“I brought down three,” he announced.
Ernest ordinarily would have imitated his brother but instead he walked with dignity up the path toward the church. His Sunday shoes squeaked a little, which pleased him.
A slender young man in naval uniform strode along the path and joined Gussie. Adeline greeted him gaily. She was waiting for Philip who had gone to put the horses and Nero in the shed behind the church. Adeline stood in the churchyard on the plot retained by Philip for the family. It was level and grassy. Not a grave yet. Her mind lightly touched the thought, as something inconceivable, that someday, years distant, the hump of a grave would rise there.
The church bell was ringing.
Augusta found herself walking along the aisle with Guy Lacey. The bell had ceased and now James Wilmott was playing a processional hymn on the organ, she and Guy moving in time with it. His naval cap was carried on his arm, his head was bent a little towards her. She felt almost giddy with the splendour of the moment.
Now her parents and the two small boys were close behind. Guy had disappeared into the Lacey pew. Augusta knelt; the wide brim of her hat, the silky black locks of her hair were a retreat for her. She was neither happy nor sad, but like a dreamer who feels himself to be far removed from reality and asks for nothing but to remain in the magic crystal of his dream.
The sonorous voice of Mr. Pink was now heard. Ernest’s little face, with its sunburned nose, was raised to the face of the rector. He drank in the words.
“I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.”
“Hide Thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities.”
“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.”
Adeline looked down complacently at the bent shoulders of this little son. She whispered, “Take your hand out of your pocket.” She took the hand comfortingly in hers.
The service proceeded.
When it came the time for collecting the offertory Philip slipped out from the pew and joined Thomas Brawn, the miller. They moved up and down the aisles presenting the alms dishes at each pew. Philip watched the members of his own family each lay his contribution on the alms dish. When it came to Ernest, he ceremoniously laid the gold pen there. He then folded his arms with a Napoleonic gesture, and looked his sire squarely in the eye.
Philip and Thomas Brawn marched to the chancel steps and presented the offerings to Mr. Pink.
Mr. Pink grew even pinker than was usual, as he stared, scarcely able to believe his eyes, at the gold pen on the alms dish. Indeed he might have been called Mr. Scarlet at that moment without exaggeration.
Philip Whiteoak’s expression was imperturbable. He looked as though it were quite the usual thing to see a gold pen on the alms dish. He looked as though nothing that might appear on the alms dish would surprise him. When he returned to his seat he cast a repressive look at Nicholas, who was shaking with stifled laughter. On their side of the church there was a stir of wonder. On the other side, there was a straining to see what the wonder was about. The Laceys sat on that side and Augusta was thankful that Guy had not witnessed Ernest’s act. She felt ready to faint from embarrassment.
She could not, however, escape him. In the small crush in the vestibule she felt his breath on her ear.
“What was all the stir about?” he whispered.
“Something on the collection plate,” she was forced to answer.
“Did you put it there?”
They were now in the open air, beautifully clear with a sparkle as of blue lustre.
She drew away. “Me? No.”
“Then it was a joke of young Ernest’s.” He caught the little boy by the arm and whispered to him, “Ernest, did you put one of your pants buttons on the plate?”
Ernest gave a skip of pure joy and relief from the burden that had oppressed him. “Pants button, my eye” he said.
When the Whiteoaks reached home, Philip took his son Ernest by the hand and led him into the library.
“Now he’s for it,” said Nicholas.
“Gussie,” said Adeline, “tell me what all this is about? I will not be left out of things.”
“Papa will tell you,” Gussie said, and dashed up the stairs.
Nicholas had his ear to the keyhole of the library door. “I don’t hear any whacks yet,” he announced.
“Can you hear what’s being said?” asked Adeline.
Nicholas darted out of the way as the door of the library opened. At the same moment Bessie beat on the gong, which had been brought from India, to summon the family to the midday Sunday dinner.
Philip and Ernest emerged, hand in hand.
It was only a morning or two later when Guy Lacey came to Jalna to say goodbye, for his ship was shortly due to sail from Halifax.
Adeline called her daughter. “Augusta! Gussie, come down and say goodbye to Guy Lacey! I see him walking along the drive.”
“Please, Mamma, I’d rather not,” called back Augusta.
“Why on earth not? He’ll expect it. He quite admires you, you know.”
“I’d rather not. Tell him I’m ill.”
“Nonsense. Come right down.”
Augusta slowly descended the stairs. Adeline looked her over. “Whatever is wrong with you?” she exclaimed. “You’re as pale as a witch. Bite your lips.”
Obediently Augusta bit her lips, bringing a reluctant red into them. Guy Lacey was at the door. Adeline threw it open to his knock.
“Good morning to you,” she said, in her warm welcoming voice. “Come in, do! Ah, ’tis sad news to hear that you are sailing. Now where are you sailing for?”
“Ireland, Mrs. Whiteoak.”
“Ireland! Ah, to think of it! To dream of it! Gussie, dear — Guy tells me he is sailing for Ireland. Don’t you envy him?” She turned her eyes to the stairway where Gussie had stood, but the young girl had vanished.
“Forgive her,” Adeline said resignedly. “She is not well this morning. The truth is, she has only just heard of your leaving and it has upset her.”
“Will you give her my kindest regards,” said Guy, “and tell her I’m sorry to have missed seeing her?”
“When may we expect you on your next leave?”
“In about two years.”
Shortly he went to the stables to find Philip, whistling cheerily as he went. Adeline flew up the stairs to Gussie’s room. She found her stretched on the bed, her face hidden in the pillows. Adeline took her by the shoulder and turned her over.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” Adeline asked in a voice high with anger. “Running off and hiding when a handsome young man comes to call? Have I taught you nothing of manners? Has your father disciplined you to behold you coming to an end like this? You’re nothing but a shy gawky country girl! Guy Lacey thinks you are, for he told me so.”
That was too much for Gussie. She gave a cry of pain, rolled over and again hid her face. Adeline was moved to pity. She said, “Well, maybe I am mistaken. Guy may have not spoken so roughly. He may only have said you are shy. Upon my word, I’ve had so much trouble, it’s affected me memory. Yes — now I come to think of it — he said a shy sweet country girl.”
Tears of thankfulness ran from Gussie’s large eyes on to her clenched hands. “I’m so glad,” she whispered.
“The trouble with you, Gussie,” said Adeline, “is that you are too sensitive. I know just how it is, for I’m over sensitive myself. Now get up and tidy yourself, and we’ll collect the two boys and go a-nutting.”
The boys were listening outside the door. As Ernest overheard the last words he could not restrain a “hurrah” of pleasure, for to go nutting was almost as good as a picnic by the lake. There were beechnuts, hazelnuts, butternuts — to say nothing of the last of the wild blackberries. Small wonder that Ernest ejaculated “Hurrah!”
Adeline threw open the door. “Who said ‘Hurrah?’” she demanded.
Ernest hung his head.
Nicholas said, “I did.”
“What have I done,” cried Adeline, “that I should have brought such young vipers into the world! There on her bed lies my only daughter — no more than a child — yet ready to carry on a secret love affair with a naval officer! Here is one son listening at a keyhole, while another looks me in the face and lies!”
“I’m sorry, Mamma,” said Ernest.
“I’m sorry too,” said Nicholas.
Augusta murmured that she was sorry. But the idea of a clandestine love affair pleased her. She rose from her bed, tidied her hair, and joined Adeline and the boys. They could hear Baby Philip struggling to climb the stairs — grunting, panting, making infant sounds of triumph.
“And that one,” continued Adeline, “is the worst of the lot. Coming, my pet!”
In truth she was so happy she did not know what to do next to express her pleasure in life.
XVI
EVENTS OF THE FALL
Wilmott could not choose between the threatening storminess of the November sky and the calm of the little river that was the colour of a moonstone. The low-growing bushes by the shore still showed the green of cedar and the scarlet hips of wild rose, the glossy red cranberries. A blue heron flew low above the river, its blueness reflected there.
Wilmott said aloud: “‘The heron, when she soareth high, sheweth winds.’”
The voice of Titus Sharrow came from among cranberry bushes. He said, “That is very nice poetry, Boss. I’m something of a poet myself, so I am able to judge.”
Wilmott had seen some childish verses by Titus, written in a school exercise book. “You have written some quite pretty rhymes, Tite,” he said kindly. “Very nice indeed.”
Tite came to him and drew a newspaper cutting from his pocket. There was polite rebuke in his voice. “The editor of this newspaper liked these well enough to print them, Boss,” he said. “Would you care to read them?”
Astonished, Wilmott read the verses. They were unashamedly sentimental, signed with Tite’s own name.
“Congratulations,” said Wilmott. “I’m sure everyone hereabout will be surprised and pleased to find that we have a poet in our midst.”
There was something patronizing in what Wilmott said, something a little amused. Tite responded with, “I have decided against the study of law, because I am sure I shall never succeed in that profession. I have decided to be a poet. Later on, in the winter, I expect to write a book.”
Wilmott himself had written a novel which never had seen the light of the printing press. He felt a kind of grim pity for this cocksure half-breed.
“Be cautious, Tite,” he said. “You would be attempting something that has defeated many men cleverer than you. It is one thing to have a few verses published in a local newspaper; it is quite a different thing to find your writings between the covers of a book.”
“Boss.”
“Yes, Tite.”
“I was born for success.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, in the first place, when I was a scholar at the Indian Reserve school, I was not only the best-looking but I was the smartest. The teacher was not young but I soon found out that she was in love with me. She gave me higher marks than I deserved because she could not help herself.”
“Everything has conspired to make you conceited, Tite, but you are not so remarkable as you think you are.”
“I think that you are remarkable, Boss, and all these years we have been together I have tried to make myself like you.”
Wilmott stared at him in amazement.
“Do you think I have succeeded, Boss?”
“Well, you say you were born for success.”
“Do you think we are alike, Boss?”
“The point is,” said Wilmott, “that I was born for failure.”
“You make me laugh, Boss, and I hope you will forgive me for laughing.”
“What is funny about failure?”
“Boss, you own this pretty little cottage, a boat, four suits of clothes, five pairs of shoes, a gun and a lot of other things. You never work. I model myself on you.”
“I worked hard in England. I saved what I could.”
“What do you value most in life, Boss?”
“That’s easy to answer — solitude.”
“Then why have you kept me about, Boss?”
“I’ve asked myself that question.”
“I can answer the question, Boss. It’s because you’re a lonely man. I myself am a lonely man. The great are always lonely. Lord Byron was a lonely man. You have a book of his poems and a book of his life. I have read both and I think he was a great poet, beloved by women. I am just the same. Women long to have me for a lover. Do you remember Miss Daisy Vaughan who visited Jalna when the little boy Ernest was a baby and I was a very young man?”
“I’ve no desire to hear that story,” Wilmott said testily.
Tite went on, as though he had not been interrupted. “That young lady became lost in the forest. It was I who found her and claimed the reward. But first I spent a little while in the forest with her. She was very nice and she loved me dearly. She could not help loving me. It is always the same. High and low, they cannot keep from loving me. The latest was Annabelle. She thought she loved God but it was me she loved. She could not marry me, so she gave herself to the Negro, Jerry. I should not marry. I am a poet, I long for solitude — like you, Boss.”
“I don’t know what you are trying to tell me,” Wilmott said, still more testily.
Tite answered patiently, “I’m talking about Lord Byron and you and me, Boss.”
Wilmott turned to walk away but Tite planted himself in front of him.
“Boss,” he said.
“What?”
“You said to me once that I am like a son to you.”
“Sons sometimes talk like fools.”
“I am sorry if I have offended you, Boss, because I love you better than anyone else on earth, even better than my grandmother, who is the daughter of an Indian chief. On my French side I am also of noble blood.”
“So you have told me, time and again,” said Wilmott drily. “You are of noble blood and you are a poet.”
“With the winter coming on, Boss, we both of us need a woman to look after us — a good-natured, pretty, and hardworking young woman like Annabelle. We could have leisure for writing poetry. She could carry wood, clean fish, and cook. It would cost you very little.”
“Explain,” said Wilmott.
“I have a letter from Annabelle here in my pocket, Boss. She hadn’t been at home long, before she found out that Jerry had been married before the war, had a wife and two children. So she left him and is back in Canada looking after the children of a couple who have moved here from the South. She is still anxious about my soul, Boss, and aims to come and work for us. A fine writer like you —”
“My God!” interrupted Wilmott. “Leave me out of this, Tite. You may be a poet but I lay no claim to being a writer of any sort.”
“You can’t be left out,” said Tite. “Because you are a great man. You must be waited on.” His narrow dark eyes looked compellingly into Wilmott’s. “Do you remember how sick I was last winter and how you had to wait on me? And you yourself were not well. What a fine thing it would be, if you and I had a healthy young woman to wait on us! Belle is healthy. She is strong. She loves me. She admires you. Also she is a religious girl.”
“Where would she live?”
“Right here, Boss, with us.”
“We should be the scandal of the neighbourhood. I can’t tolerate such a thing.”
“People can get used to anything, I find. You are greatly respected.”
“Hmph!”
“Think how happy we could be! We have our cottage — we have our river — we should have our hand-maiden. Boss, she is used to being a slave. She asks for nothing better. Do, please, let her come.”
“Never.” Wilmott turned away.
“You will no
t agree?”
“Never.”
Tite became deeply thoughtful. The only sound that came to them was the resigned movement of the river as it surrendered itself to the waiting embrace of the lake and the icy threat of winter.
Tite spoke, in a peculiarly seductive tone. “Boss,” he said, “for your sake I am willing to marry the woman.”
“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” said Wilmott. “You have made extravagant remarks before but nothing to equal this. Would you marry a slave?”
“Belle is no longer a slave. I’ve heard you remark, Boss, that none of us is free.”
Said Wilmott, “You have boasted of your noble blood. Yet — here you are, proposing to marry a mulatto.”
“Belle is not black, or brown, or even yellow,” Tite said proudly. “She has the eyes of a white woman.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” said Wilmott.
“Her father,” continued Tite, “was a Virginian gentleman.”
“All this is so unreal,” said Wilmott, “I haven’t the patience to listen to it.”
“But it would not be unreal, if you were to wake on a winter morning and hear the crackle of a freshly made fire and smell cornmeal muffins baking. Do you remember how you were forced to call me three times this very morning, Boss, and at last throw your boot against my door? And even when I did get up, I burned the toast and cooked the eggs too long. It would be so different with Annabelle here.”
Wilmott thought of the oncoming winter. He weakened, yet he said, “I can’t allow it.”
“But why, Boss? Give me one good reason.”
“You would be living in sin, as the preacher put it.”
“Belle and I are religious young people. We would go straight to my grandmother on the Indian Reserve. The minister at the little church there would perform the ceremony. It would be simple but legal. It would be very different from Belle’s marriage to Jerry, for he was already a married man — married and as black as sin.”
“Tite,” said Wilmott, “I will not agree to this queer union till I have consulted with my neighbours the Whiteoaks.”
“I think that is a wise decision,” said Tite.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 52
