Читать книгу The Building of Jalna - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 6

NOT IN ALL the long voyage from India had Adeline suffered as she suffered in crossing the Irish Sea. The waves were short, choppy, violent. Never were they satisfied to torment the ship from one quarter alone. They raged on her from the northeast, veered and harried her from the southeast, then with a roar sprang on her from the west. Sometimes, it seemed to Adeline, the ship did not move at all, would never move again but just wallow in the grey misery of those ragged waters till the day of doom. The ayah’s face was enough to frighten one, it was so green. Gussie, who had not been seasick on her first voyage, now was deadly so. It was maddening to see Philip, pink and white as ever, his firm cheeks moist from spray, actually enjoying the tumult of the sea. Still he was able to look after her and that was a comfort. In fact he gave a sense of support to all who where near him.

The Irish train was dirty, smoky, and its roadbed rough, but it seemed heaven after the Irish Sea. One after the other the sufferers raised their heads and looked about them with renewed interest in life. Gussie took a biscuit in her tiny hand and made a feeble attempt at gnawing it. But more crumbs were strewn down the front of the ayah’s robe than found their way into Gussie’s stomach.

At the railway station they were met by a jaunting car drawn by a fine pair of greys and driven by Patsy O’Flynn who had been nearly all his life in the service of the Courts. He was a great hand with the reins. A light wind was blowing across the hills which were turning into a tender green, and the leaf buds on the trees were opening almost as you watched them. There was a mistiness on the scene as though a fine veil hung between it and the sun. The cackle of geese, the bray of a donkey, the shouts of young children at play, brought tears to Adeline’s eyes. “Oh, ’tis good to be home!” she exclaimed.

“Aye, and it’s good to see your honour, Miss,” said Patsy. “And it’s a queer shame to you that you should be thinkin’ of lavin’ us agin so soon.”

“Oh, I shall make a good visit. There is so much to show my husband. And all the family to see. I expected by father to meet me at the station. Is he not well?”

“He’s well enough and him off to lodge a complaint against Sir John Lafferty for the overflow of wather from his land makin’ a bog out of ours and his cattle runnin’ wild as wolves.”

“And is my mother well?”

“She is, and at her wit’s end to get the house ready for you and your black servant and parrots and all, the poor lady!”

“Are any of my brothers at home?”

“There’s the two young lads your mother sent to the English school to get the new accent on them but they attacked one of the masthers and gave him a beatin’. So they were expelled and ’tis at home they are till himself decides what to do with them. And, of course, there’s Masther Tim. He’s a grand lad entirely.”

Adeline and Patsy chattered on, to Philip’s wonder and amusement. He saw her in a new light against the advancing background of her early life. The road was so muddy after rain and flood that the wheels were sunk almost to their axles but Patsy did not appear to mind. He cracked his whip about the well-groomed flanks of the horses and encouraged them with a stream of picturesque abuse. Several times women appeared in the doorways of low thatched cabins at the roadside and, when they saw Adeline, held up their babies for her inspection, while fowls scratched and pecked in and out of the cabins. There was an air of careless well-being about the place and the children were chubby, though far from clean. Adeline seemed delighted to see both mothers and babies. She called out to them and promised to visit them later. Apparently Patsy did not approve of this, for he whipped up his horses and hurried them past.

The fields about were bluish-green like the sea and the grass moved slowly in the breeze. Cattle stood knee-deep in the grass. Swallows darted overhead. Adeline was looking beyond the fields. The roof of her home showed above the trees of a park where deer grazed. She cried: —

“There is the house, Philip! Lord, to think it is nearly five years since I’ve seen it! It’s more splendid than anything I’ve set my eyes on since! Look at it! Isn’t it grand, Philip?”

“It’s fallin’ to pieces,” said Patsy, over his shoulder, “and divil a one to spend a five-pound note on it.”

“It was indeed a fine old house, though not so fine as Philip had expected, judging by Adeline’s description of it. Though he was no judge of architecture he could see that several styles had, at different periods, been added to the original. All were now blended into a sufficiently mellow whole. But it was not the noble pile she had described and at a glance he could see signs of dilapidations. Not even its rich cloak of ivy concealed the crumbling stonework.

Adeline craned her neck in delight to see every bit of it.

“Oh, Philip,” she cried, “isn’t it a lovely house?”

“It is indeed.”

“Your sister’s little house is nothing, compared to it.”

“Augusta’s house was built in the time of Queen Anne.”

“Who cares for Queen Anne!” laughed Adeline. “Queen Anne is dead and so is that stuffy cathedral town. Oh, give me the country! Give me Ireland! Give me my old home!” Tears rained down her cheeks.

“I’ll give you a smack,” said Philip, “if you don’t control yourself. No wonder you’re thin.”

“Oh, why did I marry a phlegmatic Englishman!” she exclaimed. “I expected you to go into raptures over the place.”

“Then you expected me to behave like a fool which I am not.”

They had now stopped before the door and a half-dozen tame deer had sauntered up to see them alight from the carriage. Adeline declared that she could recognize each one and that they remembered her.

The footman who opened the door was in handsome livery though rather too tight for him. He greeted Adeline enthusiastically.

“Ah, God bless you, Miss Adeline! It’s grand to see ye back. My, ’tis yourself has got thin in the body! What have they been doing to you out yonder? And is this lovely gentleman your husband? Welcome, sir, y’r honour. Come right in. Patsy, look after the luggage o’ thim and be quick about it.” He turned then and shouted at three dogs which had begun to bark loudly.

Philip felt suddenly self-conscious. He did not quite know how to meet his wife’s family. All she had told him of them made them seem less, rather than more, real. He was prepared not to like them, to find them critical of him, yet the tall gentleman who now came quickly down the stairway held out his hand with a genial smile.

“How d’ye do, Captain Whiteoak,” he said, taking Philip’s finger in a thin muscular grasp. “Welcome to Ireland. I’m very glad to see you, sir. I apologize for not going to the station myself but I had a wearisome business at the Courthouse that must be attended to.… And now, my girl, let’s have a look at you!”

He took Adeline in his arms and kissed her. Philip then had a good look at him.

Adeline had spoken of her father, Renny Court, as a fine figure of a man, but to Philip’s mind his back was too thin and certainly not flat enough at the shoulders, and his legs were not quite straight. It was amusing to see how Adeline’s lovely features had been modeled on this man’s bony aquiline face. And his hair must once have been auburn too, for there was a rusty tinge across the grey of his head. Certainly his eyes were hers.

Philip became conscious that others had come into the hall, a woman somewhat beyond middle age, and three youths.

“Oh, Mother, here I am!” Adeline turned from her father and flung her arms about her mother.

Lady Honoria Court still retained beauty of a Spanish type which had been handed down in her family since the days of the Armada when a Spanish don had remained to marry an ancestress. Honoria was a daughter of the old Marquis of Killiekeggan, who, with the famous Marquis of Waterford, had raised the sport of steeplechasing from a not very respectable one to its present eminence.

One of the dogs, an Irish staghound, raised itself on its hind legs against the ayah, in order to look into Gussie’s face. Both nurse and child shrieked in terror. Renny Court ran across the hall, caught the hound by its heavily studded collar and, dragging it away, cuffed it.

“Did you ever see such a dog!” cried Lady Honoria. “He does so love children! What a sweet baby! We have a man in the town who takes the loveliest daguerreotypes. You must have one made of her while you are here, Adeline.”

Lady Honoria laughed a good deal. Unfortunately she had lost a front tooth and each time she laughed she hastily put a forefinger across her lips to hide the gap. She had beautiful hands which Adeline had inherited, and her laughter rang out with contagious mirth. Philip, before he had been two days in the house, decided that she feared her husband’s temper but that she circumvented and thwarted him many a time. She had an air of triumph when she achieved this and he a wary look, as though waiting his turn to retaliate. Often they did not speak to each other for days at a time but each had a keen sense of humour, each found the other an amusing person and their sulks were often broken in upon by sudden laughter from which they recovered themselves with chagrin. Lady Honoria had had eleven children of whom four had died in early infancy, but she was still quick and graceful in her movements and looked capable of adding to her family.

Adeline was embracing each of her three young brothers in turn. She led them to Philip, her face flushed, her eyes brilliant in her excitement at being home again. Her bonnet had fallen back and her auburn hair rose in curls above her forehead.

“Here they are,” she cried, “the three boys! Conway, Sholto, and Timothy — come and shake hands with your new brother!”

The three offered their hands to Philip, the first two sheepishly, the third with an air almost too bright. Philip decided that there was something queer about him. There was a remarkable resemblance among the three. Their hair was a pale red, their eyes were greenish, their faces long and pointed, their noses remarkably well-shaped with slender, supercilious nostrils. The eldest, Conway, tormented Philip by his resemblance to someone he had met, till he discovered that he was the image of the Knave of Diamonds, in his favourite pack of playing cards.

“Look at them!” exclaimed Renny Court, with a scornful flourish of his hand toward the two elder boys. “’Tis a shameful pair they are, I can tell you. They’ve disgraced me by being sent home from their English school for attacking one of the masters. I knocked their heads together for it but here they are on my hands and God knows what I shall do with them! Put them to work in the stables — or in the fields — ’tis all they’re fit for! I must tell you that I have two other sons, and fine fellows, too. But my wife would have done well to halt before she had these!”

Conway and Sholto grinned with a hangdog air but young Timothy threw his arms about Adeline and hugged her again.

“Oh, it’s grand to have you home again,” he said. “I’ve been saving up things to tell you but now they’ve gone right out of my head and I can only be glad.”

“You have nothing to tell but mischief,” said his father, “and devilment and slyness from morning to night. You have one child, Captain Whiteoak. Stop there and have no more! For it’s children that are bringing my red hairs in sorrow to the grave.”

Lady Honoria interrupted him with solicitude for the travellers. She herself led them to the rooms which had been prepared for them. They bathed and changed their travel-worn garments and descended to the drawing-room.

A married son who lived at some distance arrived in time for dinner. He was a dark, handsome young man and rode a horse he had purchased that very day and intended entering for the Dublin Races. They all crowded out to see the new horse and were delighted by his appearance. This son was evidently Renny Court’s favourite of the moment. He could not make enough of him and praised his skill as a rider and his perspicacity as a buyer.

There was a certain grandeur in the dining room and dinner was served by two footmen in livery. The food and the wine were good and, as the meal progressed, Philip felt more at ease with his new relatives. They talked and laughed a great deal. Even the two youths forgot their position of disgrace and raised their voices excitedly. But when their father would cast a piercing look on them they would instantly subside and for a few moments be silent. An old gentleman named Mr. O’Regan appeared at table, spoke little but drank a good deal. Adeline told Philip afterward that he was an old friend of the family who had once lent a large sum of money to them and, as it was impossible to collect the debt, had come to live with them. Mr. O’Regan wore a glum, yet rather calculating expression, as though he watched with morbid interest the decrease year by year of Renny Court’s debt to him. Renny Court, on his part, treated his guest with a kind of grim jocularity, pressed him to eat and drink more and inquired solicitously after his health. Mr. O’Regan seemed to resent this and would give no more definite answer than — “Oh, I’m well enough. I think I’ll last —” Though till what, he did not explain.

Renny Court was no absentee landlord, living in England on the rents from a neglected tenantry. He employed no callous bailiff, but himself attended to the business of his estate and knew every man, woman, and child on it.

The Whiteoaks’ visit there passed amiably with the exception of a few fiery encounters between Adeline and her father. In truth they could not be together for long without their wills opposing. She was the only one of his children who did not fear him. Yet she loved him less than did the others. It was to her mother she clung and from whom she dreaded to part. Lady Honoria could not talk of her departure for Canada without weeping. As for Renny Court, he poured out his full contempt for the project.

“What a life for a gentleman!” he would exclaim. “What will you find out there? Nothing but privation and discomfort! What a place for a fine girl like Adeline!”

“I’m willing to go,” she interrupted. “I think it will be glorious.”

“What do you know about it?”

“More than you do, I’ll be bound,” she retorted. “Philip has had letters from his uncle describing the life in Quebec and he knows a Colonel Vaughan who lives in Ontario and loves it!”

“Lives in Ontario and loves it!” repeated her father, fixing her with his intense gaze. “And has Colonel Vaughan of Ontario told Philip what the roads are like there? Has he told him of the snakes and mosquitoes and the wild animals thirsting for your blood? Why, I know a man who stopped in one of the best hotels there and there was a mud puddle in it, and a frog croaking all the night through by a corner of the bed. And this man’s wife was so frightened that the next child she had had a face like a frog on it! Now what do you think of that, Adeline?” He grinned triumphantly at her.

“I think if it’s Mr. McCready you’re quoting,” she retorted, “his wife has no need to go all the way to Ontario to have a frog-faced child. Sure, Mr. McCready himself —”

“Was as fine a figure of a man as there was in all County Meath!”

“Father, I say he had the face of a frog!”

Philip put in — “Adeline and I are bound for the New World, sir, and no argument will talk us out of it. As you know, my uncle left me a very nice property in Quebec. I must go out there and look after it and, if what he said was true, there is a very respectable society in the town. And, in the country about, the finest shooting and fishing you can imagine.”

“You will be back within the year,” declared Renny Court.

“We shall see,” answered Philip stubbornly. His blue eyes became more prominent as he flashed a somewhat truculent look at his father-in-law.

The two boys, Conway and Sholto, were fired by a desire to accompany the Whiteoaks to Canada. The thought of a wild life in a new country, far from parental authority, elated them. They could talk of little else. They would cling to Adeline on her either side and beg her to let them throw in their lot with hers. On her part she liked the idea. Canada would not seem so remote if she had two of her brothers with her. Their mother surprisingly did not oppose the idea. She had borne so much dissension because of these two that the thought of parting with them did not distress her greatly. They promised to return home within the year. Renny Court was willing enough to be rid of the nuisance of them. Philip did not relish the idea of such a responsibility but to please Adeline he agreed. He felt himself capable of controlling Conway and Sholto much more efficiently than their parents could. He thought, with a certain grim pleasure, of the discipline that would make men of them.

Even little Timothy talked of immigrating to the New World but this could not be considered. Timothy spoke with a strong Irish accent, from being so much with his old nurse who had brought him up from delicate babyhood. He had a beautiful yet strange face and was demonstratively affectionate to an extent that embarrassed Philip. A stern word from his father would apparently terrify him, yet the very next moment he would be laughing. His hair was sandy — he was freckled and had beautiful hands which Philip discovered were decidedly light-fingered. He missed his gold studs, he missed his best silk cravats, his pistols inlaid with mother-of-pearl, his gold penknife. Each of these articles was in turn retrieved from Timothy’s bedroom by Adeline. She made light of it. She declared that Tim could not help it but it made Philip angry and uncomfortable.

In truth the longer he stayed with Adeline’s family the less congenial they were to him, with the one exception of Lady Honoria. He felt that Renny Court, for all his devotion to his land and his tenantry, mismanaged them both. Far too much money and time were spent on steeplechasing. As for politics, they hardly dared broach the subject, so violently were their views opposed. But Renny Court would encourage Mr. O’Regan to hold forth on the theme of British injustice to Ireland. Philip was unable to defend his country because the old gentleman was too arrogant and also too deaf to listen to any views but his own. He would sit close to the blazing fire, his florid face rising above his high black stock like an angry sun above a thundercloud, while words poured forth in a torrent.

What with one thing and another the atmosphere became too tense to be borne. Philip and Adeline accepted an invitation to pay a short visit to Corrigan Court, a cousin who lived ten miles away. They rode over there one spring morning, leaving Augusta, her ayah, and Bonaparte, in the care of Lady Honoria. Renny Court accompanied them on a skittish grey mare who danced her way over the muddy roads and did her best to induce misbehaviour in the other horses.

A long drive flanked by a double row of linden trees led to the cousin’s house, rather an imposing place with an ivy-covered turret at either end. Its many windows glittered in the spring sunshine. Corrigan Court and his wife were waiting on the terrace to greet them. The pair were cousins but bore no resemblance to each other, he being dark with arched brows and a languid supercilious air; she ruddy, fair, and full of energy. They had been married some years but were still childless. They hoped for a son. Bridget Court embraced Adeline warmly when she alighted from her horse.

“Bless you, dear Adeline, how glad I am to see you!” she exclaimed. “And your husband! What a perfectly matched pair you are! Welcome — many times welcome.”

“Ah, Biddy Court, ’tis good to see you.” Adeline warmly returned the embrace but Philip had a feeling that no love was lost between them.

A thousand questions were asked about their voyage and their plans for Canada. Renny Court took the opportunity to disparage the enterprise.

At dinner that night another guest appeared — old Lord Killiekeggan, Adeline’s grandfather. He was a handsome old man and it amused Philip to see Adeline standing between him and her father, bearing a likeness to each, but she had chosen all their best points. How lovely she was, Philip thought, in her yellow satin dinner gown. No other woman could compare to her.

The conversation hinged on steeplechasing, on which subject the old Marquis and his son-in-law were in perfect accord. Neither of them took any interest in the Army, nor did Corrigan Court, who held himself somewhat aloof, as though he existed on a more intellectual plane. The gentlemen remained in the dining room and drank a good deal, for the port was excellent. On the way to the drawing-room with her hostess, Adeline stopped in amazement before a picture that hung against the dark paneling of the hall. The other paintings were of men in hunting clothes, velvet court dress, or in armor. But this portrait was of a little girl of eight, her flower-like face set off by a wreath of auburn hair. Adeline exclaimed, in a loud voice: —

“Why, it’s me! And what am I doing here, I should like to know, Biddy Court!”

Biddy Court hesitated, looking uncomfortable. Then she said: —

“It’s Corry’s. Your father owed him money and he gave him the portrait in payment. Not that it covered the debt — far from it! Come along, Adeline, do! It’s dreadfully draughty here.”

But Adeline stood transfixed. She snatched up a lighted candle that stood on the top of a chest and held it so that its beams lighted the little face.

“How beautiful I was!” she cried. “Oh, the beautiful face of me! Oh, the shame to my father that he should have given such a treasure to Corry Court! It’s enough to make me cry my eyes out!” She turned furiously to her cousin. “What was the debt?”

“I don’t know,” returned Bridget, “except that it was double what the portrait is worth.”

“Then it must be a fortune, indeed, for the portrait was painted by one of the greatest artists living!” “You are welcome to the picture,” said Bridget, “if only you will pay the debt.”

“I’ll pay no debts but my own! But, oh, I do so want this picture. ’T will be a lovely thing to take out to Canada and hang beside my new portrait — the one I’ve told you of.”

“I suppose you’ll go on having portraits of yourself till you’re a hundred! Ah, I wish I could see the last one! It’s a raving beauty you’ll be then, Adeline.”

“I shall be on the face of the earth, which is more than you will be!”

Still carrying the lighted candle, she flew back along the hall and flung open the door of the dining room. The four men were talking in quiet tones, the firelight throwing a peaceful glow upon them, the candles burning low. The decanter of port in the hand of Lord Killiekeggan trembled a little, as he replenished his glass.

“Oh, but it’s a queer father you are!” cried Adeline, fixing her eyes on Renny Court. “To give away the portrait of your own child for a paltry debt, not worth the gilt frame on it! There I was, walking down the hall in my innocence, when suddenly I spied it hanging on the wall and it all but cried out in shame at being there. The candle all but fell out of my hand in my shame. Oh, well do I remember when my mother took me to Dublin to have it painted and the way the great artist gave me flowers and sweets to amuse me and the sweet little necklace on me that my grandmother gave me! Oh, Grandpapa, did you know that my father had done such a thing?”

“Is the girl mad?” asked Killiekeggan, turning to his son-in-law.

“No, no — just in a temper.” He spoke sternly to Adeline. “Come now — enough of this! The picture is not worth this to-do.”

“Not worth it!” she cried. “’Tis little you know of its value! Why, when I told the London artist the name of the great man who had painted me in childhood, he said he would gladly journey all the way to County Meath to gaze on the portrait!”

Corrigan Court asked abruptly — “And what was the name of the great artist, Adeline?”

Her lips fell apart. She stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment. She pressed her fingers to her brow and thought and then said sadly — “You’ve knocked it right out of my head, Corry. It was there just a moment ago.” Her face lighted and she turned to Philip. “I’ve said his name to you many a time, haven’t I, Philip?”

“You have,” said Philip, stoutly, “many a time.”

“And you’ve forgotten it too?” said Corrigan.

“Yes. It has just slipped my memory.” He had been drinking a good deal. His fair face was flushed.

“One glance at the portrait,” said Adeline, “even from a distance, and the name will come to me.” She turned back into the hall. The four men rose and followed her, the old Marquis carrying his glass in his hand. At about ten paces from the picture she halted and strained her eyes toward its lower corner. She had wonderful eyesight. “I could not possibly read the name from here, could I?” she asked.

“No,” returned Corrigan. “And if you put your very nose against the picture you won’t see any signature, for either the artist did not consider it worth the trouble of signing or he was ashamed of his name.”

She all but threw the candlestick at his head. “You’ve painted the name out yourself, Corry Court,” she cried, “you’ve painted it out so as to conceal its great worth! You knew that if some connoisseur saw it he would tell my father of the evil bargain you made!”

Renny Court threw a suspicious look at his cousin Corrigan. He then took the candle from Adeline’s hand and, holding it close to the portrait, scrutinized the two lower corners. “It’s a queer little blob there is here,” he said.

“Yes,” cried Adeline, “that’s just where the signature was! It was signed with a sweet little flourish. Oh, the name will come back to me in a moment.”

“It was never signed,” said Corry Court. “And you know it was never signed. It’s a pretty picture and I’ve always liked it and, when your father offered it to me, I took it. I well knew it was all I was likely to get for the debt.”

“Oh, Father, how could you?” said Adeline, tears shining in her eyes. “There’s nothing I want so much as this picture. And I was going to beg it from you as another wee wedding present for you acknowledged yourself, in a letter you wrote me to India, that it was not much you’d been able to give me in the way of a present.”

“Not much!” cried Renny Court. “Why, I’m still in debt for your trousseau! If you want this picture so badly — you have the money your great-aunt left you — buy it!”

“I’ll not part with it,” said Corry.

Adeline turned to him with a charming smile.

“You still love me, Corry dear, don’t you?”

They exchanged a look. Corrigan flushed red. Adeline gazed at him with affectionate pity.

“You may keep the picture, Corry dear,” she said. “I love to think of it here — reminding you and Biddy of me.”

“I am not likely to forget you,” said Bridget grimly. “Wherever you are, you make trouble.”

“Tut, tut, girls,” put in Lord Killiekeggan. “Don’t quarrel. Don’t spoil your pretty faces with frowns.”

Bridget knew she was not pretty but his words pleased her. She arched her neck and looked challengingly at Adeline. “Well,” she said, “shall we go into the drawing-room?”

Adeline caught her grandfather by the arm.

“Don’t leave me alone with Bridget!” she implored. “I’m afraid of her.”

“Behave yourself,” he said, and gave her hand a little slap, but he allowed himself to be led into the drawing-room.

Corry was not loath to save his old port, of which quite enough had been already drunk. He was a little downcast at the prospect of the quarrel which he knew he would have later with his wife.

Philip was in a state of bland serenity. He seated himself in a comfortable chair and accepted a pinch of snuff from the jewelled box which the old Marquis proffered him. Adeline spread out the glimmering flounces of her crinoline and eyed her grandfather beguilingly.

“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 their 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.