02 Morning at Jalna (2 page)

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.

III

The Tutor

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 contradictor 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.