Читать книгу Morning at Jalna - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 5

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Lucy Sinclair remarked to her husband:

“That little fellow could be a perfect pest but so far he’s rather sweet.”

“Certainly he’s very pretty,” said Curtis Sinclair.

Both turned their weary eyes on little Philip Whiteoak who was struggling to build a house of toy bricks on the grass nearby. It was as much as he could do to place one brick on top of another but he heaped them with commanding concentration and pouted his baby lips in resolve.

“He favours his papa,” said Lucy Sinclair.

“A typical Englishman.” Her husband spoke half-admiringly, half in resentment. “A stubborn, self-opinionated type.”

“These people,” said she, “are our friends; it’s heaven to be here.”

“They are generosity itself,” he agreed. “Whiteoak said to me this morning—‘You are to consider this your home—you and Mrs. Sinclair and your servants—till the war is over’.”

She took out a lace handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “What will be left to us?” she exclaimed, with a sob.

The tiny boy left his building bricks and came to her. He patted her on the knee. “Poor lady,” he said. “Don’t cry.”

She stroked his blond curls. “You little darling,” she said, and added, “No, I won’t cry. I’ll be brave to please you.”

Her husband laid his hand on her other knee. It was a singularly handsome hand. Always had she admired the thumb in particular. It was almost as long as a finger and perfectly rounded, the nail showing a half-moon. Her eyes moved from his hand to his pale elegant profile, and from his profile to his strong thickset body, with the pronounced hump on the back. He was a hunchback, and because of this affliction had not been able to remain in the South and fight for his country but had come to Canada with his delicate wife, hoping that he might do something to influence the fortunes of the South. In any case it was necessary to get Lucy out of the country. He was now impoverished yet still thought of himself as an independent Southern planter.

Shortly before the Civil War the Sinclairs had met the Whiteoaks in England where Philip and Adeline were on holiday. The meeting had quickly blossomed into friendship. Both couples were fascinated by the differences in the others—the Sinclairs typically Carolinian, the Whiteoaks English and Irish. The Whiteoaks had invited the Sinclairs to visit them in Canada but it was only now, and in such tragic circumstances, that the visit was paid.

They had arrived three days before. Everything to the Sinclairs was so strange, so Northern, yet so friendly, the Whiteoak family so healthy, so amiable. The days were warm but the nights cool. They slept in a great fourposter and under them a feather bed. They felt far removed from the ruin of their own home, from all that was familiar to them. They had brought with them three slaves, for they felt incapable of living without them. One was Lucy Sinclair’s personal maid, an attractive mulatto. One was a cook, already quarrelling with the Whiteoaks’ cook. The third was a man, a sturdy young negro.

Lucy Sinclair remarked to her husband: “At any moment we shall be summoned to tea, a meal I could very well do without. Oh, this eternal tea-drinking!”

Her husband grunted in sympathy but said, “Control your voice, Lucy. Even that child appears to be listening to you.”

The small Philip had his blue eyes fixed disapprovingly on them. He looked about to cry. Lucy bent towards him as though admiring the house of blocks he was building.

She clapped her hands and exclaimed: “Pretty! Pretty!”

“Be thankful we’re here, Lucy. Show the Whiteoaks that you appreciate their kindness. Here comes Philip. Eager, I suppose, for three cups of tea, scones and blackberry jam. Smile, Lucy.”

She did not need to be told that. The sight of the handsome blond Philip Whiteoak was enough to bring a pleased smile to any woman’s face. He said:

“I hope you’re feeling better, Mrs. Sinclair, and ready for a hearty tea. I’m told that it’s waiting in the dining-room.”

He gave her an admiring look as she rose and shook out the folds of her skirt. He averted his eyes from Curtis Sinclair’s disfigured back. At that moment a nursemaid came hurrying from the house, picked up the tiny boy, who gave a cry of protest, and carried him indoors.

They found Adeline Whiteoak and her three older children standing about the tea-table: Augusta, with long black curls and a heavy fringe of hair over her high forehead—a reserved child, just nicely into her teens; Nicholas, next in age, an eager boy, with beautiful dark eyes and wavy hair. He looked fearless and proud, even bold, but was well-mannered. The blue-eyed, fair-haired Ernest was two years younger. Adeline appeared almost consciously to make a picturesque group with her children.

“My brood,” she said, “all but the baby. They have been spending a few days with friends. I thought it a good idea, while you settled in, for I knew you must be very tired.”

The Sinclairs greeted the three children with formal courtesy, most flattering to them. Nicholas drew himself up and looked manly. Ernest gave a pleased smile. Augusta, with downcast eyes, wore an expression of uncertainty. She could not decide whether or not she would like these slave-owners. Certainly they were the guests of her papa, but in the house where she had been visiting she had heard things said against them. How beautiful the lady was and how elegantly dressed! Even though Augusta’s eyes were downcast, she was conscious of all this.

“Thank God,” exclaimed Lucy Sinclair, “I have no children to inherit the tragedy of our lives! That would be beyond bearing.”

Her husband, to relieve the tension caused by her emotion, remarked: “I suppose all your children were born here at Jalna.”

“No, indeed,” said Philip. “Our daughter was born in India where my regiment was stationed. I sold my commission. We sailed to England and Ireland to visit our people and from there sailed for Canada.”

It was not in Adeline Whiteoak’s nature to be outdone in an exhibition of feeling. Now, the picture of a tragedy queen, she recalled that voyage.

“What a heart-breaking time it was!” she cried. “The goodbyes to my family in Ireland. We knew we might never see them again. There were my father and mother mourning—all my dear brothers. And then a terrible voyage. My Indian ayah died and we buried her at sea.”

Here Philip broke in to say, “And I had the baby to dandle! That one,” and he pointed to Augusta whose head drooped in shame. He went on, “This boy Nicholas was born in Quebec. Ernest was the first Whiteoak to be born in this house.” He put his arm about the little boy’s shoulders and Ernest looked proudly about the table at which all were now seating themselves.

Adeline poured tea and Lucy Sinclair remarked, “I’ve been admiring those handsome portraits of you and Captain Whiteoak.”

“In his Hussars’ uniform,” said Adeline. “We had them done just before we sailed for Canada.”

“In Ireland?” asked Lucy Sinclair.

Adeline nodded, avoiding Philip’s eyes, but he said firmly, “No. They were painted in London by a very fashionable artist. Do you think they are good likenesses?”

Both the Sinclairs found the likenesses perfect. They gazed at them in admiration, then Lucy Sinclair said, “It breaks my heart to think what has probably happened to the portraits, going back for four generations, in my old home.”

“You must not feel discouraged,” said Philip, with his strong comforting glance. “Things will take a turn for the better.”

They were now seated at table. Nicholas said suddenly, addressing the Sinclairs, “In the house where my brother and sister and I have been visiting, they think Mr. Lincoln is a splendid man.”

“Do they indeed?” Curtis Sinclair said tranquilly.

“One of their sons is fighting with the Yankees,” continued Nicholas. “They pray for him and Mr. Lincoln. Do you think that is wrong?”

“Nobody wants to hear your voice,” said Philip sternly. “Eat your bread and butter.”

Little Ernest spoke up. “Our friend Mr. Busby says Lincoln is a hero.”

“One word more from either of you,” said their father, “and you go.”

The small boys subsided but appeared less crushed under the rebuke than did their sister.

“I hear,” said Adeline Whiteoak, “that the Lincolns know nothing of good manners.”

“Neither they nor their sons,” said Mrs. Sinclair. “They are an uncouth quartet.”

“Manners maketh man,” spoke up little Ernest. “That’s in my copy-book.”

“Children,” said their mother, “you may be excused.”

The three rose, each gave a little bow to the grown-ups and sedately left the room. Once outdoors they danced across the lawn in their excitement. It was so unusual to have visitors, especially visitors from America.

“They’re having a civil war,” said Nicholas.

“Does that mean they’re fighting to be civilized?” asked little Ernest.

Augusta put an arm about him. “No, little silly,” she said. “They are very elegant and well-mannered, Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, I mean. But the Yankees won’t let them keep their slaves in peace. So they are at war.”

“There goes the man slave now,” said Nicholas. “I’m going to speak to him.”

“No, no,” begged Augusta. “He might not like it.”

He put aside her restraining hand. Gussie and Ernest remained aloof but Nicholas marched straight to the negro.

“You like being in Canada?” he asked.

“Yaas, suh, it’s fine here,” said the man, his inscrutable eyes looking toward the treetops.

“Do you like to get away from the war?”

“Yaas, suh, it’s good to get away from the war,” answered the man.

Ernest had followed his brother. Now clinging to his arm he asked, in a small voice, “Did you like being a slave?”

“Yaas, suh, it was fine.”

“But you’re free, now that you’re in Canada, aren’t you?” persisted Nicholas.

“I haven’t thought about it,” said the negro.

“What is your name?” asked Ernest.

“Jerry Cram.”

Augusta called sternly to her brothers, “Boys! you were told not to ask questions. You’ll get into trouble with Mama. Do leave off and come for a walk.”

The two boys came reluctantly. They saw the pretty young mulatto housemaid come out of the side door and linger near the negro.

“She’s not supposed to talk to him,” said Augusta.

“How can she help it when she’s in the same house with him?” Nicholas eyed the pair with curiosity.

“Is that flirting?” asked little Ernest.

“Wherever did you hear such talk, Ernest?” She took her small brother by the hand and led him firmly away.

Nicholas said, “I asked Mrs. Sinclair’s lady’s maid.”

“What is a lady’s maid?” interrupted Ernest.

“Little silly! A lady’s maid dresses a lady, brushes her hair, sews on her buttons. This Annabelle gives Mrs. Sinclair’s hair one hundred strokes with the brush every night. Have you noticed how her hair glistens? That’s the brushing.”

“Our mama’s hair is red,” said Ernest. “She says she is glad none of us got it from her. Why, I wonder.”

“It’s considered a blemish,” said Augusta.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but I suppose black or brown or golden are better.”

“Gussie, I heard someone say to Mama, ‘Your beautiful hair, Mrs. Whiteoak’.”

“Who said that?”

“I think it was Mr. Wilmott.”

“What did Mama say?” asked Nicholas.

“She said—‘You old silly’.”

“That’s just her way,” said Nicholas. “She didn’t mean it.”

“Do you think she liked it?” asked Augusta, shocked.

“Certainly. Women love compliments. When you’re grown up you’ll love them.”

“Indeed I shan’t.” She looked offended.

Two manly figures now emerged from the woods that bordered the very paths of the estate, giving it an air of primeval seclusion and grandeur. These were the figures of Elihu Busby, the neighbour in whose house the three children had been visiting. He had been born in Canada and was excessively patriotic, and proud of the fact. Compared with him his neighbours were newcomers and he expected them to look to him for guidance in the affairs of the country. One of his sons was fighting with the army of the North in the American Civil War and of this he was proud. He looked on slavery as an abomination.

The other manly figure was that of David Vaughan, another neighbour.

“I hear,” said Busby, “that you have visitors.”

“Yes,” said Augusta. “They have come for a visit because we are peaceful here.”

“Do come and meet them, Uncle David,” put in Ernest, tugging at David Vaughan’s sleeve. He was not related to the Whiteoaks but the young ones always addressed him so. “They are nice, Uncle David.”

But David Vaughan and Elihu Busby showed no inclination to meet the Southerners.

“You will see little of us while they are in your house,” said Busby. “You know what is our opinion of slavery.”

Nicholas’ eyes sparkled with mischief. He said:

“I guess they’ll be staying a long while because they’ve brought three slaves with them.”

At the word slaves the two men drew back in consternation.

“Slaves,” repeated Busby. “Here? At Jalna?”

“Yes. And there is one of them now. That fat woman hanging clothes on the line.”

The woman, middle-aged and very black, was at some little distance from them and appeared to be unaware that she was watched.

“Poor creature!” exclaimed Busby on a deep note. “What a fate!”

“The slaves could leave if they wanted,” said Augusta. “But they appear to enjoy their servitude.”

At this moment the negress let out a jolly peal of laughter, and called to someone in the basement kitchen.

“That’s Cindy,” said little Ernest. “She can make a lovely cake—called Angel Food. I shall ask her to make one tomorrow.” And he darted off.

Augusta and Nicholas also continued their walk. With them out of earshot, Elihu Busby asked: “Is that negress married?”

“How should I know?” said Vaughan.

“Well—if she’s not, she ought to be. It’s disgraceful to have her in the house with those children. They’re remarkably observant. They see everything. Especially that boy, Nicholas.”

“He wouldn’t be his mother’s son, if he weren’t remarkable,” said David Vaughan.

Elihu Busby gave him a sharp look, then said, “What I cannot understand is why Mrs. Whiteoak could bear to make friends with these slave-owners and invite them to visit Jalna and bring slaves with them, in a time when their country is at civil war. I’m shocked that Captain Whiteoak should countenance it.”

“They will soon know our opinion concerning it all,” said David Vaughan. “For me, I will not enter their house while those people are under its roof.” His sensitive lips quivered in his emotion.

The front door of the house opened and the figure of a woman appeared in the porch, on the white-painted pillars of which a lusty young Virginia creeper was already spreading its greenness. Adeline Whiteoak descended and came with a light step to where the two men stood.

“An admirable walk,” said Busby, out of the side of his mouth. “She’s graceful as a doe.”

Vaughan made no reply. His deep-set eyes met hers in sombre accusation. She saw but refused to recognize it. She said:

“How glad I am you two have appeared! I was longing for this. You must come straight in and meet our guests from South Carolina. You’ll find them perfectly delightful.”

“I refuse to meet any slave-owners,” Busby said violently. “You must know that I am heart and soul with the North.”

“I also,” said Vaughan, in a low tense voice.

“Ah, but you’ll change your minds completely when you meet them. They are full of charm. And their voices! So soft and sweet.”

“I’d as soon touch a cobra as shake hands with a slave-owner,” said Elihu Busby.

“Then you won’t come in?” she asked, as though deeply surprised.

“You know that my son Wellington is fighting on the side of the North? These people are his enemies. We may get word at any hour that he’s been killed.”

David Vaughan asked—“Mrs. Whiteoak, have you read Uncle Tom’s Cabin?”

“I have and I’m disgusted with Mrs. Stowe. She took particular cases and wrote of them as though they were universal. Mrs. Sinclair has never heard of such a brutal master as Legree.”

“Why,” pursued Busby, with contempt, “did these Sinclairs bring slaves with them?”

“Because the slaves begged to be brought. They worship the very ground their master and mistress walk on. Ah, ’tis beautiful to see them. These Southerners are the real aristocrats. They are waited on hand and foot. When I consider the rough haphazard service I get, I feel really sorry for myself.”

“Mrs. Whiteoak,” said Elihu Busby, “would you like to be waited on by slaves?”

“I should indeed.”

“Then I’m thoroughly ashamed for you,” broke in David Vaughan, greatly moved.

Elihu Busby began to laugh. “Don’t believe her, David,” he said. “She doesn’t mean a word of it. She’s just showing off.”

“She is showing a side of her I had rather not see.” Vaughan waved a dramatic arm in the direction of the three slaves gathered together in admiration around the baby, Philip. “Do these slave-owners realize that they are now in a free country? That those miserable blacks can walk out at any moment and leave them to wait on themselves?”

The Sinclairs accompanied by their host now appeared on the porch. Adeline, with a triumphant smile, moved across the well-kept lawn to join them. Over her shoulder she threw a goodbye to the two neighbours.

“What a lovely walk that woman has!” repeated Busby.

She knew that they were gazing after her. She could feel it in her prideful bones. The long flounced skirt of her puce taffeta dress swept the grass. She bent to smell a tea rose that grew by the porch, before she mounted the steps.

Curtis Sinclair carried in his hand the latest copy of The New York Tribune. The news it brought was the basis for long military discussions between him and Philip Whiteoak.

Now the Carolinian had been telling of the route by which his party had arrived in Canada. They had taken ship at Charleston, passed through the blockade on a stormy night and then made for Bermuda. “There we were able,” he said, “to exchange our Confederate dollars for pounds sterling.”

“And at a loss to us, you may be sure,” chimed in his wife.

Curtis Sinclair went on, “There we managed to catch an English passenger ship which brought us safely to Montreal.”

“What adventures!” Adeline fairly danced up the steps to the porch. “Adventure is the savour of life.”

The Busbys and the Whiteoaks were naturally much affected as were all people in that part of the Province bordering on the States. But these two families were aware, more than most, of an underground group of agents of the Confederacy sent into Canada with the object of making raids across the border and destroying Yankee shipping on the Great Lakes.

While Elihu Busby was so passionately on the side of the North, Philip Whiteoak had sympathy with the South, stimulated by the Sinclairs, though, as events progressed, he began to realize the hopelessness of their cause. As a soldier he understood the import of these events, and their meaning to Canada, much more clearly than did Elihu Busby.