As for Augusta’s dove, it (now definitely she) had taken up with pigeons and was building a nest with the masterful assistance of the stout gentleman who previously had paid her such marked attention. Two days before the departure of the family the dove laid an egg which completely occupied her thoughts. It meant more to her than did all the months of devotion Gussie had lavished on her.
The children were now almost completely recovered from the hardships they had endured, yet they were in a degree changed — Augusta most of all. She had grown taller and her child’s body had developed new and not so childish curves. The expression of her large eyes, always inclined to be pensive, was now often abstracted, even melancholy. She would appear lost in thought, yet could not possibly have told what she was thinking of. Sometimes her lips would part in a secret smile. She would spread her hands and examine them with interest, but again she would clench them and stalk away like a tragedy actress. Her father’s chaffing, her mother’s personal remarks, became almost unbearable to her. She wanted to burst into tears. At the same time she was full of gratitude for the magnanimity they had shown toward their runaways. She dreaded the going to sea and the thought of the movement of the ship made her seasick.
The change in Nicholas was noticeable also. He was more adventurous and appeared to have forgotten how disastrously his runaway voyage had turned out. He would boast of the dangers he had endured, swagger a bit in his talk. There was not a corner of the ship that he did not explore. Though he never thought with gratitude of his parents’ leniency, he showed it in his willingness to take charge of little Philip, to help him to walk on the deck or to carry him in his arms to visit different parts of the ship. They were favourites in all quarters. When they reached England, Adeline would, she declared, get a proper nurse for him.
There was no physical resemblance between the boys, yet anyone noting their movements, hearing their laughter, would have taken them for brothers. Little Philip longed to do everything Nicholas did, while Nicholas imitated their father, his walk, his speech, his air of a soldier.
On the second morning at sea, Ernest who, in the midst of all this movement of ship, of sea, of passengers, lived rather a lonely life, was wandering along the promenade deck, where ladies reclined in deck chairs, recovering from an encounter with seasickness or simply enjoying good salt air. Ernest took a second look at one of these. She reminded him of someone he had liked long long ago, when he was quite a small boy. Now he felt an experienced traveller, in his belted tunic which reached almost to the knees, his striped stockings, and his buttoned boots.
He trotted to where Augusta stood leaning against the rail. “Gussie,” he said, “guess who is on board.”
She gave him a dreamy look. “I’m no good at guessing. Tell me,” she said.
“Mrs. Sinclair!”
“Did she see you?”
“No. I ran away. Shall we tell her that we were on our way to visit her?”
“For pity’s sake — no.”
“We could say we just changed our minds.”
Augusta bowed her forehead to the rail. “I could die of shame,” she said. “Mamma will tell her that we ran away, and were brought back crying our eyes out. I for one will not see the Sinclairs. I will lock myself in my cabin and say I am sick.”
“What shall I do?”
“Do what you like.”
Ernest felt that Gussie had cast him off, and he seemed to remember having been very kind to her, time and again. He turned and trotted back along the deck.
Lucy Sinclair was sitting where he had left her.
He went close to her and asked, “Do you remember me, Mrs. Sinclair?”
She stared in astonishment, then exclaimed, “Why, it’s the little Whiteoak boy! Fancy meeting you here! Are your parents with you?”
“We’re all here. All but Gussie.”
“Gussie not here? Then where is she?”
“I — I really don’t know.”
Ernest’s mind became a convenient blank but he still gazed in admiration at Lucy Sinclair’s beige-coloured foulard coat trimmed with velvet, her hair done in a beautiful chignon.
At this moment Curtis Sinclair appeared, smiling and looking somehow very different from the man Ernest remembered.
“Ah, Curtis,” cried his wife, “you have quite deceived this little Whiteoak boy by your Dundreary whiskers.”
“Whiteoak,” repeated Curtis Sinclair, in bewilderment. “Why — it’s Ernest! Are your family on board, my boy?”
“All but Gussie,” said Ernest, his clear blue eyes on the whiskers. They made a great difference in the American’s appearance, and, to Lucy’s mind, a vast improvement. Certainly the disfigurement of his back was less noticeable with a fine fair whisker flowing towards each shoulder. The expression of his mobile face was more assured. His face was fuller. He had the appearance of a gentleman turned out in the height of fashion.
Philip and Adeline, taking a stroll along the deck, now appeared, she leaning on his arm. She gave a cry of delight when she saw the Sinclairs.
“What an auspicious meeting,” said Philip, “and what a surprise! Upon my word, Sinclair, you look stunning. Has it taken long to grow them?”
“Not so long,” said Curtis Sinclair, caressing his whiskers, “as you might think.”
“I hear they are the rage in London,” Adeline said. “I really long to discover if they are real.”
“Don’t deny yourself any pleasure I can give you,” smiled Curtis Sinclair.
Lucy Sinclair interrupted with, “You should grow Dundrearys yourself, Captain Whiteoak. You would look really splendid.”
“Yellow whiskers,” said Adeline. “I can’t think of anything less attractive.”
“A moustache is good enough for me,” said Philip.
Nicholas now came along the deck holding the chubby hand of the youngest Whiteoak. The Sinclairs greeted them affectionately, remarking their growth and good looks. Then Lucy said, “I do wish you had brought Gussie with you. She’s such a charming child.”
“We did bring her,” said Philip. “She’s around somewhere.”
“But Ernest told me that she was not on board.”
Philip stretched out a long arm and caught Ernest by the collar. “What nonsense is this?” His voice was threatening.
“Where is your sister?” demanded Adeline.
Ernest trembled. “She’s gone. I guess she fell overboard.”
“Overboard!” Adeline’s voice was piercing. Those about began to stare.
“Order a lifeboat launched,” cried Lucy.
“Perhaps she’s in her cabin,” Ernest said. “I’ll run and see.” He ran off. Adeline sped after him. She found the door of Augusta’s cabin locked and beat on it, calling her daughter’s name.
The door was opened. Augusta stood there. “Mamma,” she said, in a shaking voice, “I cannot face the Sinclairs — after what I did — please — please, let me stay here.”
“Oh, what a fright this little wretch gave me!” Adeline began to shake him but Gussie begged her to desist. “It was my fault, Mamma. Please don’t punish him. Ernest said that only to protect me.”
“I should think,” said Adeline, “you would be proud of such an adventure. The Sinclairs would be flattered to think you had set out to visit them.”
“No — no. It was so — silly,” said Gussie. “Please don’t tell!”
“Were there ever such children? It’s enough to wreck my nerves the things they do!”
Ernest asked, in his gentle voice, “Shall I run up to the deck and tell that Gussie is safe?”
As he was about to pass through the door, Philip entered. Adeline began eagerly, rather incoherently, to talk. Her voice followed Ernest as he ran lightly along the passage. Life had become intensely interesting to him. When he found the Sinclairs still occupying their deck chairs, and Nicholas and the youngest Whiteoak nowhere in sight, he perched on the foot of Lucy’s chair, and said, “Gussie might have fallen overboard but
I rescued her. She wanted to visit you in Charleston but the lake was rough. So I rescued both her and Nicholas. Please don’t tell anybody. I don’t want a reward. Gussie’s crying because she’s afraid I’ll tell. I don’t really want to be a hero. I just enjoy rescuing my family.”
“How did you rescue Gussie?” asked Lucy Sinclair.
“I jumped overboard,” he said complacently. “It’s a good thing I swim so well. That is twice I have rescued her. But please don’t tell.”
The Sinclairs, amused and puzzled, promised.
Philip and Adeline now returned. She exclaimed, “That young daughter of mine has such a temperament! She’s a thorough young flibbertigibbet. I really can’t follow her moods.” She sank down on her chair.
Lucy Sinclair said, “I think you have a most fascinating family, Mrs. Whiteoak. My husband and I admire them excessively.”
“Ah, they’re a lively lot,” sighed Adeline. “Nicholas is like my family. Ernest and the baby are Whiteoaks. But Gussie, she’s like nobody except her own queer self.”
At this moment, Gussie, alone in her cabin, again locked the door, opened her portmanteau, and took from it a spyglass. This had been a present from young Blanchflower, just before her sailing. She had told him of the loss of her own, told him without shyness, without a shadow of hinting; and he had told her that, on leaving England, his uncle had presented him with one which lay unused, neglected, and all but forgotten, on a shelf in his clothes cupboard. Would she accept it, he asked, as a goodbye present, a small token of the regard he had for her? She accepted it with modesty but hid it from her family with determination. It was her most treasured possession.
Now she took it out of her portmanteau, and after dusting it with an enormous silk handkerchief that rightly belonged to her father and smelt of his cigars, she went to the open porthole and peered through it.
There came a loud knocking on the door. It was Nicholas, who called out: “Gussie — come! See the last of Canada. Mrs. Sinclair begs you to come.”
“I don’t think I care to.”
“Papa orders you to come! And, look here, the Sinclairs have been told nothing. Come along, do.”
Without further hesitation Gussie, now in a mood of daring, followed Nicholas up the stairs to the deck, carrying the spyglass. The sea was a little rough. The coast rose, rocky and dim. Wild and dim were the gulls flying from coast to sea and back again.
“It’s getting rough,” said Curtis Sinclair and came and stood at Gussie’s side.
“I envy you,” he said, in his Southern accent.
She could scarcely believe her ears.
“But — why?” she asked, her low sweet voice scarcely audible.
“Because,” he smiled, “you are on your way to England for the first time and you own a spyglass.”
She offered the spyglass to him but he refused. “No, Miss Gussie, I had rather watch you looking through it. May I say that I admire the picture you make?” He moved away a short distance, then stood looking back.
Gussie’s hair was blown from off her face by the strong fresh wind. She held the spyglass to her eyes, gazing, as it were, into her future, and not at the receding coast. For the remainder of the voyage she was dreamy, aloof.
Adeline and Philip were happy to be again in the company of the Sinclairs. They discovered that they were going to the same hotel in London. The Sinclairs were lively and appeared to be in affluent circumstances.
“Upon my word,” Adeline remarked to Philip, “I shall jump for joy when we reach London and I am able to engage a proper nurse for the baby — he’s wearing me out.”
“He’s grown into a little boy,” said Philip, “and no baby. The Sinclairs greatly admire him.”
“Philip” — Adeline spoke seriously — “where do you suppose all their money comes from? I thought they were ruined when the South was defeated.”
“It’s cotton” — his eyes shone — “Sinclair’s father sent cotton to Manchester. Now Sinclair is coming over to make further arrangements. He advises me to invest in cotton.”
“I should love to visit France with them,” said she, “but the children cramp all our movements. I had thought Gussie would take part charge of Baby — but no — she moons about with that silly spyglass.”
“I shall make some arrangement to please you,” said Philip. “I promise you that.”
She threw her arms about him and gave him three kisses. After the third she said, “The children would be quite happy with my parents in Ireland. Did I tell you that they are coming to meet us? I had a letter from my mother.”
“You didn’t tell me,” he exclaimed.
“I forgot.”
He made the best of it. “That will be nice.” He reflected that this would be better than having a visit from them at Jalna. He added firmly, “Please don’t tell your father that I expect to make a good deal of money from cotton.”
“Indeed, I will not, for he would be sure to want to borrow from you.”
It was a smooth and sunny voyage. When the ship docked at Liverpool, there were Adeline’s parents to meet them. They would journey with them and the Sinclairs to London on the following day.
Adeline was proud of her parents, proud of the impression they made on the Sinclairs. Indeed they looked little changed since she had last seen them.
The six grown-ups and four children took possession of a large sitting room in the Adelphi Hotel. Lucy Sinclair remarked to Renny Court, Adeline’s father, “It is easy to see how dear Mrs. Whiteoak came by her handsome eyes and — her hair.”
“The eyes aren’t bad,” said Renny Court, “but the hair — well, I suppose it’s an affliction for a woman.”
“I admire it excessively,” she returned. “Your daughter is the most strikingly handsome woman I know. Her children are lovely. I envy her them.”
“My wife and I are taking the children to Ireland,” said Renny Court, “for a long visit.”
“What fun!” exclaimed Lucy Sinclair.
THE END
Mary Wakefield
MAZO DE LA ROCHE
To Walter Allward
in friendship and homage
I
THE GOVERNESS
THIS WAS LIKE no awakening she had ever had. She was in a strange house, among strange people, in a strange land. Her few belongings she had unpacked that lay scattered about the room, made it look all the stranger. Yet the day would come when all this would be familiar, when her belongings there would not look so alien, so pathetic; not that it was a grand room. It was just a comfortably furnished, moderately-sized room with a mahogany dressing-table and washing-stand with basin and ewer ornamented with red roses, a heavy white counterpane, an engraving of the Bridge of Sighs and another of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert with their young family about them. A Virginia creeper which she had noticed last night massed over the front of the house and enveloping the porch, had even extended its growth to this side and was spreading a few vigorous shoots across the window. From it the early morning sunlight took a greenish tinge.
Mary was glad she had waked early. She wanted time to lie still and collect her thoughts. Her mind appeared to her as a kaleidoscope that had been so shaken it could not regain its original pattern. The theme of that pattern had been her life in London with her brilliant but unstable father, a journalist who was always startling editors either by his good or his bad writing. He seemed unable to do anything moderately well. He was always startling Mary by his high spirits or his deep melancholy. Her mother had died when she was a child so there had been no influence in her life to counteract these vicissitudes. She had come to wear rather a startled look when her eyes were not dreaming. Her eyes were grey, her fair hair so fine that it slipped from under hairpins in a disconcerting way but luckily had a natural wave in it. Her father had been proud of her beauty, so proud of it that the thought of her doing anything to earn her living had been abhorrent to him. Possibly pride in himself had had as much to do with it. Neither of them
had been clearly conscious of the way he was going down hill physically till it was too late to save him. Then he was gone from her.
Now lying in this strange bed between the smooth linen sheets Mary rolled her head on the pillow at the anguished recollection of those terrible months of early spring. His bank account had seen him through his illness, little more. Mary remembered how he had thrown money about. But at the last he had spent it on little but drink. Events, struggling to be remembered, hammered at the door of her mind but she would not let them in. Now, on this June morning, she must be self-controlled, firm in the beginning of this new life. It lay spread before her like an unknown sea, upon which she, chartless, had embarked, no past experience to help her.
She had not wanted to be a governess. If she could have thought of any other way of earning her living she would have turned to it, but there were few openings for women in the nineties. The only work she felt capable of attempting, considering her ignorance and lack of experience, was teaching the young. The fact that she had had little to do with children did not trouble her. She thought of them as innocent little pitchers which she would fill with knowledge gained from text-books and coloured maps. She would set them to memorizing poems, lists of foreign countries, their capitals, rivers, capes, mountains and products. The important thing had been to get the situation. Once secured she felt equal to coping with it. In truth she had to find work or starve.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 62
