Lady Honoria had a friendship of many years with Lord Elgin, now Governor-General of Canada. His duties had brought him to Kingston and, having received a letter from Lady Honoria, he was willing to extend his journey westward in order to renew their friendship and to act as godfather to her grandson. He arrived at Jalna on the day before the christening, a handsome gentleman of strong will who had a liberal and emphatic interest in the country. A few years before he had been the centre of a storm, when he had, as the English Canadians thought, favoured the French. In Montreal he had been attacked with stones and his carriage badly broken and battered. But he had come through the trouble victorious and was now the most popular man in the entire country. He seemed not at all tired by his journey and he and Lady Honoria made lively conversation, talking of mutual friends. All was easy and natural. Even the weather, when the morning of the christening came, was perfect, a summer-like warmth blessing the autumn brilliance of the woods. Carriages conveyed the party from house to church where windows and door stood open and Wilmott, in his best, broadcloth, was already seated at the organ.
The church was half-filled with invited guests, for the Whiteoaks by this time had a large acquaintance. To be sure, the church was small and it did not take a crowd to fill it. Soon the vacant pews were overflowing with the country folk who had come from far and near to have a glimpse of Lord Elgin. Never had there been such a christening in those parts. The centre of it all lay dozing in his mother’s arms, his long, tucked, embroidered and lace-trimmed robe almost touching the floor. His cape, his bonnet, were a marvel of elegance and intricacy. His two pink hands, with fingers extended like starfish, lay helpless as though washed up on the expanse of satin. In addition to Lord Elgin, Colonel Vaughan and Captain Lacey were godfathers and Mrs. Vaughan his godmother. Surely no godmother ever looked more benign than she, in her lavender silk with her prematurely white hair in full waves beneath her flowered bonnet! Adeline placed the infant in her arms and she stood, flanked by the three godfathers, facing Mr. Pink across the font. This font, which was her gift to the church, was a handsome one and Ernest was the first child to be marked with the sign of the cross from its blessed brim. Adeline and Philip, with her parents and brothers, stood in a group near by. Lady Honoria held Gussie by the hand and Gussie’s other hand held Nicholas. The two were dressed alike, in short-sleeved low-necked frocks with pale blue shoulder knots and fringed blue sashes. As a matter of truth they looked so lovely that even the presence of Lord Elgin was overshadowed by them.
Mr. Pink’s sonorous voice now came: —
“Dearly beloved, forasmuch as all men are conceived and born in sin; and that our Saviour Christ saith, none can enter into the Kingdom of God, except he be regenerate and born anew of water and of The Holy Ghost … ” The service proceeded, the congregation taking their part, according to the ancient form. At last Mr. Pink, turning to the godparents, asked the prescribed and searching questions regarding the spiritual convictions of Ernest Whiteoak. Mr. Pink asked of the godparents: —
“Dost thou, in the name of this child, renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desires of the same, and the carnal desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not follow, nor be led by them?”
And they responded: “ I renounce them all.”
Still Ernest slept.
But when the moment came when Mr. Pink took him into his own arms and, saying his name in full tones, sprinkled him liberally with water from the font, Ernest opened wide his forget-me-not eyes and uttered a loud cry of protest and alarm. When Nicholas saw his little brother so treated, he thrust out his underlip, tears rolled down his cheeks, and he sobbed. Seeing Nicholas weep, Gussie also broke into tears.
Nero, who was patiently waiting in the porch, could not endure the sound of the children’s crying. He pushed open the door with his strong muzzle and put his head into the church. He looked about him with a lowering expression till he saw the white-robed figure at the font with the baby in its arms. Nero advanced into the church, fixing Mr. Pink with his eye and lifting his lip.
“For heaven’s sake, take that brute out!” muttered Philip to Sholto, who sprang forward, grasped Nero by the collar, and dragged him back to the porch. A titter ran through the church. Lady Honoria comforted the children.
Ernest Whiteoak, having renounced the devil and his works and recovered from the shock of baptism, looked about him and smiled. He placed the finger tips of one tiny hand upon the finger tips of the other and regarded the assemblage magnanimously. Wilmott pressed down the loud pedal and all joined their voices to the organ accompaniment. They sang: —
“’Tis done! that new and heavenly birth
Which re-creates the sons of earth,
Has cleansed from guilt of Adam’s sin
A soul which Jesus died to win.”
The hymn swelled onward and upward into the Doxology.
There were white flowers on the altar, and the silver candlesticks presented by Lady Honoria. All the red and gold and green leaves, with bits of blue sky showing between, gave the windows an aspect even richer than that of stained glass. The congregation moved happily down the aisles, the little Pink boys in plaid dresses being barely restrained from capering by their mother’s hand. The church overflowed into the graveyard where as yet there was but a single grave, that of a young bird which Lady Honoria and Gussie had found and buried there. The church bell, presented by Elihu Busby, pealed forth in rejoicing.
At Jalna, the doors between library and dining room were thrown open and long tables were loaded with refreshment. The infant’s health was drunk in punch made from Lady Honoria’s own receipt.
Another and more substantial meal was partaken of by a more intimate party before Lord Elgin left. In addition to the family there were Pinks and the churchwardens and their wives. Elihu Busby could not restrain himself from being critical of the policy of the Governor-General toward French Canada.
“It is no wonder,” he said, “that the English Canadians showed resentment and threw stones at Your Lordship’s carriage!”
Lord Elgin laughed tolerantly. “Well, I have got even with them,” he said. “For I have never yet had that battered vehicle repaired but drive everywhere in it so that the world may see how badly they behaved.”
“I can’t agree,” said Busby, “in your coddling of the French. Make ’em English by force, I say.”
“No, no,” returned Lord Elgin. “I encourage them to use their native ability for the Empire, while assuring them of protection. Who will venture to say that the last hand which waves the British flag on American ground may not be that of a French Canadian?”
Before he left, he disclosed the fact that he was soon to go to India to act as Viceroy. Renny Court exclaimed: —
“Congratulations, sir! Who would not prefer India to this wilderness? Yet here my daughter and son-in-law came of their own free will and already I see the moss collecting on them. Philip’s sword has become a ploughshare and as for Adeline — why, that girl was a beauty once and look at her now! A rough-handed, red-faced country wench!”
“If,” said Lord Elgin, “I meet anyone half so delightful in India, I shall be content.”
The guests were gone. It was afternoon of the following day. Philip and Adeline were strolling hand in hand across the lawn in the tranquil sunlight of declining Indian summer. They had talked over the events of the last day, agreeing that all had passed off well and that Lord Elgin was a man of merit. Now they wanted only to be happy in each other’s company, to look with satisfaction on the home they had built. It stood solid among its trees with an air of being ready for what might come.
“And look,” cried Adeline, “the little Virgina creeper! It has turned bright scarlet just as though it were a grown-up vine!”
And so it had. Its tiny tendrils clung almost fiercely to the bricks as though it were in some way responsible for the staunchness of the house, and every leaf was crimson. Then Philip e
xclaimed — “See the pigeons, Adeline! They are going south! Gad, what a horde of them!”
A number were flying overhead and these increased till they hung like a swift-moving cloud. The cloud was grey-blue but the wings in it made flashes of fire. Their strength reached from house to church and it was four hours and almost dark before they had passed. Then darkness closed about the house, the candles were lighted and extinguished. With her head on Philip’s shoulder, Adeline slept.
THE END
Morning at Jalna
MAZO DE LA ROCHE
To Jack and Tony Gray with my love
I
THE HOME IN THE NEW COUNTRY
When the American Civil War broke out, this house Jalna, in Ontario, had been completed not many years before. The owner, Captain Whiteoak, and his family had been installed there since the birth of his second son. He and his Irish wife, Adeline Court, had come from India and romantically named the house after the military station to which his regiment there was assigned. Captain Whiteoak had been tired of the restraints of army life. He had longed for the freedom and space of the New World. Adeline Whiteoak always was eager for adventure. Now they felt themselves, if not actually pioneers, to be imbued with the spirit of pioneers, yet they had surrounded themselves with many of the amenities of the old land.
The house, a substantial one of a pleasing shade of brick, with green shutters and five tall chimneys, stood in a thousand acres of land only a few miles from Lake Ontario, the shores of which were deeply wooded and were the haunt of thousands of birds. The virgin soil was rich and prolific of its life-giving growth. Whatever was planted in it flourished with abandon.
The children of the Whiteoaks knew no life other than this free and healthy round of seasons. There were four of them — Augusta, Nicholas, Ernest, and the last comer, the baby Philip. (His father had gone back on his earlier determination to be the only Philip in the family.) The parents were indulgent with them, though at times severe in discipline. Their father would give them orders, when they displeased him, in a stern military voice. Their mother would sometimes, in exasperation, beat them with her own hands, for she had a fiery temper. The daughter, Augusta, suffered discipline with dignified resignation; Nicholas, with a certain haughtiness; Ernest, with tears and promises to be good. Philip, the baby, scarcely knew what it was to be crossed, and if he were, lay down on the floor and kicked and screamed.
On this summer day, husband and wife were looking forward, with not unmixed pleasure, to a visit from an American couple from South Carolina.
“I can’t understand,” Philip was saying, “why you are so concerned over this visit. The Sinclairs must take us as they find us. We have nothing to be ashamed of in the way we live. There is no finer house or better-run estate in this province, I’ll be bound.”
“But think what they are used to,” cried Adeline. “A huge plantation, with hundreds of slaves to wait on them — We don’t know the first thing about real elegance. We should have an entire suite to offer them, instead of one paltry bedroom and a cubbyhole for Mrs. Sinclair’s maid.”
“The guestroom is not paltry. It’s a fine room handsomely furnished. If they don’t like it they can lump it.”
“And how are you going to entertain Mr. Sinclair?” she demanded. “Escort him to view the turnip field? To inspect the twin calves?”
This conversation was interrupted by the noise of their two sons racing along the passage and clattering in their sturdy boots down the stairs. As Nicholas overtook Ernest, the little boy gave a shriek of pretended terror. Ordinarily this display of high spirits would have passed unnoticed by their parents but now Philip said, “They must not carry on like this after our visitors arrive.”
“Don’t worry,” said Adeline. “I am sending the older children to the Busbys for three days. I arranged it with Mrs. Busby yesterday.”
“Gussie knows how to behave herself,” remarked Philip.
“She would miss her brothers. I want an atmosphere of complete peace when the Sinclairs arrive. In Lucy Sinclair’s last letter she spoke of the sad state of her nerves.”
“Are you aware,” demanded Philip, “that the Busbys are completely on the side of the Yankees?”
“I have not told them,” she said, “who our visitors are. Simply that they are friends we made on our last trip to England.”
Philip was perturbed. “Elihu Busby would not like it. I’m certain of that.”
“The Sinclairs are not visiting him.” She spoke hotly. “Let him mind his own business.”
“The children will tell.”
“They’d better not,” she exclaimed. She gathered her three eldest about her.
“You are to spend three days with the Busbys,” she said.
“Hurrah,” cried Nicholas. “I’ve always wanted a visit to their farm. Everybody works but they always have time for fun.”
“Listen to me, children.” Adeline spoke in a tone of portentous warning. “You are not on any account to mention that our guests are from the South and may be bringing one or two servants with them.”
“Blackamoors!” exclaimed Nicholas. “I’ve never seen one and I’m dying to.”
“Are they dangerous?” asked Ernest.
“Of course not, you little ninny,” said his mother. “Remember to say that our guests are friends we met in England. I depend on you, Augusta.”
“I’ll remember,” Augusta promised, in her low voice that would become contralto, “but sooner or later the Busbys will find out.”
“Of course they will, but if they find out at once they’ll probably be so disgusted they’ll send you home again. Patsy will drive you to the Busbys’. Now go, and remember also your manners.”
She left them.
“Manners, my eye,” said Ernest. Augusta was shocked.
“Ernest, wherever did you hear that horrid expression?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you had better forget it. Come now and wash your face and brush your hair.” She took him by the hand.
Patsy O’Flynn, the Irish servant from Adeline’s old home who had accompanied the family to Canada, was waiting on the drive with a wagonette drawn by a sturdy piebald cob. His sharp features looked out from a fringe of sandy whiskers and unkempt hair.
“Come along, do,” he urged the children, “for I’ve no time to be gallivanting the countryside, with the work of two men piled on to me.”
Philip and Adeline had come into the porch to see their children depart. It was as if they were setting out on a journey, rather than going to spend a few days with a neighbour. The children were somewhat pampered. Captain Whiteoak himself carried their portmanteau, though Nicholas was a strong lad. Adeline took out her own handkerchief and wiped Ernest’s pert little nose, though he had a clean handkerchief of his own, with the initial E on a corner, in the pocket of his blouse.
“See to it that his nose does not dribble,” she admonished Augusta. Captain Whiteoak lifted Ernest into the wagonette. Their mother raised her handsome face and gave each of her children a hearty kiss.
“Whatever comes your way,” she said, “accept it with the gracious calm shown by me.” She said to the driver, “Patsy Joe, if you let that pony wander into the ditch and overturn the wagonette, as you did once before, I’ll be the death of you.”
The wagonette moved swiftly away. Nero, the great black Newfoundland dog, bounded alongside. Summer sunshine found its way through the densest trees and glittered on the rump of the piebald cob whose hooves made only a soft thud on the sandy loam of the road.
When the Busbys’ rambling frame farmhouse appeared, Augusta said to Ernest, “Not a word now about blackamoors. Remember.”
“Blackamoors, my eye!” said Ernest. There was no time to reprimand him. They all clambered out.
II
The VISITORS
Lucy Sinclair remarked to her husband:
“That little fellow could be a perfect pest but so far he’s rather sweet.”
Both turned their weary eyes on little Philip Whiteoak who was struggling to build a house of toy bricks on the grass nearby. It was as much as he could do to place one brick on top of another but he heaped them with commanding concentration and pouted his baby lips in resolve.
“He favours his papa,” said Lucy Sinclair.
“A typical Englishman.” Her husband spoke half-admiringly, half in resentment. “A stubborn, self-opinionated type.”
“These people,” said she, “are our friends; it’s heaven to be here.”
“They are generosity itself,” he agreed. “Whiteoak said to me this morning — ‘You are to consider this your home — you and Mrs. Sinclair and your servants — till the war is over.’”
She took out a lace handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “What will be left to us?” she exclaimed with a sob.
The tiny boy left his building bricks and came to her. He patted her on the knee. “Poor lady,” he said. “Don’t cry.”
She stroked his blond curls. “You little darling,” she said, and added, “No, I won’t cry. I’ll be brave to please you.”
Her husband laid his hand on her other knee. It was a singularly handsome hand. Always had she admired the thumb in particular. It was almost as long as a finger and perfectly rounded, the nail showing a half-moon. Her eyes moved from his hand to his pale elegant profile, and from his profile to his strong thickset body, with the pronounced hump on the back. He was a hunchback, and because of this affliction had not been able to remain in the South and fight for his country but had come to Canada with his delicate wife, hoping that he might do something to influence the fortunes of the South. In any case it was necessary to get Lucy out of the country. He was now impoverished yet still thought of himself as an independent Southern planter.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 35