02 Morning at Jalna (5 page)

“You are Titus Sharrow, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Tite answered, in his gentle polite voice. “I have come to ask you a religious question.”

The rector looked at him keenly. “Yes? Go ahead.”

“Please tell me,” said Tite, “whether unbelief is a sin.”

“We all sin in that way, for none of us believes as completely as he should.”

“How much do you believe, Mr. Rector?”

“I have never told that to any man.”

“I am a beginner,” said Tite. “You have told me all I need to know.”

“Sit down,” said Mr. Pink, “and I will explain further.”

But Tite had drifted away.

VI

The Meeting

Very soon the loft would be filled with this year’s hay that now stood golden in the ten-o’clock sunshine. The floor of the loft had been swept clean and sprinkled from a watering can to lay the dust. A pulpit had been fashioned out of clean boards. On it lay a Bible. The window had been washed and over it a pink calico curtain was hung. The mulatto girl, Annabelle, was responsible for this. Once, in the South, she had been to a service in a church where there were stained-glass windows. Those windows, she thought, had given a holy feeling to all that took place inside the church. In the hayloft, the pink calico curtain was to lend this air of holiness. So Annabelle prayed. Indeed, as the sun shone through the curtain, a pinkish light was noticeable in the loft. It had been possible to borrow thirty kitchen chairs in the neighbourhood. If the congregation exceeded this number, the overflow were to sit at the back of the loft on a mound of last year’s hay. From below came the mooing of a cow whose calf had been taken from her.

Thirty Negroes waited, with expectant faces, for the meeting to begin. Twenty were seated in chairs. The rest squatted on the hay, leaving the row of chairs at the front for the white visitors. These were Adeline and Philip, the two Sinclairs, Wilmott, David Vaughan and his wife, Elihu Busby and wife. These two couples had come to encourage the blacks, to show their sympathy with the cause of emancipation. It was hard for them to sit at ease so near the Sinclairs. Their elegant airs were particularly distasteful to Elihu Busby. He wondered at their insolence in showing their slave-owning faces. Yet their three servants had begged them to come, polished their shoes, assisted them to dress for what was, to the Negroes, an important occasion.

The Negroes, of whom the gathering mainly consisted, had come by various routes to this sheltered part of the province of Ontario, where some had already found work and hoped to settle, while others strained toward the day when they might return to their own country. Among those who proposed remaining in Ontario were a couple who had left the devastated plantation of their master, taking with them whatever they had fancied. The man carried a heavy gold watch and chain. The woman, named Oleander, was arrayed in a crimson velvet dress with velvet flounces. She wore, on her woolly head, a pink satin bonnet tied in a large bow beneath her chin. Scarcely could Cindy restrain her contempt for this pair. But Annabelle was not aware of their existence. Hands clasped on breast, she waited in happy anticipation for the meeting to begin. Titus Sharrow, from the back of the loft, watched her.

Among the Negroes who had found refuge in this vicinity was one who had been a preacher in his native village. He was a man of forty with a deep and moving voice, a broad flat nose and humid bloodshot eyes. His thick-lipped mouth was flexible, his teeth fine.

He mounted the crude pulpit, bent his head a moment in prayer. Titus Sharrow, standing barely inside the loft, surveyed the scene with cynical interest.

The preacher gave out the name of a hymn. There were no hymn books but the Negroes knew it by heart. The fervour of their lusty voices made the cobwebs in the ceiling of the hayloft tremble. Months had passed, in some instances years, since they had been to a meeting. Now, in exultation, they poured out their feelings.

Following the hymn, the tribulations of Job were read by the preacher in a quiet voice. He gave a short address, welcoming all, thanking those who had assisted in making this meeting possible. He made no reference to the war between North and South.

Adeline was disappointed, for she had expected something emotional. The Busbys and the Vaughans were disappointed, for they had expected an impassioned outburst against slavery. The Negroes waited composedly for the praying.

Now, the preacher, after the singing of another revival hymn, left the pulpit and dropped to his knees on the floor. In his sonorous voice he began to pray, at first quietly, then becoming more fervent, less coherent, as he went on. A shudder of ravishment galvanized the Negro congregation. Kneeling they clasped imploring hands, raised eyes to the ceiling of the loft.

Now the preacher was uttering no more than broken phrases, “Oh, Lawd … oh, Lawd … Save us … lead us … out of the night … save us!”

The Negroes rocked on their haunches, their faces wet with tears. Annabelle was sobbing without restraint. Suddenly the loft seemed unbearably hot to the whites.

It was more than Adeline could endure. To Philip’s consternation she burst into tears. She leant forward in her chair, covering her face with her hands. The ribbon bow of her bonnet was loose. The bonnet all but fell off, disclosing her shining red hair. Lucy Sinclair put a consoling arm about her. On her other side Philip whispered, “Stop it … control yourself! Adeline, do you hear me?” His face was scarlet. He gave her a pinch.

“Oh!” she said loudly, sat up and straightened her bonnet.

Wilmott’s hand covered his lips to hide a smile of embarrassment.

The preacher rose to his feet and announced a hymn. It had as its refrain a jubilant “Hallelujah — we’re saved!” Over and over this was reiterated. In exultation the Negroes jumped up and down, clapping their hands. They shouted, “Hallelujah — de Lawd has saved us!”

To escape from the hay-scented, sweat-scented atmosphere of the loft into the freshness of the outdoor air was a relief, especially to Philip. He made no reference to the scene Adeline had made in the loft till they were safely in their bedroom. Then he said, “I have never been so ashamed of you.”

“Why?” she asked, in a gentle voice. She was examining her face in the mirror.

“Making an exhibition of yourself — just because a Negro preacher made an hysterical prayer.”

“I found it very moving.”

“I found it ridiculous. As for you — all our friends were staring at you in consternation.”

“Were they?” She was not ill-pleased. She took off her bonnet and stroked a wandering lock into place.

He reminded her of his sister and her husband, the Dean, in the cathedral town of Penchester in Devon. “What would they have thought of such an exhibition?” he demanded.

Adeline retorted, “It would have done them good. It would have shown them that prayer can be taken seriously.”

She threw her bonnet to the floor. “You criticize — you ridicule my deepest feelings. Why did you marry an Irish-woman? A phlegmatic Scotchwoman would be the right mate for you. Someone who would stare at you out of peeled-onion eyes, and say, ‘Ay, lad, but you’re a bonny fighter.’”

Her tear-stained face was flushed with anger.

Philip picked up the bonnet from the floor and set it on his own head. He tied the ribbon strings beneath his chin and gave her a flirtatious look. Adeline did not want to laugh. She was far too angry but she could not prevent herself. Laughter bubbled from her lips and rang out gaily. Philip looked so ridiculous in the bonnet that she simply had to laugh.

The sound of her laughter made the polite knock on the door inaudible. It was cautiously opened and there stood the three children. They had been sent to church and now, in their Sunday best, came to hear news of the Negro meeting, to which they would much sooner have gone. Church was to them an old story. Not that they were irreligious. Augusta and Ernest in particular held strong views on the subject. They were opposed to modern frivolity.

When the children saw their father wearing their mother’s bonnet, saw Adeline’s tear-dimmed eyes — apparently she had laughed till she cried — the boys were enraptured but Augusta was embarrassed.

“You should not rush in on your father and me,” said Adeline. “Why didn’t you knock?”

“We did knock, Mamma,” they said in unison.

Philip turned to them with a stern expression but looked so ridiculous in the bonnet, with the satin bow under his chin, that the boys burst out laughing and Augusta looked more embarrassed.

“What are you laughing at?” Philip demanded of his sons. He had quite forgotten the bonnet.

“You, Papa,” said Ernest.

Philip took him by the shoulder. “You’d make game of me, would you?”

Without flinching little Ernest answered, “You look so sweet in that bonnet, Papa.”

Philip now saw his reflection in the looking glass. He too broke into laughter. He took off the bonnet and set it on Augusta’s head. “Let’s see,” he said, “what sort of young lady Gussie will make.”

“Quite impressive,” Nicholas said.

Augusta saw nothing but amusement in the eyes of her parents. She hung her head and, as soon as she dared, took off the bonnet and laid it on the bed. The parrot flew down from his perch and began to peck at the bonnet as though in calculated destruction.

When the children were gone, Adeline said, in wonder, “How did I ever come by so plain a daughter?”

“Honestly, I hope.”

“What do you mean?” Her eyes flashed.

“Well, there was that Rajah fellow, in India.”

She was not ill-pleased. “Which Rajah?” she asked with an innocent air.

“The one who gave you the ruby ring.”

“Ah, those were the days,” she cried. “What colour — what romance!” She mused, studying her reflection in the mirror, while Philip took off his collar that was limp from the heat in the loft, and put on a clean one.

She remarked, “Nicholas is the only child who resembles me. Thank God he did not inherit my hair. I detest red-haired men.”

“Your own father has red hair.”

“A great part of the time I detest him.”

The children had strolled through the open door on to the lawn. Their Sunday clothes lent them an air of sedateness, but beneath that air there flickered resentment.

“I can’t see why,” Nicholas complained, in his alto voice, “we were not allowed to go to the meeting in the loft. It would have been much better fun.”

“Fun my eye,” said Ernest.

Augusta spoke with some severity. “Boys, think what you are saying. We do not go to church for fun.”

“Mr. Madigan does,” said Nicholas.

“The more shame to him,” said Augusta. “But I can’t think quite so badly of him as that. He goes to church because it is his duty to go with us.”

“Then why did he smile when we all called ourselves miserable sinners?” asked Nicholas.

“He may have been remembering his sins in Ireland and thinking how much better off he is in Canada.”

Nicholas thrust his hands into his pockets and frowned. “I’ll go to the next Negro meeting,” he said, “or know the reason why.”

“Me too,” said Ernest. “I will go or know the reason why.”

“The reason why,” Augusta declared, “may be Papa’s razor strop.”

Her brothers were a little subdued by this remark. They brightened, however, when they saw Cindy, their favourite of the blacks, approaching. She was carrying the baby Philip, to whom she was devoted. To him Cindy was a source of delight. He would clasp her fat neck, press his flowerlike face to hers and rapturously lisp, “Nith Thindy.”

“Nice Cindy, he calls me,” she cried, “the little angel!”

The elder children regarded their little brother without enthusiasm. He was made too much of, they thought.

Augusta said sedately, “I suppose your meeting was a great success, Cindy.”

“Success! Why, praise de Lawd, miss, that preacher had us all cryin’ our eyes out.”

“Did my mamma cry?” asked Ernest.

“She surely did, bless her heart.”

The children were embarrassed.

“I guess she laughed till she cried,” said Nicholas. “Sometimes she does that.”

“If she laughed,” said Cindy, “it was at Oleander, who came to de meetin’ decked out in her old missus’ fine clothes. She oughta be whipped, dat nigger. She surely is a scandal.”

“Scandal, my eye,” said Ernest.

VII

The Night Prowlers

Dusk had fallen. It had passed into darkness, for the moon had not yet risen. It was a wonder that the three men could find their way to the house. Yet they had been well directed and one of them carried a lantern. Just inside the gate they had left the horse and buggy by which they had come. They walked quietly, speaking only in low tones. Their speech had the accents of the South.

Nero, the Newfoundland dog, had a keen ear. As the men approached he gave a deep growl and raised his majesty on the porch where he liked to sit on a warm evening. The light from the narrow stained-glass windows on either side of the front door fell on him.

The door opened and his mistress appeared. Swiftly she took him by the collar and dragged him into the hall, he lumbering along without protest but with a bark and growl at the approaching men.

When they saw that the door was shut they came into the porch, not stealthily but with the air of friends making an evening call. Though they did not knock, the door was opened to them by Adeline, who said, “Good evening to you,” and gave them a smile that showed her white teeth, with a tiny corner broken off one of them.

The men bowed gravely, taking in her beauty with their travel-weary eyes, giving a glance to the lamp lit hall, with its graceful stairway. Nero had been shut in a small room at the back of the hall from where his low bubbling growl could be heard.

“Come right in,” she invited them, and they entered the sitting room on the right of the front door.

It was lit by a lamp with a china shade, showing a design of red roses. This stood on a mahogany table where there was a framed photograph of the Whiteoaks taken in Quebec, soon after their arrival in Canada. They were shown as in a snowstorm which had been cleverly simulated by the photographer. The heavy curtains in this room had been drawn close. No breath of air stirred it.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said one of the men.

“Sit you down,” she said, “and I’ll tell Mr. Sinclair you’re here.” She looked benignly at the men out of her dark eyes.

Again she was thanked. The three left alone drew sighs of relief and stretched their legs. They had travelled far under difficulties. Now they had arrived at their goal. In spite of weariness they were tense as they waited. They did not exchange a word.

Adeline fairly flew up the stairs.

Hanging over the banister was Nicholas.

“Listening — you rascal!” she hissed. “Go to your room.”

“Who are the three men, Mamma?” He was altogether too self-possessed, too bold, she thought. But she had no time to waste on him. She hastened up the stairs, her voluminous skirt gathered up in her hand. She tapped on the door of the Sinclairs’ room.

It was opened to her by her son Ernest.

Seeing her expression he said, in an apologetic voice, “I am only making a little call, Mamma.” He looked so sweet standing there in his green velveteen jacket and lace collar that she could not resist taking him into her arms and planting a maternal kiss on his cheek.

“Come in — come in,” Lucy Sinclair called.

“Where is Mr. Sinclair?” Adeline asked. She tried to speak calmly. “There are visitors for him.”

“With your husband in the smoking room.” Lucy Sinclair sought to control her excitement.

“I will run and tell him,” cried Ernest. He flew along the passage to the small room at the end and back. “Mr. Sinclair will go down directly, Mamma. Shall I take the message?”

“No, no, it’s high time you went to bed.”

Adeline swept down the stairs and made a conspiratorial entrance into the sitting room. She was astonished to find Augusta and Nicholas in amiable conversation with the three callers. She could hear Curtis Sinclair descending from above. She waited till he appeared, then swept her children out of the room. She pushed them ahead of her through the open front door into the porch; Augusta moving slowly, with an offended air; Nicholas executing a caper and throwing a glance of defiance over his shoulder at Adeline.

“You’d give me a saucy look, would you?” she exclaimed and cuffed him on the ear.

Augusta’s colour rose. “You have always told us, Mamma,” she said, “to make strangers welcome.”

“No insolence from you,” said Adeline, “or you’ll get what I gave Nick.”

“Who are those men?” Nicholas demanded unabashed. “They look rough. Not at all like Mr. Sinclair.”

“It is none of your business who they are.”

“Do
you
know?” he asked, with a mischievous smile.

“Of course I know. But they are here on business connected with the Sinclairs’ estate. In this time of war it is necessary to keep their movements secret. So you must be careful not to mention this visit to anyone.”

Dutifully they promised and she glided away, with a conscious air of mystery.

“She is in her element,” said Augusta, looking critically after her mother.

“You are trying to talk like Mr. Madigan,” said Nicholas. He put his arm about her waist that was not yet corseted, and urged her down the steps and onto the driveway. “Let’s dance,” he said. “One, two, three, and a kick to the left. One, two, three, and a kick to the right.”

Willingly, for the night air, the glimmering starlight, made her reckless, Augusta joined in this dancing progress. Their supple bodies linked, they danced, like charming marionettes, along the drive to the gate, her long black hair floating behind her. At the gate they came to a sudden stop, listening. They heard the approach of a horse’s hooves, the rattle of buggy wheels. The horse was drawn up, as it neared the entrance. The children saw Titus Sharrow and the mulatto girl, Annabelle, alight. They saw him clasp her to him and give her a fervent kiss.

In shocked surprise Augusta would have fled, but Nicholas held her by the arm. “We’ve got to know what’s going on,” he whispered.

No whisper escaped the sensitive ears of the half-breed. In a bound he stood, half-menacing, half-apologetic, beside the brother and sister.

“You watching me?” he demanded.

Annabelle was hiding in some bushes.

“Yes,” Nicholas said boldly. “We were trying to find out what you’re up to.”

Tite spoke softly.

“I was giving this poor horse a little exercise. Someone had tied him to the post by the gate and he was wild with the flies bothering him. So I took him for a little drive. It’d be best for you to say nothing about it. There are queer goings-on, you know.” There was a veiled threat in Tite’s soft voice.

Brother and sister turned back toward the house. They stared with curiosity at the closed curtains of the sitting room. “Gussie,” said Nicholas, “what do you suppose they’re doing in there?”

“Tite had no right to say there are queer goings-on,” she cried.

“But who can those strange men be?”

“They’ve escaped from the war, I am certain, and are seeking refuge with us.”

“One thing is clear,” said Nicholas. “We must keep our eyes and ears open, and not repeat anything of what we have seen tonight to Ernest. He can’t keep a secret, you know.”

“I feel the weight of it here.” And Gussie laid her hand on her chest.

When quietly they entered the hall, they were just in time to see their mother carrying a tray with glasses and a decanter of wine on it. They were astonished to see her bearing this into the sitting room, for she was not in the habit of carrying trays about.

“Why are you two loitering here?” she demanded. Then said, “Nicholas, go to the sideboard and fetch the biscuit box and be quick about it.”

The tray in her hand, she waited for him, while Gussie surveyed the situation with disapproval.

“Mamma,” said Nicholas, “do let me carry the tray for you.”

She would not allow that, but he pressed through the door after her and passed the china biscuit-box. The Southerners regarded him distrustfully.

“This boy,” Adeline said grandly, “is safe as a church. He would rather die than mention your coming.” And she gave her son a threatening look.

When, a few minutes later, he rejoined Augusta, he was glowing with a sense of responsibility.

“Hurrah!” he cried. “I’m up to my neck in this.”

“Nicholas,” said Augusta, “I do wish you’d try to control yourself. You know how Mr. Pink preaches self-control. His last sermon was on that subject.”

“Let him control himself and not be so long-winded,” said Nicholas loftily.

Ernest appeared at the top of the stairs in his nightshirt which touched the floor and had a little starched frill around the neck.

“You had better come up,” he said. “Mr. Madigan is lying on his bed singing and there is a bottle beside him.”

Nicholas and Gussie bounded up the stairs.

An air of mystery pervaded. Try as Philip would to lead a normal life, it was impossible with all this secretive coming and going about him. He sometimes wished he had not allowed himself to get involved in this conspiracy. It might, he feared, cost him the friendship of at least two of his neighbours, if these secret meetings leaked out. Adeline was exhilarated. She wished for something more than the passive part she was playing. She was above eavesdropping at the keyhole of the sitting-room door to discover, if she could, what these men were really up to. She could not believe that Philip did not know all.

“Why don’t you insist,” she demanded, “on Curtis Sinclair making a clean breast of it? You have a right to know.”

“One thing I’m certain of,” said Philip, “is that I don’t want to know more than I already know.”

“How much do you know?” she shot at him.

He was not to be taken off guard. “I am lending my house,” he said, “as a meeting place. That’s the sum total of it.”

“You’re maddening,” she cried. “I won’t be treated so! Am I to carry refreshments to these rough men and never be told why they are here?”

“Ask Lucy Sinclair,” he said. “She must know.”

“I have asked her. She tells me that she has sworn by all she holds sacred to divulge nothing.”

“You sound very theatrical,” said Philip.

Bareheaded she travelled the narrow path to Wilmott’s cottage. It was now August. Summer was past its most burning sun. Full-blown white clouds appeared from nowhere and cast their shadows on the green land. Sometimes the clouds darkened and sent down a shower. This had happened early that morning, so the path was now soggy wet under Adeline’s feet. Burrs caught on her long skirt and hung there.

The path lay close beside the river for a short distance before it discovered Wilmott’s small cottage. The river was the grey of a pigeon’s breast, though now and again when the sun pushed the clouds aside the gentle greyness blazed into gentian blue. At one of these moments Adeline stood on the river’s bank, lost in admiration of its blueness. But even while she admired, the canopy of cloud moved inexorably over the scene, not with the effect of gloom but rather as though in placid acceptance of the coming of fall. Those rushes called “cat tails” grew in a clump at the river’s edge. Adeline thought she would ask Tite to gather some of them for her. There was a certain tall Chinese vase in the drawing-room at home in which they would be as pretty as a picture.

Now she saw on the river the flat-bottomed boat belonging to Wilmott, its oars gently moving in the silent water. In the boat were Tite and the mulatto girl, Annabelle. She lounged in the stern trailing one hand in the water. “Like a lady of leisure,” thought Adeline.

She called out, “I see you two! And I warn you, Tite Sharrow, to be careful what you’re up to.”

Tite lifted the oars, from which a delicate rain of clear drops slid back into the river. He called, in his soft voice, “I’m only taking Annabelle for a little boat ride. She’d never been in a boat.”

“Does your mistress know you’re doing this, Belle?” called out Adeline.

The girl burst out laughing. “Ah’ll tell her, Miss Whiteoak. Don’ you worry. Ah’ll tell her.”

As Adeline stood there she felt the moisture from the wet earth rise between her toes. Her shoes were sodden wet. She did not mind. In curiosity her eyes followed the boat as it moved mysteriously up the river between the misty green banks. The half-breed and the mulatto. What was between them? She must warn Lucy Sinclair and James Wilmott of the danger to Annabelle. Yet how boldly Annabelle had spoken — and shown all her white teeth in laughter! Doubtless she was a hussy.

Adeline herself was laughing as she followed the path to Wilmott’s open door. She could glimpse him sitting at a table writing. He looked serene, absorbed in what he was doing. Yet he heard her laugh and raised his head. The sight of her, the sound of her laughter, made his pulse quicken.

“Good morning to you,” she said.

He sprang to his feet. “Mrs. Whiteoak,” he exclaimed.

“Am I not Adeline — James?”

“I try not to call you that,” he said, “or to think of you as that.”

“Yet,” she smiled, “I don’t feel in the least guilty when I think of you as James or call you James.”

“It’s different.”

“But why different?”

“I belong to no one.”

She considered this. Then — “I refuse to belong so completely to anyone that I cannot call a friend by his Christian name — especially such a solemn sweet name as James.” She came into the room.