Читать книгу Morning at Jalna - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 7

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Lucius Madigan was an Irishman who had come out to Canada to better himself, but he was fond of saying that he was worse off in this new country than he had been in the Old Land. He had come as tutor to the young Whiteoaks six months before. Twice during those months he had been absent on drinking bouts, but on his return he was so humble and looked so ill that he was forgiven. He was a graduate of Dublin University. He had travelled in Europe and both Philip and Adeline had great respect for his learning. In any case his time at Jalna would not be much longer, for the children were to go to boarding schools in England.

Madigan was naturally a contrary man. It was almost physically painful to him to agree with anyone on any subject. Yet he was always gentle with the children. He fascinated them by his contradictory opinions. He begged them to forgive him his faults because they were the only three in the world whose opinions he valued. Once Nicholas, when repeating, as his own, some iconoclastic opinion he had heard from the tutor, was given a sound cuff by his father.

Madigan was immensely attracted by Lucy Sinclair. She was an exotic type, new to him; her slow elegant movements with her hands fascinated him. He was a man who must have a female to put on a pedestal and worship, but if she disappointed him, his worship turned to scorn. A while ago it had been Amelia Busby—she preferred her second name to Abigail, her first—whom he had worshipped, but in some way she had offended him. Now her buxom figure, her loudly expressed views, were repellent to him. She had not valued him highly, because of his habit of drinking too much, but he was far cleverer than her brothers and she was both ashamed and sorry she had lost him.

In Lucy Sinclair he had found the perfect object for worship. If Curtis Sinclair was aware of this, he made no sign. Outwardly he was as tranquil, as charming as a Southern gentleman should be. “Ah, what a manner that man has!” Adeline exclaimed to Philip. He demanded:

“What’s the matter with my manner?”

“It’s the manner,” she returned cryptically, “of a cavalry officer.”

At the beginning of the American Civil War, Lucius Madigan was in concord with the North, that is to say, as nearly in concord as was possible for his nature to be. When he heard that Irishmen were in the Northern Army he said fervently, “Ah, those lads would fight for freedom!”

But when he saw the abhorrence in which Elihu Busby held the South his opinion changed. He thoroughly disliked Elihu Busby. Everything connected with Lucy Sinclair must be admired, or at the least defended, by him. Busby had an almost worshipping admiration for Lincoln. Lucius Madigan ridiculed him. “He is the type,” he said, “who sits with his cronies in the little room behind the grocery shop, whittles a stick, and tells dirty stories.”

He said this to the three young Whiteoaks when he met them that same afternoon in the woods. His last words made Augusta turn away her face, and he glimpsed the colour deepening on her cheek.

“My dear,” he said contritely, “forgive my slip of the tongue. I should not have said that in front of you.”

Nicholas winked at his sister, which made her embarrassment even more acute.

“Would you please repeat that, Mr. Madigan?” said little Ernest. “I didn’t hear clearly.”

The tutor ignored this remark and began to talk poetically of the beauty of the trees. Among their branches darted yellow finches, elegant little bluebirds and black and gold orioles. There was a clearing in the forest, carpeted with flowers. Augusta and Ernest began at once to pick them.

Nicholas said to Lucius Madigan, “If I were grown I shouldn’t mind going to that war. The trouble is I shouldn’t know which side to fight on. Our friends are all for the North, but our mother and father and you are for the South.”

“I’m against all wars,” said Madigan. “Life in Ireland was bad enough. I didn’t come to this country to get embroiled in a cause that means nothing to me.”

“But you have principles, haven’t you?”

“Devil a one,” said Madigan. “I had them once but they were swept away when I saw the peasants starving in Ireland.”

Ernest came running to them, his hands full of flowers. “Mr. Madigan,” he said, “wouldn’t you like to free the slaves?”

“They’re a spoilt lot,” said Madigan. “If they were earning a living in Canada, they’d find out what it is to work.”

“But still they’re slaves,” said Nicholas.

“Not since Lincoln’s proclamation. They could leave in a body if they wanted, but they know when they are well off.”

The Southerners and their black slaves fascinated the children. They could talk of nothing else. The boys sought to draw out the negroes on the subject, but they would give no opinion. Their black faces were a mask. Augusta was herself too reserved to desire to probe the feelings of others.

Before the three reached the house they met their father and Mr. Sinclair. Philip was displaying, with a good deal of pride, the orchard he had planted after coming to Jalna. “I had saplings sent from England and already they have borne good crops for young trees. Such Cox’s Pippins! I never have tasted any better flavoured.”

“Pippins, eh?” said Sinclair. “I should like to taste a pippin.”

“I have some good Canadian apples too. The little snow apples are really a treat. Red skin, white flesh, tender as a pear, with fine red veins. They’ll not be ready till the late autumn, but you shall soon have an Early Transparent. Their sauce is excellent with roast duck—smooth as ointment. We know no such thing as blight; as for insect pests—the birds keep them down.” Philip Whiteoak went on to talk with gusto of his various crops.

“How many labourers have you on the land?” asked Curtis Sinclair.

“Six. Good workers, all of them.”

“I have more than a hundred in the cotton fields, but it needs all of them to do the work of half that number of white men. And there are their large families to clothe and feed.”

“Good Lord! I never could afford that.”

“It’s all right if you sell your cotton, but the Yankees are spoiling that business with their blockade. They’re the people who have made money and still are making it. They sold the slaves to us in the first place.” He spoke with restrained bitterness.

“Yes, I know,” said Philip, though he knew very little about it.

They walked on in silence for a space, then Curtis Sinclair said, “Captain Whiteoak, I think your sympathies are with the Confederacy.”

“They are indeed.”

“The Yankees have ruined my country. My father has large estates. Over seven hundred negroes. A few of them have drifted away but the great majority remain. To be clothed and fed. All ages—old people—young children.” He hesitated, then raised his fine eyes to his host’s fresh-coloured face. He said, “Captain Whiteoak, I have certain plans in mind. I am committed to an enterprise which, we hope, will put a stop to the activities of the Yankees on the Great Lakes.”

Philip opened his eyes wide. “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he said.

“It’s quite true and I will tell you more about it later. What I wish to know now is whether you would object to some of the men who are engaged in this enterprise coming here to discuss matters with me. It would be less conspicuous than meeting in a hotel. If you have any objection to my using your hospitality in this way, say the word and my wife and I will depart.”

“I’ll be glad to have you meet your friends here.” Philip spoke cautiously; he did not quite understand the possible complications of such a scheme.

“They are scarcely to be called friends,” said Curtis Sinclair. “They don’t want to see our country swallowed up by the Yankees.”

Philip wondered what all this was about, but he was of a sanguine nature and being himself so secure he would have liked to see his friends in security. The two strolling men were now overtaken by the children and their tutor. Ernest was gnawing, with his white teeth, at a hard green apple. This Philip at once snatched from him and gave him a hearty whack on the behind.

“You know very well,” he said, “that unripe fruit gives you a pain in the stomach. Do you want to keep our guests awake tonight with your howls?”

Ernest hung his head. “I forgot,” he said.

He wanted to be again in favour. He pressed between the two men and slipped a hand into Philip’s, then, after a moment, put the other hand in Sinclair’s.

Nicholas said, “Gussie told Ernest not to eat it.”

“I don’t think he heard,” she said.

“I continually do what I know I shouldn’t,” Madigan said. “I expect no better of my pupils.”

“That’s a bad way to talk in front of them,” said their father.

“I’m sorry, sir, but if I set myself up on a pedestal, would they believe in me?”

Philip turned to his daughter. “Gussie, do you believe in Mr. Madigan?”

“How can I help,” she asked, “with him under my nose all day long?”

“That’s rude,” said Philip. “Apologize at once.”

“I refuse”—Madigan spoke with heat—“to be apologized to by anybody. I don’t recognize rudeness. In fact, I approve of it.”

“If I called you a liar,” said Nicholas, “what would you say?”

“I’d say you are a clever boy to have found me out.”

A diversion was caused by the appearance of Nero in search of them. He was a huge creature with black curly hair and a benign expression. This successor to the original Nero was himself growing old and heavy but was still active and ramped about the children in joy. They romped with him. They and Madigan fell behind.

“These young ’uns of mine,” said Captain Whiteoak, “are getting no proper discipline. Thank goodness, they’ll soon be going away to school.”

“Better send them to France,” said Curtis Sinclair. “That’s where I was educated.”

“You speak French then?”

“I do.”

“I have a French Canadian working for me. He’d be delighted if you spoke to him in his native tongue. He is quite a good woodcarver.”

They were now rejoined by the children and Nero, and all entered the house, which was suffused by the radiance of sunset. Philip went to the large bedroom, opening into the hall, which he shared with Adeline. He found her brushing her long hair. Always he admired her hair, which was rather more red than a glossy ripe chestnut. He did not tell her so, for she was vain enough already, but he asked, “What are you wearing for dinner?”

“This green brocade.”

“Dressing for dinner,” he said, resting his hands on the footboard of the painted leather bed that showed a gorgeous assembly of flowers and fruit, among which the mischievous faces of monkeys peered. This bed they had brought with them from India, also the gaily plumaged parrot that perched on the headboard. “This dressing for dinner,” he repeated, for he was sure she had not heard him with all that hair over her ears, “is a confounded nuisance. Why should a country gentleman dress for dinner?”

She heard him and said, “Wouldn’t it be nice if you came to dinner smelling of the stable? No—we do right to put our best foot foremost. The Sinclairs appreciate it. That lovely dress she wore last night she bought in Paris before the war. As for her other clothes, she tells me they are practically in rags—her shoes with holes in them.”

“Why don’t you give her a pair of yours?”

“Mine! Haven’t you noticed how tiny her feet are?”

He hadn’t noticed, he said.

She was delighted. She put both arms about his neck and kissed him. “You darling!” she cried.

He could not know why he had pleased her and he did not try to guess. She went on to say, “It is a great grief to Lucy that she has no children. She shed tears over it today, even though, as she says, they are ruined—their estates taken by the Yankees, so they would have nothing to leave their children.”

“It’s as well they have none,” said Philip.

“You mean because of his deformity. But have you noticed what beautiful small hands he has?”

“Don’t you get sweet on him, Adeline. I won’t have it.”

Philip removed his outer garments and, in his underclothes, planted himself in front of the marble-topped washing-stand. The marble was glossy black but the large ewer, basin, soap-dish and slop-bowl were cream-coloured with a design of rich crimson roses. Philip poured water into the basin, lathered well his hands with Adeline’s Cashmere Bouquet soap, washed his face and neck. He emerged handsome and ruddy, and soon was dressed and prepared to go to the dining-room.

Descending the stairway were their visitors, the Sinclairs, she holding up her velvet train. They proceeded to the dining-room where windows stood open to the warm breeze. There was not on the table the variety of food to which these Southerners were used, but the Scotch broth, the roast duck with apple sauce, the new potatoes, the fresh garden peas and asparagus were excellent. The raspberry tart, with thick Jersey cream, was pronounced delicious. The coffee the Sinclairs found atrocious but drank it with a smile.

Also present at this dinner were the Laceys. He was a retired British rear-admiral but was always called Admiral. Though their means were slender, their house small, they behaved as they felt became their station. Both were polite, though a little standoffish. Both were short, plump, blond and had what might be called “pretty faces”. They bore a striking resemblance to each other, though they were of no blood relationship. They had at the first been attracted by this resemblance and were pleased when their children were the image of them.

Philip Whiteoak had taken care to make certain, before he invited them, where lay the sympathies of the Laceys. After his first glass of wine Admiral Lacey said in a warm undertone to Lucy Sinclair, “As I live, madam, I’ve always detested the Yankees.”

She answered, in her soft Southern tones, “Oh, Admiral, I could embrace you for that!”

Mrs. Lacey overheard. Her shock was reflected in the deeper pink of her face, her mouth which took on the form of an O. The Admiral beamed delightedly, without regard to his wife’s feelings. He repeated, “Always detested ’em.”

“They are getting rich out of this war, while we lose everything,” said Lucy Sinclair.

Curtis Sinclair thought the talk should be changed to a lighter subject, for he feared that his wife was about to burst into tears. He therefore praised the roast duckling. “I must tell you,” he said, “that, shortly before we left Richmond, Mrs. Sinclair paid seventy-five dollars for a turkey.”

There were general comments of amazement, then Adeline cried, “How I should love to see Richmond! The very name captivates me. It’s so romantic, so civilized, while here we are in the wilds.”

“But you have everything,” said Lucy Sinclair. “Beautiful furniture, exquisite linen, superb silver! I cannot tell you how surprised we were to find it so, for we had pictured log cabins—with Indians and wolves prowling about.”

The Whiteoaks were uncertain whether to be pleased or not. Philip said, “You’d have to go far North or West to find such conditions.”

Lucius Madigan remarked, from the far end of the table where he sat with his three pupils:

“If you want to see wildness, Mrs. Sinclair, you should go to Ireland.”

“We have many soldiers of Irish antecedents in our Carolinian army,” she said, “and they are the best fighters of all.”

“My grandfather, the Marquis of Killiekeggan,” said Adeline, “was a great fighter. In his day he fought seven duels.”

“A Marquis,” Lucy Sinclair breathed, wide-eyed. “Did you say your grandfather was a Marquis?”

“Indeed he was,” said Adeline, “and a hard drinker, even for an Irish Marquis.”

Nicholas spoke up. “It’s a wonder that Mama hadn’t told you already about her grandfather, the Marquis. Usually she tells about him at the start.”

Adeline might well have been angry. On the contrary she looked pleased and joined in the laughter.

Little Ernest felt that he had been long enough in obscurity and now remarked in his treble voice, “Before our visitors came we ate dinner at noon and supper at night. Why?”

“Because it’s more stylish, silly,” said Nicholas.

Adeline threw her sons a baleful glance. “Any more insolence from you two,” she said, “and you leave the table.”

Philip remarked tranquilly, “At Jalna we lead the life of country people. In fact, it is necessary in this strenuous part of the world.”

Madigan appeared to be cherishing a secret joke. He shook with silent laughter but no one paid any attention to him. Admiral Lacey told stories of the early days of his settling in Canada. He never tired of these reminiscences or of the sound of his own voice. Though he was strongly on the side of the South in the American Civil War he was of the opinion that they were managing their campaign badly and Curtis Sinclair agreed with him.

After dessert the three ladies and Augusta went to the drawing-room. The tutor and the two boys disappeared into the moonlit darkness of the lawn. The men left at table filled their glasses with port. Philip Whiteoak remarked, “I admire the restraint you show, Mr. Sinclair. I’m doubtful of my ability to hang on to myself as you do.”

“It would be impossible to me,” said Admiral Lacey. “I’d be furiously trying to do something about it.”

“You mean,” said Sinclair, “that you would not leave your country to its fate and escape to a foreign one.”

The Admiral was a little embarrassed.

“You know your limitations, sir,” he said with a glance at Curtis Sinclair’s hump, “better than I do.”

The Southerner’s beautiful hand fingered the crystal stem of his wine-glass.

“We of the South,” said Sinclair, “have much to avenge. It’s not enough to burn your house and leave your plantation a scorched ruin, as some are doing. There are those among us who want something more active than the mere destruction of our own property.” He paused and looked enquiringly into the faces of the other two.

“You can be sure of our sympathy in anything you do,” said Philip Whiteoak.

“With the exception of joining the Confederate army”—the Admiral spoke fiercely and drained his glass—“I will do anything I can to co-operate. But I am a poor man. I cannot give money.”

“We are not without funds,” said the Southerner haughtily.

He went on: “Last spring an officer of the Union army—a Colonel Dahlgren—was killed in action. Our men found on his body an order from headquarters to sack and burn Richmond. We have not forgiven that, and never shall.”

“Dastardly,” declared Admiral Lacey. “As bad as Cromwell’s Ironsides.”

“Even worse,” said Philip. “Now what do you plan to do?”

However, Curtis Sinclair retreated. He tapped nervously on the table with his fingers. He said, in a low voice, “It would take me some time to explain just what are our plans and I’m sure Mrs. Whiteoak will be expecting us in the drawing-room.” It could be seen that, at the moment, he had nothing more to say. Shortly the three men joined the ladies.

It was noticeable to Philip Whiteoak that the atmosphere in that room was not of the happiest. Lucy Sinclair was sitting on a blue satin settee, the flounces of her Paris gown spread gracefully about her, the tip of one tiny slippered foot just showing. She was exclaiming on the beauty of some little ivory elephants from India, which Adeline had taken from a cabinet to show her. But Mrs. Lacey sat aloof, looking askance at the other two. Her husband, without a glance at her, went straight to Lucy Sinclair’s side. Curtis Sinclair joined Adeline by the cabinet. Philip sat down beside Mrs. Lacey.

“Is it possible,” she asked, in a tense whisper, “that all Southern women behave as flirtatiously?”

“Sh,” he whispered back, “she will hear you.”

“What are you two whispering about?” cried Mrs. Sinclair. “Not about me and the dear Admiral, I hope.”

“I was thinking,” said Mrs. Lacey, “that after all you say you have been through, I should expect you to be a little subdued.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Sinclair, “if you had known me before, you would see a great difference in me. But it’s my nature to be gay, and when I’m in such good company——”

There was a welcome interruption here, as the tutor and the three children came into the room through one of the french windows that opened on the terrace. The gentle summer breeze moved the curtains, and those inside the room could feel the pine-scented darkness of the night, barely lit by a few distant stars and a young moon rising above the ravine. A whip-poor-will was repeating, with mournful ecstasy, his three insistent notes.

“Ernest,” cried his mother, “you should be in your bed.”

“I have come to say good-night.” The little boy spoke with polite self-possession and went to her.

She opened her arms wide, exclaiming, “Come and kiss me quick then and be off with you.” She spoke in consciously Irish accents and made a consciously dramatic picture with her child, as though protecting him from all the dangers of this world.

“What lovely children!” Lucy Sinclair remarked to Admiral Lacey. “How I envy the parents! It’s a sorrow to my husband and me that we have no children. How I could have loved a daughter!”

“I have two girls,” the Admiral said proudly, “and one son. He is in the Royal Navy.”

Adeline gave Ernest a resounding kiss. “Now,” she said, “say your good-nights to all the company.”

Nothing reluctant, Ernest embraced and kissed each one in turn. He wished he might stay a little longer in the drawing-room in the light of the chandelier. When he put his arms about Lucy, he said, “I can recite ‘Bingen on the Rhine’.”

She smelled his sweet child’s breath. She pressed him to her and said, “Will you recite it for me? I adore recitations.” Mrs. Lacey, seeing the embrace, thought, “She pursues even little boys.”

Ernest asked, “May I recite, Mama?”

“You may,” she answered grandly, “if you don’t disgrace yourself by forgetting the words.”

“I’ll not forget,” he promised with confidence. He moved to a position where he faced the company. He began, in his treble tones:

“ ‘A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers;

There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was lack of woman’s tears.

But a comrade was beside him, as his life-blood ebbed away,

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.’ ”

And so on to the end without one mistake.

At the burst of applause, Ernest blushed and ran to sit by his mother.

“Who, in this part of the world, taught him to recite with such feeling and such distinctness?” asked Lucy Sinclair.

“Our Rector’s wife,” said Adeline, “is very clever. She teaches them to recite and to play the piano.”

“The piano,” exclaimed Lucy. “Which of them plays the piano?”

It could be seen that Nicholas was the one. His downcast eyes, the pout of his lips, showed his embarrassment.

“Come now,” urged Adeline, “play that pretty piece of Schubert’s.”

“No, Mama”—he shook his head—“I can’t.”

“Why, you played it only the other day for my girls and me,” cried Mrs. Lacey.

“That was different.”

“Go to the piano at once, sir,” commanded his father.

Nicholas rose and, with a hangdog air, sat down at the instrument. Without too many mistakes he played the piece through.

“What spirit—what finish!” exclaimed Lucy Sinclair.

“My wife should know,” said her husband, “for she studied music in Europe.”

“She must play for us,” said Adeline.

“If there is one thing above another that I enjoy, it’s a musical evening,” declared the Admiral, who scarcely knew one tune from another.

“What I enjoy,” said Mrs. Lacey, “are recitations.”

“Ah, you should hear my daughter recite,” Adeline said.

Nicholas had been well applauded for his performance and now returned to his tutor’s side where he sat silent on a sofa just inside the door.

“Gussie,” said Captain Whiteoak, “stand up and recite ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’.”

Unsmilingly and with girlish dignity Augusta rose and went to a suitable spot, not too near her audience, for her voice must be raised. In spite of her youth she was impressive, her sallow face intense, her black hair hanging in ordered ringlets to her waist. When she spoke the words “Half a league, half a league, half a league onward”, she slightly waved her right hand and gazed into space, “Into the jaws of death rode the Six Hundred”.

It was more than Lucy Sinclair could bear. She burst into tears. As he witnessed her emotion the Admiral’s eyes also filled with tears. Adeline put an arm about Lucy and patted her back. Lucy sobbed:

“It was noble and heroic. You recited it beautifully, Gussie.”

“I always want to cry when I hear that piece,” said Adeline, “but it is hard for me to shed tears.”

Lucius Madigan’s voice, as though talking to himself, came from where he sat. “I can’t understand,” he said, “why such a tragic mistake should be celebrated. It is best forgotten.”

“What would you have done if you’d been given that order?” asked Nicholas of the tutor.

“Run the other way as fast as I could,” he answered without hesitation.

As he was an Irishman, this was considered to be funny. Everyone, with the exception of Lucy, laughed. She was wiping her eyes. Mrs. Lacey regarded her without sympathy. What right had she, an American, to work herself up over the Charge of the Light Brigade!

“I wish,” said little Ernest, “that Mr. Madigan would sing one of his Irish songs.”

“Ah, yes, do.” Adeline spoke with rich emotion. “Though it breaks my heart to hear them.” Always she spoke as though her poor torn heart were in Ireland, but in reality she had been glad to leave that country. Though she loved her family, she couldn’t get on with her father. “Mrs. Sinclair will play your accompaniment, I’m sure. She plays so beautifully. Her fingers ripple over the keys like a brook over its pebbles.”

Soon Madigan’s cool Irish tenor voice charmed all in his rendering of “The Last Rose of Summer”.