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

by de la Roche, Mazo

  “You might add that a large part of the credit is due to your own good seamanship,” said Philip.

  “But God’s mercy is at the bottom of it,” said the Captain.

  The next morning land was in sight. The weary travellers in the steerage crowded together to peer out at it. The air was crisp but kindly. Little crinkles ran across the surface of the long waves. The icicles dripped, then dropped into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The Alanna entered the mighty river. Green banks rose above the river and unfolded into dark forests. Tiny white villages came into view mothered by white churches with bright crosses on their steeples. Long narrow farms stretched close for comfort. Cattle stood near the river’s edge and the sweet smells of the land came out to meet the voyagers. Was it possible that only a few days before they had been in a snowstorm — that icicles had been hanging from the ship?

  It was Sunday morning and Captain Bradley read the church service with the note of satisfaction and the thanksgiving still in his voice. There was a tiny organ in the salon on which Wilmott played the accompaniment to the hymn. The voices rose robustly, as though fear never had been their companion. The words were enunciated with satisfaction.

  “Fierce was the wild billow,

  Dark was the night;

  Oars laboured heavily,

  Foam glimmered white. Trembled the mariners;

  Peril was nigh:Then said the God of Gods,

  ‘Peace: It is I.’ “Ridge of the mountain wave,

  Lower thy crest;Wail of the tempest wind,

  Be thou at rest.

  Sorrow can never be,

  Darkness must fly, Where saith the Light of light,

  ‘Peace: It is I.’”

  Now Philip and Adeline were packing their belongings. Though some articles had been lost or worn-out during the voyage, they found the greatest difficulty in squeezing the remainder into their portmanteaux. Some fresh article always was turning up. Philip was irritated by the fact that he still had to be very careful of Adeline’s feelings. He would have liked to blame her for some of the disorder. Surely she was to blame for heaping travelling rugs and her own shoes and a dressing case on top of his best coat. When at last the packing was done, though badly enough, they suddenly remembered the ayah’s cabin and all that lay heaped and strewn in it.

  Boney was furious at being put into his cage. He screamed and fretted there, flapping his green wings and throwing about seeds and gravel. Adeline’s voice came back to her, loud and strong in the stress of the moment.

  “I can’t do any more!” she cried.

  “Nobody’s asking you to,” snapped Philip and he added as he went out —“You’ve done too much already in the way of disorder.”

  “What’s that you say?” she cried.

  He did not answer.

  She was weak but there was no need for her to totter as she entered the ayah’s cabin, or for her to sink panting on the side of the berth with her hand to her side. Her voice was now a fierce whisper.

  “What was it you said?” she asked.

  “I said, Goddamme, I never saw such a mess! I should have brought a valet from England.”

  “What you really said was that this disorder was my fault.”

  “You’re talking nonsense.” He grasped a handful of Gussie’s small garments. “What about these? Hadn’t we better leave them on board and buy her new things?”

  “Leave them!” she almost screamed. “And they of the finest Irish linen and hand-embroidered! I will not leave one of them! Open that black box. There will be room in it.”

  With flushed face he opened the box. She peered into it. “Where is the doll?” she asked.

  “What doll?”

  “The beautiful doll your sister gave to Gussie. Huneefa kept it in that box.”

  “It isn’t here.”

  “It must be. You must find it.”

  He sat back on his heels and glared at her out of angry blue eyes. He exclaimed: —

  “Have I come to this — that I must search for a doll at the moment of landing? It’s not enough that I should pack diapers but I must crawl about on my hands and knees searching for a doll! Egad, Adeline — ”

  “Never mind,” she interrupted, frightened by the sight of his face. “Don’t search for it. It must be in the other cabin.”

  Somehow they got their things together. Somehow a couple of stewards carried them toward the gangway, to the accompaniment of Boney’s screams. Philip carried the cage and kept his other arm firmly about Adeline. He said: —

  “I sometimes wish we had never brought this bird.”

  “Leave him behind,” she cried, “if he’s trouble! Leave him behind, and me too! You can get another woman and another bird in Quebec.”

  He pinched her arm. “Behave yourself. People will hear you.”

  “I don’t care! You were hurting me.”

  “Well, I care, and I wasn’t hurting you.”

  Wilmott came to meet them. “What a pity you have not been on deck! We have had a grand view of Quebec. You should have done your packing earlier. Can I help you in any way?”

  Philip put the bird cage into his hand.

  There was a great bustle and confusion. The air was full of shouts and the whimpering of gulls. The great white sails of the ship were drooping like weary wings. Barefoot sailors clung in the shrouds gazing down on the crowded pier. Adeline turned a smiling face on Wilmott. “What should we do without you?” she said.

  “You know it is my pleasure to be of service to you,” he replied, somewhat stiffly, but a flush had risen to his sallow cheek. “You are feeling much better, aren’t you?” he added.

  “I should be dead if I weren’t.”

  “It is a good thing you found someone who could look after your child.”

  “Merciful heaven!” cried Adeline. “Where is Gussie? Oh, Philip, where is Gussie? That terrible Scotchwoman has probably landed and gone off with her!”

  “The ship has not docked yet,” said Philip, calmly. “The Scotswoman is an excellent creature and has no need of another child. I have arranged everything with her and paid her well. Here comes Patsy now with Augusta.”

  He watched his approaching daughter a little grimly. She was perched on Patsy’s shoulder, grasping him around the head. Her clothes were crumpled and stained, her face and hands had a strange greyish cleanliness. The cloth that had washed them had seen so much service! However she looked distinctly less ailing than when Philip had transferred her to the steerage and she greeted her mother with a faint smile of recognition.”

  “Oh, the darling!” cried Adeline, and kissed her. “Oh, Gussie, you do smell sour,” she added under her breath.

  Boney decided to leave the ship head downward as he had come aboard. Clinging by his dark claws to the ceiling of his cage, he saw recognizable bodies moving about him. He felt the crisp May breeze in his face that had a very different flavor from the air below decks to which he had become accustomed. He turned it over on his tongue, not quite sure whether or no he liked it. Over the shoulders of those about he glimpsed the dark fortress with white clouds banked behind it — for Wilmott was a tall man and held his cage high.

  Adeline felt strangely weak as she moved toward the gangway. She turned pale. Suddenly D’Arcy and Brent presented themselves and, gripping each other by the wrists, made a chair for her on which they implored her to seat herself. She looked questioningly at Philip. Would he allow it?

  “A good idea,” he declared. “Thank you very much. Adeline will be delighted.”

  So Boney saw his mistress carried off and screamed his approval. He heard the shouts of French porters, saw the carioles drawn by their horses, in line by the side of the pier. Some passengers were met by friends or relatives. Others had no one to meet them but stood disconsolate and confused beside their little mounds of luggage. The two young Irish girls were there, looking not quite so buxom as when they had first sailed. Adeline gave them her address and told them to come and see her the next day. Before D�
��Arcy and Brent set her on her feet, she gave each a kiss on his cheek.

  Brent exclaimed — “Is there anywhere else we can carry you?”

  “Faith,” added D’Arcy, “it would be no trouble at all to carry you to the top of the Citadel!”

  The Scotswoman darted from her brood to plant a last kiss on Gussie’s little mouth.

  “Eh, the poor wee bairn!” she cried.

  Her own children, thinking she had deserted them, came howling after her. She turned to them and was lost to view.

  How many priests there were about, thought Adeline, and how foreign everything looked! She felt better now, really exhilarated and eager to see her new home. Philip had got a carriage for her. Their three friends were going to a hotel. She had a fleeting glimpse of Mrs. Cameron being met by relatives. Fascinated, she saw their astonished questionings, Mrs. Cameron’s tragic gestures. She saw her raise a black-gloved hand and point to Philip and herself. She stood motionless a moment, then threw the group a smile. “I may as well let them think I don’t care,” she said to herself, “for they hate me and my brothers and nothing can change that!”

  Philip lifted her into the carriage and took Gussie on his own knee. The wheels rattled over the cobbles and up the steep narrow streets.

  Adeline began to laugh rather hysterically. Philip turned his head to look at her.

  “I was just thinking of the way Mrs. Cameron looked at me,” she said. “You’d think an elopement was a monstrous thing and that I had engineered it. For my part, I think that little Mary did extremely well for herself.”

  VI

  THE HOUSE IN THE RUE ST. LOUIS

  IT STOOD BEFORE them, tall and a little severe, with a many-windowed façade. The knocker on the heavy door was a frowning gargoyle head. Philip’s firm knock echoed through the house. Adeline stood gazing at the small-paned windows, the frames of which were painted black with a narrow gilt rim. She exclaimed: —

  “I can picture the old days here — satin breeches, powdered heads and all that!”

  “Nice to think it is ours,” said Philip.

  “Isn’t it!”

  Gussie, from her father’s arm, reached out and thrust her tiny fingers into the gargoyle’s mouth.

  “The street looks quare and foreign,” put in Patsy, waiting on the pavement with the bird cage and his bundles. “Haven’t we any land with it at all?”

  Philip could not get used to Patsy’s way of joining in their conversation. He frowned a little and knocked again. The door opened. A short stout woman in a black dress stood before them. Obviously she was French but mercifully spoke English. She explained that she had been engaged as cook for them by the solicitor who had charge of Mr. Nicholas Whiteoak’s affairs. Doubtless Captain Whiteoak had communicated with him. For herself she was eager to serve them. Her name was Marie.

  Her appearance was reassuring. Philip ordered tea for Adeline. He looked about the large drawing-room with satisfaction. Marie gave a cry of delight and pounced on Gussie.

  “Ah, la pauvre petite!” she cried.

  Patsy had been standing in the dimness of the hall with the tiny silent girl on his shoulder. He showed his large teeth between his straggling whiskers in an ingratiating grin at Marie, who now took possession of Gussie.

  “Ah, Madame, may I have the pleasure of feeding her? She looks so fatigued, so pale.”

  Adeline thankfully agreed.

  When they were alone Philip said again: —

  “It’s nice to think this is ours. It looks like a well-built house and there will be plenty of room for the things we brought.”

  Adeline flung open the solid dark red shutters and the May sunshine flooded the room which obviously had been but casually cleaned and dusted for their reception. Adeline’s bright gaze flashed about it. She saw the black and gilt furniture, the ornate chandelier with its four cylindrical red glass shades hung by crimson velvet cords. She cried: —

  “It’s hideous!”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Well, I don’t like everything in it. But it has possibilities.”

  “Was this your uncle’s taste?”

  “He bought it furnished — just as it stands.”

  She came and threw her arms about him.

  “Oh, Philip, I shall have great fun doing it over! I declare I’ve never so looked forward to anything. Let’s explore the whole house.”

  “Not till you have had some refreshment. Remember your condition.”

  “Merciful heavens,” she cried, “why are you always throwing that up to me! I can’t wink an eyelid but you say, ‘Remember your condition!’”

  Marie came in with a tray on which there were a pot of tea and some small iced cakes. She gave them a beaming smile.

  “La pauvre petite is ravenous!” she exclaimed. “She has already eaten three cakes and drunk a small cup of café au lait. It is much, much better for her than tea. Ah, her intelligence — her savoirfaire — her beauty! That person who carried her tells me she has made the journey from India and that the native nurse died. But never fear, I will of a certainty guard her — better than she has ever been guarded before!”

  Marie’s devotion to little Augusta was not passing. Indeed it grew day by day. She had the child continually with her. The suggestion that a nurse should be engaged filled her with horror. There were no good nurses in Quebec. She herself was the only person capable of giving Gussie the proper care. All she needed was a young boy to do the rough work and she knew the very boy — a nephew in fact of her own — and a capable girl to act as housemaid — a niece of hers would exactly fill the requirements. Much could be found for Patsy to do in a house of this size. For example, the goat had to be cared for, the steps cleaned, and the garden kept in order. The goat was free to graze in a small nearby orchard, which property also belonged to Philip.

  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 30th, 1840.”

  As it was difficult for ei
ther 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.