The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (50 page)

He gave an ironic chuckle. “That’s news to me,” he said.

Folding her arms across her chest she said, in the voice of a conspirator, “Things are coming to a head, James. Our plans are laid for a brilliant coup.”

Wilmott closed the door into the kitchen.

“Don’t worry about Tite,” she laughed. “He’s up the river with Annabelle.”

“That young woman,” said Wilmott, “has a good influence on Tite. He used to be something of a cynic in his superficial way. But now he studies the Scriptures. When they are together they speak only of religion, he tells me. In short, I think he has done some soul searching.”

“My dear James,” said Adeline. “You are so credulous.”

“Credulous!” He was affronted.

“What I mean is, it’s a good thing you have me to protect you.” She took a turn about the room, her mind brimming with the plans afoot. So eager she was that the Sinclairs had confided all to her.

“As for protecting,” said Wilmott, “I think it is you who need protection.”

“Oh, I am enjoying myself,” she said gaily. “I thrive on excitement. James, do you never get carried away by your feelings?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“Ah, I should like to see that.”

“Adeline,” he said almost harshly, “don’t tempt me.”

He went to the open door and looked out at the placid misty scene. He saw two men coming along the path from the road. They were tall, angular, purposeful men who asked abruptly, “Just where are we, mister? We’ve lost our way.”

Wilmott directed them to the next village but they lingered, as though in curiosity.

“More of your friends from the South,” Wilmott said to Adeline.

“No friends of mine. They’re Yankees by their accent. They’re here to spy on us. I must warn Mr. Sinclair of this. I will interview them myself.” But when she went out they had disappeared. The wood, the lonely road had swallowed them. In spite of himself Wilmott felt perturbed. He accompanied Adeline a part of the way home. Nero, who had been occupied at the river’s edge, had taken no notice of the men.

“A pretty watchdog you are!” Adeline said to him in scorn.

U
P THE
R
IVER

It was a flat-bottomed boat, old and inclined to leak, yet Annabelle, sitting in the stern, her coffee-coloured hand with its pink palm trailing in the water, found it a wonderful experience to be gliding gently up the river with Titus Sharrow at the oars. The rowlocks were rusty and made a rasping noise as the oars moved in them, which accentuated rather than broke the misty silence. To Annabelle, Tite was a mysterious, almost supernatural being. His Indian forebears, he had told her, were masters of this vast country till the French had come and conquered them. Still, he had the blood of the conquering race also. He was free as air, while she was a slave and all her people had been slaves, brought by force out of Africa.

Never had she minded being a slave. She had been happy in her security. She had yearned towards the day when the Sinclairs would return to the South, and she and Cindy and Jerry with them. She pictured the plantation as it had been in the past, for she could not picture its devastation. She knew that Jerry wanted to return to the old life also, to marry her when that time came. But these placid imaginings of the future had been shattered by her growing love for Tite.

Cindy had warned her, “You be careful of yo’self, Belle. Ah don’ trust dat Injun. He’s got a wicked look in his eye and a no-good look in his smile. His lips is too thin. It seems like he could bite better than he could kiss.”

Cindy had never seen the sweet bend of his lips as he rested on the oars and gazed into Annabelle’s pretty face, noted the curves of her seductive body. But Belle’s mind was on things spiritual.

“Does yo’ love de Lawd, Tite?” she asked.

“I do indeed,” he said, “but not so well as I love you.”

That was a shocking remark and she knew that she should be deeply shocked. Yet she was not shocked. On the contrary, a thrill of delight sent a tremor through her nerves. She could not keep back her happy laughter.

“Yo’ surely is a wicked boy, Tite,” she said.

“You must teach me to be good, Belle.”

She had a vision of the two of them, as man and wife, in a cottage, perhaps on the bank of this same little river. She would teach him to be good and he would teach her to love, but never, never to forget her Lord.

They came upon a little clearing where surely someone had intended to build a house. There were even cut logs lying there but they were half hidden by brambles. The pair in the boat were astonished to see two men seated on one of the logs studying what looked like a map, spread out on their knees.

“I’ve seen those men before,” said Tite. “They were asking questions in the village.”

“Where do dey want to go, Tite?”

“I don’t know but I guess they’re friends of your Mister Sinclair.”

“Dey certainly don’ look like Massa’s friends.”

“You haven’t got no massa now, Belle. You’re a free woman.”

“Not a nigger neither,” she amended.

“You’re as white — or whiter — than me, Belle.” He drew in the oars, leant forward and laid his hand on her knee. “Put yours beside it,” he said, “and see.”

The touch of his hand went through her like fire. She laid her hand yearningly beside his.

“Hi, you in the boat,” called out one of the men on the bank.

Tite turned towards him with dignity.

“Were you speaking to me, mister?”

“I was.” The man got up from the log and came to the river bank. He said, “Can you tell me if there’s a man named Sinclair living hereabouts?”

“He was visiting friends here,” said Tite. “He may be gone, for all I know.”

“He’s a slave owner” — the man spoke with scorn. “He brought some slaves with him. Do you young folks happen to be two of them?”

“We might be,” said Tite.

“Waal, you’re free now. Do you know that?”

“Thanks for telling us,” said Tite.

Annabelle was shaking with silent laughter. “What’s the joke?” asked the man.

“This young fellah ain’t a slave,” she said. “He’s an Injun.”

The man grinned. “I ain’t never seen an Injun and a mulatto sparkin’ before.”

“You’ve a lot to learn,” said Tite.

Annabelle spoke boldly, “Ah guess you’re a Yankee,” she said.

“I certainly am,” said the man, “and so’s my friend here. We’re refugees from the North. We don’t want to fight. We don’t want to be drafted into the army. There’s lots like us comin’ into Canada. We thought Mr. Sinclair might help us to find work.”

“Then you’re not agin the South?” Annabelle looked searchingly into the man’s face.

“Do I want to fight my brothers?” he demanded. “No, I’m all for peace and prosperity.”

The other man now came forward. “Can you tell us,” he asked, “where Mr. Sinclair lives? We don’t want to pester him but just to ask his advice.”

“He’s stayin’ at a place called Jalna.” Annabelle spoke with pride. “It’s the finest place hereabout but not as fine as our plantations.”

“Which direction does it lie in?” asked the man, as though unconcernedly.

She told him and the two men left, with a gruff thank you.

“You should not have told them, Belle,” said Tite. “I don’t like the looks of them.”

“But they’re not fighters,” she cried. “Jus’ poor refugees from the var.”

“They look like murderers,” said Tite.

He brought the boat to the shore, tied it to a fallen tree and scrambled out. “I must see where they go,” he said. “You wait here, Belle.”

“Be careful,” she called after him; a rich proprietary feeling for him thrilled her being, causing her to watch his lithe figure with the benign concern of a dark angel, as he disappeared into the bush. Waterfowl, knowing little of fear, swam close to her. A blue heron stole colour from the sky as he flashed overhead. She could see his legs tucked under him, as though he never would consent to use them again but would fly on and on to the end of the world. Oh, that she and Tite could live all their lives on this river bank, loving each other, serving the Lord! A tiny house, of only one room, built of logs, would be enough. The thought of the coming winter, the snowdrifts, no longer frightened her. She would feel safe, with Tite always at her side. He had not yet spoken of marriage but he would. She was sure he would. She did not look ahead to the time when he would pass his final examinations, become a lawyer. She could not believe in such a possibility. It was quite beyond her. Always she pictured him as the agile half-breed, with French blood in his veins. No Negro could be so clever, so ready-tongued.

Now he came loping back to her.

“They’re gone,” he said, “but not in the direction of Jalna. By jingo, I believe they’re Yankee spies.”

“Ah’d be afraid if you wasn’t here,” said Annabelle.

“What about God? Won’t he look after you?”

“He’s got dis war on his hands. He won’t have time for a poor girl like me.”

Tite gave her a tender look. “Don’t worry, Annabelle. I’ll look after you.” He scrambled into the boat.

“For how long?” she asked yearningly.

“For as long as you want me.”

She drew a deep breath of joy. “Ah loves you, Tite,” she said, and again trailed her hand blissfully in the river as the boat moved gently up stream.

The bank was blue with gentians and Michaelmas daisies. Goldenrod grew so tall that it was a secret place. Annabelle needed no persuasion to go with Tite into that flowery fastness. They sank to the grass and he put a coaxing arm about her waist. She laid her head on his shoulder, proud indeed that her hair was not woolly. Her languorous eyes were raised to his rounded brown neck.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. His sinewy hand pressed her ribs.

A child’s voice broke in on them. “I see you!” called out Ernest. He and the two elder children came crashing through the undergrowth.

“Having a picnic?” demanded Nicholas.

“Not yet,” said Tite.

Nicholas looked accusingly at Annabelle. “You’re needed at home,” he said. “Cindy has just had a baby.”

Annabelle sprang to her feet. “And me not thar to help!” she cried. “Oh, my goodness! Show me the path, chillen, and Ah’ll run all the way. Was thar a doctor? Was thar a midwife?”

“There was only my mother,” said Nicholas. “Our servants were too badly frightened.” His handsome boy’s face was flushed by excitement.

“Was you sent to fetch me?”

“No, I was told to take Ernest out of the way. He doesn’t understand such things.”

“Understand — my eye,” said Ernest. He was so excited that he walked in a circle.

“Do you know the shortcut to Jalna?” Tite asked of Nicholas.

“I do. Come along, Annabelle. Let’s see how fast you can run.” He led the way, the mulatto running lightly after him.

“This baby,” called Tite, “is born into a free country. What colour is it?”

“Black as the ace of spades,” said Nicholas.

“I shall follow with Ernest,” said Augusta. Her pale face was even paler than usual, though she had been running. She took Ernest firmly by the hand. The moist earth was soft beneath their feet. Slender larch trees and leafy undergrowth pressed close on the path, across which a mottled snake glided, pausing just long enough to spit out its yellow venom at them.

“If Nicholas were here,” said Ernest, “he would kill it.”

“We are supposed,” said Augusta, “to love all God’s creatures.”

“Gussie, do you love Cindy’s baby?”

“I daresay I shall.”

“How did Nicholas know it was black?”

“Perhaps Mamma told him.”

“Tell me, Gussie, how does a baby get born? Does it take a long while or does it come fast —
whoosh
, like that?” He made a violent gesture with his right arm.

Augusta held firmly to his left hand. She said, “You should try to keep your mind off such things till you are older.”

“As old as you?”

“Much older. You must make the effort.”

“I try to be brave,” said Ernest, looking fearfully into the moist August undergrowth.

“You may not succeed in being brave but there is nothing to prevent your being good.”

“Are we rewarded if we’re good?”

“It is promised to us.”

“Is Cindy being good or bad?”

“I do not know.”

“Then you don’t know if the baby is a reward or a punishment?”

“How can I tell what sort of life she has led?” They had now reached the open parkland that lay about Jalna. Augusta freed Ernest’s hand and he darted ahead. Annabelle was nowhere in sight, but Nicholas and Lucius Madigan came to meet them.

The tutor said, “I suppose you have heard of the new arrival?”

“How black is the ace of spades?” asked Ernest.

“I am colour blind,” said Madigan.

“Is that why you wear that bright green cravat?” asked Ernest.

Madigan fingered the cravat as though lovingly. “I wear this,” he said, “in memory of dear old Ireland. Thank God, she’s only a memory.”

“Mr. Madigan,” said Ernest, “can you tell me how long it takes to be born?”

Augusta fled.

“My parents,” said Madigan, “had been married ten years when I came on the scene. So you may say it took me ten years to be born. But things move faster nowadays.”

Nicholas was watching with curiosity the approach of three men along the drive, on either side of which Captain Whiteoak had planted young hemlocks and spruces that were flourishing and growing tall.

One of the men called out, “Is this where a gentleman named Elihu Busby lives?”

“No,” answered Nicholas, “but I’ll show you the direction.”

“Why do you want to see him?” asked Ernest, always on the watch for information.

“We’d like to buy land and settle here,” said the man.

Nicholas went with them to the gate and pointed out the way.

“Liars,” said Madigan looking after the men. “They’re spies.”

Ernest was jubilant. “Just like the stories in the books,” he said, and ran down the driveway after the men.

Lucius Madigan saw Mrs. Sinclair descending the steps from the porch. Her slow graceful movements filled him with a longing to serve her. However, she turned her face away from him. She was afraid he might mention the humiliating incident of the recent birth. Humiliating it had been to her because she had fled in panic to the latticed summer house hidden among trees. It had only been built that spring and was the haunt of bluebirds who made their nests and reared their young in it.

It was stout-hearted Adeline who had delivered the baby, had held it up by the feet and smacked it on the back till it had let out a yell. When young Doctor Ramsay arrived too late, she had met him with a derisive laugh. “I’m going to hire myself out as a midwife,” she declared. “I can bring young ’uns into the world faster than you can. This one took only ten minutes.”

The doctor looked the baby over.

“I’m glad to see that it’s black. Does Cindy know who is the father?”

“My dear puritan,” cried Adeline, “Cindy is an honest woman. She has a husband and three children in the South. All living with her mother.”

“She should be ashamed of herself for deserting them,” said the doctor.

“Ah, she’s so devoted to her mistress! ’Tis a wonderful thing to have such devotion.”

“What does she do to merit it?”

“If we only got what we merit, heaven help us,” said Adeline.

Lucy Sinclair cast a gentle, almost pleading look at the tutor. “My husband and I,” she said, “have drunk the cup of humiliation to its dregs. What has happened today is the last bitter drop, my husband says.”

Something puritanical in the tutor was repelled by this frankness. He hastened to say, “But it wasn’t his fault, dear lady, it wasn’t his fault.”

“Indeed it was not,” she agreed.

Madigan bent to pick a little pink blossom from a scant rosebush that grew near the porch.

“’Tis the last rose of summer,” she said in a poetic voice, but he was obliged to put his thumb in his mouth, for a thorn from the little rose had drawn blood.

She sniffed the blossom’s scent. “The last rose,” she murmured. “Oh, if you knew how I dread the winter in this climate. Is it very terrible?” She raised her large blue eyes to his face.

“Well,” he said judicially, “I have spent only one winter here and I must say I found it less disagreeable than the chill fogs of Ireland. For one thing, Captain Whiteoak sees to it that the house is kept warm. Fires in all the principal rooms.”