Читать книгу Morning at Jalna - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 8
ОглавлениеNIGHT
When the guests had gone Philip Whiteoak and Curtis Sinclair went out into the velvet darkness of the summer night, for there was now no moon. They paced up and down in front of the house talking, talking. The door stood open and the lamplight from the hall fell on the figures of the two men when they passed. They were in striking contrast. Both were bareheaded and Philip Whiteoak was a head taller than the other. His fresh complexion, his bold handsome features, broad shoulders and flat back, his look of being accustomed to command, would make many another man wish he might be in Philip’s shoes. He restrained his stride to suit the awkward walk of the Southerner. Yet, in spite of the hump on his back, Sinclair was a figure of dignity. An arresting figure. A face subtle and sensitive.
When at last they turned into the house the Southerner held out his hand. “Good-night, Captain Whiteoak,” he said, “and thank you. I hope I shall do nothing to make you regret your kindness.” They shook hands with warmth and Philip went straight to his own room.
He expected to find Adeline asleep but the moment he tiptoed into the room she sat up in bed. The candle nightlight on a table by the head of the bed barely revealed his stalwart figure.
“Whatever have you been up to?” she demanded. “What were you two men talking about?”
“Go to sleep.” He spoke peremptorily.
“I will not go to sleep. I must know what all this talk is about.”
“Why?” He came to her side.
“Because,” she cried, “I am a woman and cannot rest till I know.”
“Behave yourself and go to sleep,” he said.
She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “I’m burning with curiosity,” she declared.
He gave her cheek a playful pinch.
“Good God,” she cried, “can’t you recognize that I am a woman of character, able to take part in any scheme that’s afoot?”
Her parrot, roused by her raised voice, uttered loud protests in Hindustani, opened his beak and showed his dark tongue.
“What possessed me to marry an Irishwoman I can’t fathom,” Philip said, and sat down on the bed beside her.
However, he was so full of Curtis Sinclair’s plan that he could not restrain himself from imparting some of it to her. In fact it would be necessary for her to know. She was not an ordinary female to be put off with a few half-truths. She was a person to be reckoned with. Sometimes he almost wished she were of weaker fibre but, looking into her luminous eyes that had nothing wistful in them, seeing her proud and forward-looking profile, he could not wish her to be different. The snowy frill of her nightdress came up to her chin. He put his finger under her chin and remarked, “Well, here goes.”
“Yes?” she breathed eagerly.
“Curtis Sinclair,” he said, “is one of the organizers of an underground group—agents of the Southern Confederacy. They are being sent to Canada by President Jefferson Davis.” Philip hesitated. He fingered his cravat. “I doubt if I should be telling you this, Adeline,” he said.
“In any case, I’d get it out of Lucy,” she retorted.
He went on, looking suddenly very serious, “These men are to conduct raids across the border with the object of destroying Northern shipping on the Great Lakes.”
Adeline threw herself back on her plump down pillows, her body quivering with excitement.
“What a glorious revenge!” she cried.
“By Jove,” he said, “you have a wicked grin.”
“I feel wicked when I think of those despicable Yankees.” Suddenly she too became serious. “What part are we to play in this?” she demanded. “For the Sinclairs must expect us to play a part, otherwise he would not have confided in you.”
“Our part is to be a passive one,” said Philip. “It simply is to allow Curtis Sinclair to receive certain members of this underground group under our roof and to give them orders.”
“I will receive them.” Again she sat up. “No one shall be able to say that I have not played my part.”
“You have no part in this,” he cried firmly. “All you have to do is to see nothing—say nothing.”
“And all those brave men coming here! Never.”
As she raised her voice, the parrot fluttered down from the head of her bed uttering noises of protest. He alighted at the foot, then walked the length of her body and, when he reached her head, pressed his feathered cheek to hers.
“Dear Boney,” she murmured to him.
In Hindustani, the only language he knew, he muttered terms of endearment to her.
Philip began to undress. He said:
“Put that bird back on his perch. I refuse to get into bed with him.”
Adeline rose and carried Boney to his cage. Through the bars he swore at Philip. “Haramzada—Iflatoon!”
Adeline, looking tall in her voluminous nightdress, went to the open window. “The lilac has almost finished its blooming,” she said, “but oh, how heavenly the scent! Come and smell.”
Together they sniffed the scent of the lilac and the sweet air of the virgin countryside. There was no sound other than the faint rustle of the leaves and the plash of the stream in the green depths of the ravine.
Upstairs in the Sinclairs’ room the two Southerners had been discussing, first the evening that lay behind them, then the problems that lay ahead.
Lucy Sinclair exclaimed, “I am quite in love with these Whiteoaks. They are so natural, so spontaneous, and so handsome. Isn’t her colouring exquisite? That auburn hair—that creamy complexion—those eyes! Thank God, I am a woman who can admire other women.”
“Whiteoak is a very nice fellow,” Curtis Sinclair said. “He is quite willing to let me use his house as headquarters. Of course, all will be done secretly. The men will come here only after dark. They will leave as quietly as they come. I think the neighbours will suspect nothing.”
At this moment Lucy Sinclair’s maid came into the room. “Ah’ve come,” she said, “to brush yo’ haar, missus. My goodness, it does need attention.” She wielded the brush, as she spoke, as though it were a weapon. Her face shone with benign purpose. When her mistress, wrapped in a satin peignoir, sank into a chair, she set to brushing the long, fair locks with soothing strokes.
“Are you getting on better with the other servants here, Annabelle?” asked Lucy Sinclair. “I hope you are always polite to them.”
“Laws, missus, I’m all smiles when I speaks to them. All but that Irishman, Patsy, for I can’t understand half what he says.” Annabelle doubled up with laughter at the mere thought of Patsy.
Now Cindy, the negress, entered, her arms full of freshly laundered clothes which she began to lay in bureau drawers, at the same time complaining loudly that she had been unable to get possession of the flatirons before evening. “We’ll all be in rags, missus,” she said, in a mournful voice, “if we don’ git some new clothes purty soon. Jus’ you look at dis here shoe!” She held up a foot for inspection. The sole of her shoe was worn into a hole.
“Have patience,” Lucy Sinclair soothed her. “We shall have new clothes when this horrible war is over. Then we shall go home, I hope.”
The negress raised her hands to heaven. “Ah pray to God, missus, it will be before winter comes, for they tell me it’s bitter cold here and de snow up to your waist. Us niggers would suttainly die of cold.”
Curtis Sinclair had been standing by the window with his back to the room. When the servants had left, he turned and asked his wife, “Where do those two sleep?”
“In the small bedroom next this,” she said. “And Jerry is tucked away somewhere in the basement.”
“We should not have brought these three slaves with us,” he said. “It’s too much to expect of the Whiteoaks.”
“Surely you would not want me to wait on myself!” There was an hysterical note in her voice. Twice she said this, her voice trembling.
“Of course not,” he answered.
“And you must know that both women are in need of new clothes. Jerry too needs new clothes and shoes. All three are badly off for something new.”
“They may go to the devil,” he said calmly. “I have no money to spend on them.” He took out his watch and began to wind it. She said nothing more.
