01 The Building of Jalna (10 page)

“Oh, the lovely pig!” cried Adeline, laughing in delight. “I do wish my brothers had been here to see that! Why don’t they come up from below? Do you know, Philip, that little Mary is wonderfully improved. You should have seen her settling her mother in and fetching her a cup of tea to drink. Why — look! The post chaise and horses! Merciful heaven, Philip, ’tis my father and mother and the wee Timothy with them and the four horses all in a lather!” Her voice broke into a scream. “Philip, stop the ship!”

For a moment he stood stock-still in consternation. He saw his father-in-law leap from the box, throw the reins to the coachman, and assist his wife to alight. He saw him take off his hat and wave it, motioning the ship to stop. The space between them was steadily widening. Philip ran along the deck for a few strides, then halted.

“The Captain will never do it,” he said.

“He must,” she declared, and flew toward the wheelhouse where the first mate had the wheel in his hands.

“Oh, Mr. Grigg!” she cried. “You must turn back! There are my father and my mother on the pier — come to get just one more glimpse of me! I can’t leave them like this.”

“It’s impossible,” he declared. “I would na turn back for the Queen of England. It’s against all rules.”

“I’ll take the responsibility.”

“I canna let ye!”

“I’ll take the wheel from you!”

“I canna let ye do that.”

She put her hands on the wheel and strove to turn it. She was strong and she actually was changing the course of the ship. He cried in a panic: —

“How daur ye? Ye’ll have us on the rocks, wumman! Let the helm loose!”

The passengers were crowding about.

Philip came and took her by the wrists.

“Come away,” he said. “I’ve spoken to the Captain. He cannot turn back. Come and wave to your parents or it will be too late.”

She burst into tears and, breaking away from him, ran weeping down the deck. The tears blinded her and at first she saw only a distorted image of her parents on the pier. As their figures became clearer she was horrified to see how they had lessened. Why, they looked no more than dolls! There was her formidable father looking no more than a doll — a doll that shook its fist at the receding ship. Or perhaps at her! She might never know which. Her last earthly vision of him might be of him shaking his fist at her and the ship. She put her palms to her quivering mouth and threw kisses to the fast-diminishing figures of her parents and her young brother.

She saw James Wilmott standing at her side. There was a strange expression on his sombre face. He spoke in a new voice: —

“Darling girl,” he said. “Don’t cry. I can’t bear it. Please don’t cry.”

At that moment Philip reached her other side. To take her mind off her disappointment, he said: —

“Where are Conway and Sholto? They should come and wave good-bye.”

“It is too late! Too late!”

“Shall I bring them?”

“If you like.”

He strode off.

On the dock near her people she could see a little group of the relatives of the steerage passengers. They were huddled mournfully together as though for comfort.

The ship was now caught by a fresh wind. She mounted an on-rushing green billow. There was a straining of cordage, a great bulging of white sails. She leant, as though joyfully, she came about, the land was hidden and, when once more it was visible, it was far away and no more had any relation to the ship.

Mr. Wilmott offered his arm to Adeline.

“May I take you to your cabin?” he asked.

“Thank you.” She leant on him gratefully.

“I hope you will forgive and forget the way I spoke a moment ago,” he said. “I am a lonely man and your friendship is very precious to me. I was moved by your tears. But — I had no right to say — what I did.”

“You are kind,” she said. “You are a friend. That is all that matters.” From beneath her wet lashes her eyes looked gently into his.

With Adeline still leaning on his arm they went slowly down the deck. Sea gulls swung and circled above them. One even alighted on the top of a mast and sat tranquil as a ship’s figurehead.

W
HEN
A
DELINE
E
NTERED
her cabin and saw her hand luggage heaped there and realized that another voyage in this cubbyhole lay before her, she had a moment’s feeling of desperation. What experiences might she and Philip have to face! They were leaving behind all they knew and loved, setting out for the unknown. She realized this much more than on the first voyage. The thought of her mother standing weeping on the dock came back to torment her. Even her father seemed pathetic for the moment.

She could not bear to begin unpacking yet. She would first see how the ayah and Gussie were faring. She crossed the passage and looked in on them. The ayah was stretched on the berth. Her wrist, on which she wore a number of silver bangles, lay across her forehead. From this shelter her languid dark eyes looked up at Adeline.

Adeline was fluent in the dialect used by the ayah. She asked: —

“Are you feeling ill already?”

“No, Mem Sahib — but I rest a little. The beloved child is very well and quite happy.”

“Yes, I see. Still I think you would be better on deck. Baby could play with her shells there.”

At the word, Gussie held up one in each hand, then laughed aloud and put them to her ears. Her face became rapt as she listened to their murmur.

“I shall take her to the deck at once, Mem Sahib,” said the ayah, raising herself on her elbow with a look of patient resignation, then sinking back on the pillow.

“The smells down here are bad for both of you,” said Adeline firmly. She looked about the cabin.

“Where is the doll?” she asked. “I don’t see it.”

The bangles rattled on the ayah’s forehead.

“I put the doll away for safety, Mem Sahib.”

“Where?”

“In the box with Baby’s diapers, Mem Sahib.”

“That was well done. She is too young to appreciate it now. We’ll keep it for her.”

“Gone,” said Gussie.

“Did she say something?” asked Adeline.

“No, Mem Sahib. She cannot yet say one word.”

As Adeline went back along the passage she met Mrs. Cameron. Still wearing her dolman and bonnet she turned a face heavy with mingled self-pity and reproach toward Adeline.

“I suppose Mary is off somewhere with those brothers of yours,” she said. “I’ve never seen such a change come over a girl. I used to know exactly where she was. She almost never left my side. But now, half the time, I have no notion of her whereabouts.”

Adeline’s sympathy, which had been focused on the mother, now veered suddenly to the daughter.

“Well, after all,” she said, “Mary is very young. She must have a little fun.”

“Fun!” repeated Mrs. Cameron bitterly. “Fun! If she can bear to have fun — after what we’ve been through!”

“You cannot expect a child to go on mourning forever.” Adeline spoke rather curtly. She was tired and Mrs. Cameron was altogether too mournful an object, planted there in her black bonnet and dolman. No wonder the girl wanted to be off with other young people.

“She is nearly sixteen. She’ll soon be a woman. She doesn’t seem to realize it. That’s what I tell her. She’s a regular featherbrain.”

“I saw her carrying a cup of tea very nicely to you, not so long ago.”

Mrs. Cameron flared up. “I hope you are not insinuating that I do not appreciate my own child, Mrs. Whiteoak! She is all I have in the world! My mind is always on her! I’d die a thousand deaths rather than a hair of her head should be harmed!”

“You’d do well to get your mind off her for a bit,” returned Adeline. She was growing tired of Mrs. Cameron.

The vessel gave a sudden heave. She seemed to have glided down a steep slope and to be now laboriously mounting another. Adeline’s stomach felt suddenly squeamish. Was she going to be sick? She must lie down in her berth for a little.

Mrs. Cameron had burst into tears.

Adeline exclaimed — “Oh, I didn’t mean that you are not a perfect mother! I’ll go and find Mary for you this minute. I’ll tell my young brothers to keep away from her. Pray go and lie you down and I’ll send her to you in a jiffy.”

Mrs. Cameron stumbled back to her cabin. Adeline listened outside the one occupied by Conway and Sholto. There was silence within. She entered.

There were two portmanteaux standing in the middle of the tiny room. There were odds and ends of things thrown on the lower berth. But what was that on the pillow? She leant over to see it. For some reason her heart quickened its beat.

It was an envelope pinned to the pillow and addressed to her in Sholto’s best schoolboy handwriting. She was trembling as she opened it, though she did not know what she expected to read. She tore it open. She read: —

My own dearest Sis
,

Conway is making me write this as he says he is the man of action and I am the man of letters. Be that as it may I feel pretty sick at what I have to disclose. I am writing
this in the hotel the night before the ship sails. We shall go with our luggage on board and then, while everything is confused, we shall return to the dock and conceal ourselves in the town till you are gone. Dear Adeline, forgive us for not going with you to Quebec. During the voyage we wished ourselves back in Ireland a thousand times. It seemed too good to be true when the ship turned her bow homeward again, we were that homesick.

Now this is the part Conway himself should have written but you know what a lazy dog he is. Mary has decided not to go to Canada either. She has decided to remain in Ireland and marry Con. I should hate to be in his shoes when he faces Father with Mary on his arm. Mary tired to write but she cried and messed up the paper outrageously. So, dearest Sis, will you please break the news with great tact and sympathy to Mrs. Cameron. Mary says this will be quite a blow to her but, as Mary’s happiness was always her first consideration, she will be reconciled to it once she thinks it over.

When you arrive in Quebec will you please put
all
our belongings (that is of course including Mary’s) on the next east-bound ship and address them very clearly. We don’t want to lose anything, especially as after all the outlay for Con and me, Dad will be an old skinflint for years to come.

Mary will write a long letter to her mother and send it by the next ship. Conway will also write.

We all three join in wishing you
bon voyage —
no storms
—
no leaks
—
and a glorious time in Quebec.

Ever your loving brother,

Sholto Court

Adeline stood transfixed when she had finished reading the letter. She had a sense of panic. She felt that she wanted to run to her own berth, get under the covers, draw them over her head and
remain so till Quebec was reached. Then disbelief and relief swept over her. It was all a joke! Her brothers were always up to pranks. It could not be true. She would find Patsy O’Flynn and perhaps he would know all about it, know where the three were hiding.

She sped along the passage and down the steep stairs that led to the steerage. Here in the common room people were settling themselves for the voyage, untying canvas-covered bundles, opening packets of food, drinking out of tin cups which a couple of barefooted cabin boys were filling with tea. In one corner a decent-looking Scotchwoman had gathered her brood of children about her and was putting large buns into their hands. A nursing babe still clung to her breast as she moved among the others.

Adeline asked her — “Do you know the whereabouts of my man, Patsy O’Flynn, the one with all the clothes on him and eyebrows that stick out?”

The woman pointed with the bun she held. “Aye, he’s yonder, whaur the hens are. Shall I fetch him to you, ma’am?”

“No, no, thank you. I’ll go to him.”

She found Patsy stretched at ease on his greatcoat which he had spread out on the poultry coops. To the accompaniment of crowings and cacklings he munched a slab of bread and cheese. “Heave ho, the winds do blow,” he was singing like a seasoned tar, between mouthfuls, for he wanted to make his bread and cheese last as long as possible. Maggie, the little goat, had somehow loosed her tether and stood at his feet nibbling one of his dangling bootlaces. The pair were a picture of devil-may-care contentment.

“Oh, Patsy-Joe!” cried Adeline. “Do you know where my brothers are? I can’t find them anywhere on the ship.”

He leaped to his feet and bolted a large mouthful of bread and cheese.

“I do not thin, your honour, Miss,” he answered, jerking his head forward for the cheese was still in his throat. “But I’ll set out to look for them this instant moment.”

“Patsy-Joe, I’ve had a letter from Master Sholto and he says they’ve gone back to the town and little Miss Cameron with them.
Oh, I dare not let myself think it’s so, for it would kill her poor mother and my brothers would be to blame. Have they said aught to you about running away home?”

“Aye, many was the time they said divil take the ship and they hoped they never set eyes on her again.”

“But you should have told me what they were saying.”

“Ah, wisha, I thought it was just their way o’ spakin’. And did ye say the young geerl was off with them?”

“Yes.”

His little eyes twinkled. “Sure, I’m not at all surprised for I saw her with thim on the shore last Sunday marnin’, and I said to mesilf she was too free with Mr. Conway and himself with time heavy on his hands. And did ye say they’ve left the ship entirely?”

She was only wasting her time talking to Patsy. She hurried back up the stairway and at the top met Philip. Each saw the concern on the face of the other.

“What have you heard?” she demanded.

“A sailor tells me that he saw your brothers and Mary Cameron walking separately back to the town just before we left.”

“My God, why didn’t he tell us?”

“He thought we knew. When he saw the carriage drive up he thought it had come to meet them. How did you hear?”