The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (15 page)

He spent happy days becoming acquainted with the details of his inheritance. He had long talks with his uncle’s solicitor, Mr. Prime. The deeds were in perfect order. There was nothing to worry about. He and the two Irishmen, D’Arcy and Brent, who were staying at a near-by hotel, accompanied by Wilmott who had less expensive accommodation in a pension just down the street, explored the old town, climbed the hill to the Citadel, dined with the officers in the Fort. Every fine afternoon Philip hired a carriage and took Adeline and one of the gentlemen for a drive into the country. The scenery was delightful, the late Canadian spring flowering into a plentitude of spreading leaf and bloom. They looked down at the majestic river and talked of their past voyage which was beginning to seem like a troubled dream. The invigorating air, Marie’s good
cooking, soon brought colour to Adeline’s cheeks and strength to take the place of weakness.

Their furniture arrived in excellent condition. The uglier of the pieces belonging to Uncle Nicholas were banished and the elegancies of Chippendale took their place. The rugs they had brought from India were laid with fine effect on the polished floors. The red-shaded chandelier was replaced by one of cut crystal. Uncle Nicholas would have found it difficult to recognize his house.

They speculated a good deal about him but could find little in the house by which they could reconstruct his life there. There was not a single picture of him but a portrait of the Duke of Kent, under whose command he had come to Quebec, hung in the drawing-room. Mr. Prime, the solicitor, described Colonel Whiteoak as fine in appearance, a little hasty in temper, hospitable in habit, a connoisseur of good wine. But though Philip searched every inch of the cellar he did not find a single bottle to reward him. It was strange, for his uncle must have had a good supply at the time of his death. Among his papers there was little to reveal him. He had kept no journal as a receptacle of his thoughts. There were however a few letters of an amorous nature from a French lady in Montreal. These were tied together with a piece of tape and on the last one was written, in the Colonel’s small legible hand — “Marguerite died January 30
^th
, 1840.”

As it was difficult for either Philip or Adeline to read French handwriting, they made out little from the letters except that Marguerite had a husband whom she detested, and that she adored Nicholas Whiteoak. What a blessing it was that she had not been free to marry him! So simply might this pleasant property have been lost!

Letters from Philip’s sister and the Dean had been preserved also. Philip and Adeline read these with interest and sometimes chagrin, for there were several references to the extravagances of their life in India.

Within two months Philip and Adeline had become happily domiciled in the French-Canadian town and knew everyone who
was worth knowing. Her health was vastly improved and her condition hampered her activities but little. She was hospitable and liked to entertain her friends and be entertained by them. She found more interesting people here than she had dared hope for. She wrote long letters home enlarging on the elegance and liveliness of the
soirées
given by the socially distinguished. She wanted her father to know that she was not living in the barbarously primitive community he had pictured. She had had, as a girl, a French governess and, though she could read little French, she could speak it after a fashion and now set to work to improve herself in the language. By her vivacity and gaiety she drew to herself the French as well as the English society of Quebec. She became intimate with the next-door neighbors on either side of her.

The Balestriers, on the left, were a lively married pair with a half-dozen children. Madame Balestrier was congenial to Adeline and the two spent many hours together, she imparting to Adeline the intimate gossip of the place. They drove together; shopped together; the two families had picnics on the banks of the river, the scenery now in its summertime glory. The one disadvantage of the Balestriers was the behaviour of their children. Adeline’s own young brothers had been spoilt by their mother and Adeline had always vowed she would never spoil a child of her own. But it was not that the young Balestriers were so greatly humoured as that they were always in evidence. Life was one prolonged struggle between them and their parents. They did everything under protest. Their manners were exemplary toward the Whiteoaks but they never addressed their parents except in a high complaining voice. Even the eldest boy, who was fourteen, used this same voice when talking to his mother and father.

Their neighbors on the other side were the de Granvilles, who were natives of France. They were an elderly brother and sister whose parents had been executed by the revolutionists, and who had been brought out to Canada by distant relations. Mademoiselle de Granville was in the middle sixties, a clever talker, kind-hearted, full of vitality. Her life was given to the care
of her brother’s comfort. She had been little more than a baby at the time of the Revolution but Monsieur de Granville had seen horrors which had made an impression on him never to be erased. He was subject to spells of melancholy which came upon him at the most unexpected times, perhaps in the middle of a dinner party. Then he would sit staring straight ahead of him with a dazed expression, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, frozen in some terrible, though dimly remembered happening of childhood. At those times his sister would take a masterly lead in the conversation, holding the attention of all till Monsieur de Granville had regained possession of himself. Then he would be quick of wit, gay and charming. He had a beautiful and distinguished face, in contrast to his sister’s plainness of feature.

Adeline felt a relief which she never acknowledged to Philip, in the fact that her brothers had returned to Ireland. Conway and Sholto might well have been a handful in Quebec. What might not their pastimes have been, with endless time on their hands! Certainly they would have had clashes with Philip. Her mother wrote telling of their return with Mary Cameron and of the scene that ensued. She covered a dozen pages describing the tirade of mingled anger and derision which Renny Court had poured out on the three. She said she had never seen a girl so completely absorbed by love as the fifteen-year-old Mary. It made her impervious to all else. It was in truth rather disgraceful at her age, especially as Conway was little more than a schoolboy. The only thing to do was to keep a strict watch on the pair, though to guard them now, after all the freedom they had been allowed on board ship and in Galway, was little more than a farce and it did seem rather hard that, just when she had looked forward to a period of peace, this should have happened and her husband as usual blaming her for everything. She also had had a long letter from Mrs. Cameron who declared that Adeline had been aware of all that went on and who demanded that Mary should be put on the next ship bound for Montreal, under suitable chaperonage, as though the girl needed a chaperone now!

Renny Court wrote briefly to Adeline saying what a pity it was that she should have travelled all the way from India to bring such trouble on the family. It would be well, he wrote, if, instead of returning the luggage the two boys had left on the ship, she would send him a check for it as the contents would be of no use to them in Ireland and would doubtless be of great value in the wilds.

“Oh, the meanness of him!” Adeline cried. “Oh, he’d take the coppers from a dead man’s eyes! He’d skin a flea for its hide and tallow! Of what use are my brothers’ things to me or to anyone here? I’ll not send him a copper for them! Oh, I don’t forget the time when I broke off my engagement to Edward O’Donnel! Edward refused to take back his ring. He said I was to do as I liked with it. My father said it would be a disgrace for me to wear the ring and he gave me twenty pounds for it. Later I found that he had sold it for four times as much and, when I upbraided him for it, he said he had needed the money to pay off a debt of my brother, Esmond’s. He’s my favourite brother so what could I do? But, oh, what a bold brazen face my father has! He can look you in the eye and say anything.”

“He can,” agreed Philip. “Just the same I think I shall send him the check for your brothers’ things. The trunks and portmanteaux are better than one can buy here. The guns and fishing tackle can always be used. As for the clothes, I dare say we can find someone who will be glad of them.”

The next letter Adeline had from Lady Honoria told of the marriage of the youthful pair in the Chapel at Killiekeggan Castle. After careful consideration, she wrote, they had decided that Conway must make honourable amends to the girl he had wronged. Mary herself had declared that she was the possessor of a tidy fortune and investigation had proved this was true. Therefore honour and foresight would each be satisfied. Mary was a sweet, gentle girl and already the family were becoming attached to her. It would look well on the part of Philip and Adeline if they would send a handsome wedding present.

Between one thing and another the summer passed. It rolled past swiftly and pleasantly like the St. Lawrence in its summer mood. Sometimes the heat was great but the house in the Rue St. Louis was comparatively cool. How lovely the walks on the terrace in the evening, when one gossiped with one’s friends, while far below the lamps of the Lower Town twinkled and the lights of ships came out like jewels on the breast of the river. Sometimes Adeline gave a mourning thought to the ayah whose slender bones must by this time be bare of her dusky flesh. The mystery of Gussie’s doll was never cleared. Gussie herself did not repeat the word “gone.” Now she was learning to chatter in French and when she was addressed in English she would turn away her little head with an offended air. She could toddle, holding fast to Marie’s hand, and she had an enchanting way of lifting her feet high as though she were mounting a flight of stairs. Patsy O’Flynn was her slave. She loved the smell of his strong pipe and the feel of his coarse grizzled hair in her hands. Pull as she would she could not pull it out.

James Wilmott came to the house every day. Philip supplied him with the London papers which came regularly. They talked politics by the hour, disagreeing just enough to make the discussions stimulating. If they grew a little heated, Wilmott invariably made his departure, as though he could not trust himself to quarrel.

“He’s a gloomy dog!” Philip would exclaim. “And I sometimes wonder why I like him about, but I do.”

“You like him because he has brains,” returned Adeline. “He has a very good mind. I wonder that he hasn’t done more with his life.”

“He tells me he is hard up. He can’t go on living here. He is going to take up land and farm.”

“Heaven help him!”

“It’s what I should like to do.”

“Aren’t you happy here, Philip?”

“Yes, but it is more Frenchified than I had expected and there is so much in the way of parties and gossip that we might almost as well have stayed in India. There’s something in me that isn’t satisfied.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and strode up and down the room.

“Still, you have a very good time with the officers in the Fort. You have had some splendid fishing. You are going duck shooting and deer shooting in the autumn.”

Philip frowned and pushed out his lips.

“Deer
shooting
!” he exclaimed. “
Shooting
deer! For a man who has chased the stag on horseback! It’s barbarous!”

“Then don’t do it.”

He glared at her. “Well, I’ve got to do
something
, haven’t I? A chap can’t sit twiddling his thumbs all day.”

Adeline suspended her needle and glared back at him. She was making a petticoat for the coming baby. It was of fine white flannel with a design of grapes and their leaves embroidered above its scalloped hem. She was an accomplished needlewoman and nothing in the way of ornament was too much trouble for her. Indeed a simple garment did not seem to her worth the making and it was a blessing her eyes were strong, for she bent over the finest stitching by the hour in candlelight. Now she suspended her needle and remarked: —

“The trouble with you is you’re too well. If you were miserable and ill, as I am, you would be glad to sit still.”

“You are not miserable and ill,” he returned, “or you wouldn’t be, if you did not lace yourself so disgracefully.”

“Then you’d like to take me out looking like a bale of hay?”

“I’ll wager your mother never laced so, when she was in the family way.”

“She did! No one ever knew when she was going to have a baby.”

“No wonder she buried four!”

Adeline hurled the infant’s petticoat to the floor and sprang up. She looked magnificent.

At that moment Marie ushered Wilmott into the room. He threw Adeline an admiring look, took her hand, bent over it and kissed it.

“Upon my word,” exclaimed Philip, “you are getting Frenchified!”

“The fashion becomes this room and becomes Mrs. Whiteoak,” Wilmott returned, without embarrassment.

“It’s namby-pamby,” answered Philip.

“Namby-pamby!” repeated Wilmott, flushing.

“Yes,” said Philip, sulkily.

Wilmott gave a short laugh. He looked at Adeline.

“I like it,” she declared. “Manners can’t be too elegant for me.”

“Each country has its own,” said Philip. “I am satisfied to leave it at that.”

“It is much pleasanter,” she said, “to have your hand kissed than to be given a handshake that presses your rings into your fingers till you feel like screaming, as Mr. Brent does.”

She picked up her sewing and again seated herself. Wilmott took a stiff-backed chair in a corner. Philip opened the red shutters and put up the window. He looked into the street. The milk cart, drawn by a donkey, appeared. The brass can flashed in the hot sunshine. Six nuns passed close to the window, their black robes billowing, their grave faces as though carved from wax.

Philip went for his duck shooting and returned in high spirits. The sport had been excellent, the weather perfect. The St. Lawrence, now of a hyacinth blue, swept between its gorgeous banks that were tapestried in brilliant hues by the sharp night frosts of October. Adeline felt extraordinarily well as compared to the period before Augusta’s birth. She walked, she drove, she went to parties and gave parties. The friendship between her and Wilmott strengthened. He had a fine baritone voice and could accompany himself on the piano. Sometimes they sang together and, with him for support, Adeline managed to keep the tune. They would sing the songs she loved, from
The Bohemian Girl
. She would lean against the piano, looking down into his face while they sang, “I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble Halls” or “Then You’ll Remember Me,” and wonder what his past had been. He was always reticent concerning it. He often
spoke of the necessity of his finding congenial work but made no move to do so. He left the lodgings he had taken and moved to still cheaper ones. Philip and Adeline had a suspicion that his meals were all too slight, yet he preserved his almost disdainful attitude toward food at their abundant board. He talked of purchasing land.