“He is almost always at home,” Tite said, with a dignified inclination of the head. “I will tell him you are here. He is at the moment sewing buttons on his best pants.” Tite glided from the room and, in a few moments, Wilmott entered. Tite did not return.
“I’m sorry I have kept you waiting, Adeline.” Wilmott spoke formally, as was his habit, but his deep-set grey eyes looked so intently into hers that she coloured a little. “It is not often that you come to see me,” he added, and placed a chair for her.
She did not sit down but stood facing him.
“I come on an important mission,” she said.
He was used to her exaggerations and waited composedly for her to go on. “Yes?” He spoke warily.
“Oh, don’t be alarmed,” she broke out. “I’m not asking you to do anything. I want only to have your sympathy in what Philip and I are undertaking.”
“Philip and you?” he repeated surprised.
“Philip and I pull very well together,” she declared, “when we are of one mind … But first tell me where do your sympathies lie in this Civil War of the Americans?”
“You know that I hate slavery.”
“So do our guests from the South. But they inherited great plantations and hundreds of slaves. Those blacks were dependent on them. They were content and happy with their masters, but now the Yankee soldiers have invaded the South, pillaging, burning. Oh, ’twould break your heart to hear of the miseries those villains have brought into that happy country. Of course, you remember how your wife went through New England lecturing and stirring up hate for the South. And it was none of her business, was it?”
Wilmott did not want to be reminded of that woman. He retorted, “Surely this war is no business of ours.”
Yet when Adeline poured out the plans of Curtis Sinclair, she moved him, as she knew she could. The very fact that his one-time wife had been active in stirring up hatred for the South was enough to rouse his sympathy for that troubled land.
As he hesitated, she caught his hand in hers, exclaiming, “Ah, James, how splendid you are!”
“But I have promised nothing,” he warned. “And I hope you are not letting yourself be inveigled into some reckless act.”
“Philip and I have no part in all this but to see nothing, say nothing. Nothing more than to lend shelter for meetings.”
“Meetings?” He withdrew his hand and looked her sternly in the eyes.
“Now that I have won you over,” she said, “you are to come to Jalna tonight and hear the details. You are going to enjoy this, James.”
His voice trembled a little as he said, “You know, Adeline, that I will do anything for you.” Yet he still held his look of sternness, for he lived a rather isolated life and, once his austere features lent themselves to any expression of mood, they were reluctant to change.
When Adeline was gone, the half-breed entered. He had been eavesdropping and had heard every word, but his face showed nothing of this. He said: “I was hoping you’d tell me to make a cup of tea for the lady, Boss.”
“You know very well, Tite,” said Wilmott, “that I am not in the habit of entertaining ladies.”
“But Mrs. Whiteoak is a great tea-drinker, Boss.”
“That is nothing to us,” Wilmott said curtly.
“I know that very well, Boss. But I thought she might like a cup of tea for the sake of her nerves. It must be strange to her to have slaves in the house.”
“That is nothing to us,” repeated Wilmott.
A silence followed, then Tite, with a sidelong look, asked, “Have you seen the slaves, Boss?”
“I have not. How many are there?”
“Three, Boss.”
“Well!” Wilmott ejaculated. “Well — that seems rather a lot. Are they men or women?”
“One man and two women, Boss.”
“Have you spoken with them?”
“I am always friendly with strangers, Boss. I have talked with them. The older woman is fat; for one thing she is heavy with child.”
“Tck!” exclaimed Wilmott.
“Yes indeed, Boss.”
“Is the man her husband?”
“No, Boss. She left her husband and three children in the South because she is so devoted to her mistress — just as I would leave my wife and my children, if I had them, to go with you.”
“I should advise you,” said Wilmott, “not to question these Negroes. Better keep away from them, Tite.”
“I am a friendly man, Boss.” The half-breed showed his white teeth in a smile. “Also I have no class-consciousness. I myself am of mixed blood. I am scarcely white. Yet a young white lady once told me that I had a mouth like a pomegranate flower. Do you think that was meant as a compliment, Boss?”
“Don’t remind me of that affair, Tite,” Wilmott said sternly.
“That was years ago, and I am of a more noble character now. You have heard of the noble red man, Boss?”
“I am glad to hear of your nobility,” said Wilmott, wondering whether education had been good for Tite.
“The young woman slave” — Tite spoke in a judicial tone — “is a mulatto — the shade of café au lait. You see, I know a little French. She is a very pretty girl, Boss.”
“I want you to keep strictly away from that young woman.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Tite with dignity. “Still, she is very pretty and her name is Annabelle. Her face is sensitive — a quality you don’t find very often in women.”
“Keep away from her,” repeated Wilmott, “or you may get into trouble.”
“Trouble with whom, sir?”
“Probably with the Negro man.”
“Oh, no, Boss. Annabelle is miles above him. He is an ignorant fellow who knows not how to read or write, though he can do arithmetic in his head.”
“How do you come by all this information, Tite?”
“I keep my eyes and ears open. That is what makes life interesting.”
Tite drifted away. He fished in a shady pool of the stream which abounded in fish. He cleaned and cooked fish for the evening meal. He washed up. When dusk fell he took the narrow path to Jalna by which Adeline had come that morning.
The sounds and smells of night were stealing out, at first as though timidly, then taking possession of the darkness. The scent of virgin soil, of cedar, of pine, of the balm of Gilead tree, weighed sweetly on the night air. The twittering of small birds, the confidential croaking of frogs, the newly awakened chorus of the locusts, joined in the dismissal of day and the welcoming of night.
The half-breed did not consciously give himself to these pleasures. He absorbed them through his very pores — the soles of his feet, the skin of his dark face. Plainly this night walk was not aimless, for he turned abruptly from the path that led to Jalna, descended another path that would have been difficult to find, had he been less sensitive to the feel of the earth and the change in the air, as he followed the path down into the ravine. Down there a stream was moving swiftly, unseen but clearly heard in its nocturnal singing. It was spanned by a rustic bridge and walking across it was a large white owl whose hearing, even more acute than Tite’s, detected the coming of the young man. It rose, with a heavy flutter of wings, into the shelter of a massive tree.
Tite gave a little laugh and, raising an imaginary bow, sent an imaginary arrow into the owl’s white breast. As though in wonder, it uttered a loud “whoo-whoo.” Tite now went and stood on the bridge listening. He had not long to wait. A dark figure stole out from the undergrowth. The young mulatto girl joined him silently on the bridge.
He took her hand and they stood so linked for a moment. Then he said, “You did well, Annabelle, not to keep me waiting. I am an impatient fellow and would have searched till I found you — and then —”
“What then?” she breathed.
“I can’t tell you. I do things on impulse. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad.”
In her soft voice Annabelle said: “Ah reckon you’se good, Tite.”
&
nbsp; “Why?” he laughed.
“You’s so educated.”
“That doesn’t matter. We’re happy together. As for my education — what chance has an Indian got? Any more than a Negro.”
“Ah’m part white. My grandfather was a white man. My grandmother was just his slave. But she was pretty.”
“And so are you, Belle — pretty as a picture.”
She moved closer to him. He could smell her warm dark flesh and cheap perfume.
“Tite,” she whispered, “do you love de Lawd?”
He was startled but he asked, “Do you want me to love Him, Belle?”
“Ah certainly does. Ah’m religious. All us three — Jerry, Cindy, and me — enjoy a good meetin’. Next to a weddin’ or a funeral.”
Tite, after a moment’s hesitation, said, in a voice that thrilled the emotional girl, “I too am religious.”
“You ain’t a Catholic, are you?”
“What made you think I might be?”
“Well, you said you was part French.”
“What denomination do you belong to, Belle?”
“Ah’m a sort of Baptist. But I enjoy any sort of revival meetin’.”
“So do I,” Tite said fervently.
The girl said, in her soft thick accents, “There’s over thirty of us coloured folk in these parts. There’s a preacher among us. Cap’n Whiteoak, he’s lent us a nice clean hayloft for meetin’s. We’re havin’ one on Sunday. We’ll sing and pray for the South, ’cause we want to go home again. Will you come to the meetin’, Tite?”
“I’ll be delighted,” said Tite, imitating Wilmott’s manner. He put his arm about the girl. Dusky cheek to cheek, they listened to the singing of the stream.
“Does religion mean more to you than love?” he asked, running his hand through her curls, for her hair was not woolly.
“Way more,” she murmured.
He felt a little rebuffed. “Why?” he asked. “Surely a pretty girl longs for love.”
“Ah likes the love of a man,” came the answer, “but Ah clings to the love of de Lawd.”
“So do I,” said Tite fervently.
The following morning he raised his eyes from the fish he was scaling and announced to Wilmott, “I’ve got religion, Boss.” His serious tone was scarcely matched by the expression of his eyes, for two fish-scales clung to his long lashes.
Wilmott looked down at him doubtfully. “What has brought that about?” he asked.
Tite winked the fish-scales from his eyelashes.
“I’ve felt the need of it for a long time, Boss,” he said. “And when I was wandering solitary in the darkness, it struck me like a blinding light.”
“I hope it will be good for you,” Wilmott said without conviction.
“I’m sure it will, Boss. A man cannot live by fish alone.”
“You had better go and tell this to Mr. Pink, the rector,” said Wilmott.
“Can’t you advise me, Boss?”
“I don’t consider myself competent for that. Better go to the rector.”
“But, Boss, I’ve never been baptized or confirmed. He’d likely want to do both to me.”
“Do as you please,” said Wilmott, and left him.
In spite of Wilmott’s guardianship, Tite was accustomed to do as he pleased. Now it was his pleasure to seek out Mr. Pink, the rector of the small church that had been built by the Whiteoaks. It was but one of two country churches in Mr. Pink’s spiritual care. Here, beside it, was the rectory, almost as large as the church. Mr. Pink was sitting in the porch enjoying his mid-morning pipe. At the half-breed’s approach he gave him a friendly nod and said:
“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.<
br />
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.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 39