught face.

  During this recital, Jerry stood, an ebony statue, at the horses’ heads. Cindy and Belle, worn out by emotion, slumped inside their shawls. The piccaninny slept. It was Lucy Sinclair who caught and held Adeline’s fascinated gaze. Lucy, who was inclined to snuggle luxuriously, indolently, among cushions, now sat bolt upright. The cushions had been provided, but she, a stark figure of tragedy, was as cut from stone. When Philip handed her out of the wagonette she moved rigidly past him, mounted the steps on to the porch and, out of pale set lips, said to Adeline:

  “I shall never see Mr. Sinclair again. He is dead, I’m convinced of that.”

  Adeline tried to embrace her but her arms hung helpless at her side. Her face was the picture of consternation. The vision that possessed her mind was the Coveyducks and the blacks contending for supremacy in the basement. Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. When Cindy and Belle bundled themselves out of the wagonette she could only say to them:

  “Put your mistress to bed. Carry a tray to her.”

  Lucy Sinclair and her women disappeared into the house. The statue that was Jerry now spoke.

 
“That thar Annabelle is mah bride,” he said, “an’ I ain’t nebber been to bed wid her.”

  With a flourish of his hand, Philip ordered Jerry — “Get into that wagonette and drive to the stables. Tell the groom to feed and bed down the horses.”

  The children, open-mouthed, were drinking in all this. Now Ernest spoke.

  “Bed, my eye,” he said. But whether he referred to Belle and Jerry or to the horses, nobody knew. In fact the remark passed unnoticed.

  But what Nicholas said did not.

  With a look of deep concern he asked his mother, “Now that she’s back, must we return our presents?”

  That artless question loosed the spell that held Adeline speechless. “Miserable boy!” she cried. “Worthless, ungrateful rascal! Thinking of nobody but yourself!”

  “I think of all of us who got presents,” Nicholas answered boldly.

  She ran down the steps towards him but he darted out of reach. “Philip,” she cried, “catch him! Give him a sound beating.”

  “It was only a natural question,” said Philip. “But, as things have turned out, I think I should offer to return the presents. Mrs. Sinclair will need all her resources.”

  Adeline fairly tore the string of pearls from round her neck and threw them at him. “Take them — take them! Leave me with nothing to repay me for these long months of patient self-sacrifice — nothing but an ache in me back and a pain in me stomach!” As always in moments of emotional stress, she assumed an Irish accent.

  Philip deftly caught the pearls.

  “Faith,” she cried, “if anyone has suffered in this visitation, ’tis meself!”

  “For God’s sake, behave like a lady — if you can!” Philip implored.

  “That’s right,” she hissed, “insult me in front of my poor little children!” Tears trickled down her pale cheeks.

  Nicholas spoke up. “Papa, must I return the watch?”

  “It’s the decent thing to do.”

  His eyes filled with tears, the boy took the watch from his pocket and surrendered it to his father. Augusta slowly drew the moonstone ring from her slender white finger and, with dignified submission, laid it on Philip’s palm. Ernest had disappeared into the shrubbery but now returned.