There was hazy moonlight in the boys’ room. It fell across the bed, on which she could make out the figure of Ernest, curled up in a little bundle of misery.
She came and sat on the side of the bed. His hand reached out to her groping. “Is it you, Gussie?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she answered calmly. “I heard you crying. Are you hungry?”
“Hungry? No.” His voice came thick with sobs. “I’m not the least bit hungry, but — oh, Gussie, I’ve done something bad.”
She drew the sheet down to uncover his tear-stained face. “Yes, Ernest, what is it? Tell Gussie.”
“Is that the dove?” he asked.
“Yes. He’s been alone for hours. Now he’s so happy that I am back.”
The dove cooed in his throat.
Ernest was easily diverted, even from real unhappiness. Now he sat up in bed, then knelt up to stroke the dove. “How nice he is! I’m sure he knows me and likes me better than he likes Nicholas. Do you think he likes me, Gussie?”
“Tell me what you have done,” she said.
“You won’t tell Papa?”
“Have I ever carried tales?”
“No. But this is the worst thing yet.”
“Is it about the gold pen?”
He threw himself back on the bed and pulled the bedclothes over his head. “How did you guess?” came in a strangled voice.
“I saw you go into the shrubbery. I saw you come back.”
“I couldn’t help myself, Gussie.”
“Where have you hidden the pen?”
“Oh, I have it safe enough.”
In the dim moonlight she could just see his face, a girl’s face, pink and delicate, with the forget-me-not blue eyes and the rumpled fair hair, but the mouth was the mouth of a boy, sensitive and delicately arrogant.
She said, “Do you realize, Ernest, that it was stealing?”
He wriggled beneath the bedclothes. “But the pen is really mine, Gussie,” he said.
“Then why were you crying?”
He could not answer.
She went on, “Mamma and Nicholas and I had given back our presents — the pearl necklet, the watch and chain, the ring. They weren’t ours any longer. Neither is the pen yours. It was stealing to take it.”
“I know — I know,” he moaned.
“In England, not very many years ago,” she said, “there were more than a hundred crimes a person could be hanged for —”
“Even a boy?” he faltered.
“Yes — even a boy. A boy could be hanged for stealing a sheep, and a gold pen is worth more than a sheep.”
“Did you say a hundred crimes?” he quavered.
“More than a hundred. Mr. Madigan told us.”
Ernest now tried to obliterate himself in the bedclothes. Gussie could barely make out what he said. “Then,” he said, “I could have been hanged every day in the week. Oh, Gussie, tell me what to do!”
She patted him on the back. “We must find a way,” she said comfortingly.
Now his flushed little face appeared over the edge of the sheet. “Please don’t tell Papa,” he begged. “I don’t want to be thrashed.”
“Why did you start all this tonight?” she asked.
“I was so lonely and now I’m so hungry.”
“Roll over on your face and press your fists into your tummy. That will help.”
He did. Then he said, “It seems to make me hungrier.”
“Now, listen,” said Augusta. “You must stay quietly here and I will go to the kitchen and get you something to eat.”
“Don’t leave me alone!” Ernest’s voice was no more than a wail. He tried to make himself even younger than he was.
“Come, then.” Gussie spoke in resignation.
Ernest scrambled out of bed with surprising alacrity.
“I suppose you know,” said Gussie, “that I should not be doing this. It’s breaking rules, you know.”
“How would you feel if you found me dead of starvation in the morning?”
“You would not die from missing one meal. It is not the first time this has happened to you.”
“But it’s the first time I’d such a weight on my conscience. Is your conscience in your stomach, Gussie?”
“You are always so ready to talk,” she answered wearily. “I want to get this thing over — so come along and don’t make a sound.” She returned the dove to its cage.
The sudden transition from fear and loneliness to security and the comfort of Gussie’s presence not only filled Ernest with gladness but gave him a pleasing sense of adventure. It was the first time that he had gone down to the basement at this hour. He clung tightly to Augusta’s hand and they fairly held their breaths. Philip was in the sitting room reading the weekly newspaper. They could hear the rustling of it as he turned the pages. Nero was with him and came to the door and looked out at them and whined.
“Come back here, sir.” Philip spoke with his pipe between his teeth.
The children stole silently through the hall, past the door of the bedroom inside which they could hear their mother softly and not very musically singing. Certainly she would not hear them creeping past. They descended the stairs into the basement. Here it was pleasantly warm. The moonlight lay in shining rectangles on the freshly washed brick floor and discovered a golden gleam in the copper utensils hanging on the walls. The Coveyducks and Bessie were long ago in bed, tired out after their efforts to obliterate all traces of the Negroes.
As the children crept down the basement stairs Ernest whispered, “Just like thieves in the night, aren’t we?”
Scarcely were the words past his lips when he realized how terribly well they applied to himself. It was fortunate that he was on the bottom step, otherwise in his dismay he might have lost his balance. As it was he clapped his hand over his mouth and rolled his eyes up towards Augusta’s face to see if she had noticed.
If she had, she made no comment but led the way into the larder. It was possible by the light of the moon to see the large pans of Jersey milk, the loaves of bread, and many tempting edibles, tempting especially to one as hungry as Ernest. Augusta discovered a candle and matches. She lighted the candle and held the candlestick aloft, so that it shed its light on the shelves.
“Bread and milk?” she invited.
But he had seen the slab of apple pie, the bowl of Devonshire cream. “Oh, Gussie, please, some of that,” he begged. Without comment she cut a large helping for him, laid it on a china plate with a chip out of it, then mounded it with cream. Like a priestess in some Gothic ceremony, she led the way back to the kitchen and set plate and candle on the clean-scrubbed table. He slid on to a chair and she put a spoon in his hand.
“If your feet are as cold as mine are,” she said, “you’d like a hot drink.”
His mouth was too full for speech but he made eyes of gratitude, and pointed with his spoon to the teapot. In this kitchen the teakettle was always on the boil. Gussie stirred the coals under it and when the exact moment of bubbling came she had the teapot ready with plenty of tea in it.
She seated herself beside Ernest and poured a cup of strong Indian tea for each. The first mouthful brought tears to his eyes it was so hot. But he was so happy — just the two of them together and he not the odd one as so often he was!
He said, “Nicholas will wonder where I am. He will wish he might be in my place, won’t he?”
“I don’t know who would choose to be in your place,” said Augusta.
That remark subdued him, though only briefly. The pleasure of the late feast, the two cups of strong tea, had an exhilarating effect. He was still hungry.
Gravely she considered his plea for a second piece of the pie. He was delicate. The second piece might be too much for his digestion. Still — he had eaten little since breakfast. She rose. “I’ll risk it,” she said.
Ernest remembered a proverb he had heard from Lucius Madigan. Now he brought it out. “Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,” he
said.
Augusta looked at him in despair. “Can’t you keep your mind off bad things?”
He hung his head. He was speechless a moment, then he said, “I guess bad things come natural to me.”
“You look innocent,” said Augusta, “and that’s a danger. Anyhow, I’ll risk giving you more pie.”
She did and they both had more tea. He looked at her in love and gratitude. On their way through the hall, Ernest fairly skipped in his happiness.
“It’s been a jolly good evening, hasn’t it, Gussie? I guess it’s worth a crime or two to have such fun.”
Would he never show sense? Augusta in exasperation took him by the ear and led him to the stairs. He uttered a squeak of protest. The door of the sitting room, already ajar, was pushed open and Philip and Nero stood there.
“What’s this?” demanded Philip.
“I made Ernest some tea,” said Augusta.
“Why are you holding him by the ear?”
“To keep him quiet while we passed your door, Papa.”
“Upon my word, a strange way of keeping a boy quiet, eh, Ernest?”
In two strides Philip was beside them. He took Ernest under the arms, lifted him till their faces were on a level, then kissed him.
“Good night,” he said, “and now off you go.” He bent over Gussie and touched her forehead with his small blond moustache that ended in waxed points. One of these points pricked her on the forehead. “Good girl, Gussie,” he said. He stood with one arm upraised to the hanging oil lamp, waiting till they reached the top of the stairs before turning it out. The light fell softly on his sunburnt fair face, his blue eyes raised toward his children, his hair worn rather long and bleached to straw colour by the picnic sun. Gussie hesitated a moment, looking back at him. It was not often that she felt drawn in affection towards her sire. More often she regarded him dubiously or with a certain apprehension. But now she saw him looking young — young and fair and kindly to his children.
As the hall below was lost in darkness, Augusta and Ernest reached the boys’ bedroom. Nicholas was in bed fast asleep. He had tried to keep awake for them but had not been able to.
“If only he knew,” giggled Ernest, “of all I’ve done, wouldn’t he be envious?”
“You have a queer way of looking at things,” said Augusta. “Have you said your prayers?”
He nodded an affirmative and scrambled into bed. Well, it was not quite a lie. She had not asked if he had said his prayers tonight. He would say them snug in bed beside Nicholas, that is, if he could keep awake. Nero had decided that he would like to sleep on the bed with the boys. He scrambled in at their feet, making the mattress groan with his weight.
“Goodnight,” Augusta said and blew out the candle.
She went softly out of the room.
How quiet — how frighteningly quiet and dark it was when she had gone! Ernest snuggled against Nicholas’s back and pressed his ice-cold feet under Nero. Nero uttered a protesting groan and Nicholas began to gabble in his sleep. Ernest tried to remember his prayers but could not for the life of him remember how they began. Well — he would say the hind part and arrive so much sooner at the end. He murmured:
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
In my little bed I lie,
Heavenly Father, hear my cry —
Lord, protect me through the night
And keep me safe till morning light.
He was not sure that he had said it properly. Still, it would do. The apple pie, the cream, the strong tea, lay comfortably in his stomach. His mind was at peace, for he knew what he had to do.
The sound of a whistle came from the hall below. Nero well knew that summons was for him. With a groan he tumbled off the bed and lumbered down the stairs. At the same time Ernest fell fast asleep.
Augusta, in her room, sat by the open window. Her elbow on the sill, she rested her head on her hand. The dove sat drowsy on her shoulder. It had been safe to open the shutters because, while she was with him, he would not fly out, and if he did he would return, as he had done time and again.
She raised her hair from her forehead to let the night air cool it. She had been told, ever since she was little, that night air was bad. It was bad for all ailments and could even cause sickness in the healthy. But there was something in the night which was more in concord with her spirit than was the day. The hemlocks and spruces along the drive were now dense and mysterious. She could picture a horseman, in velvet cloak, wearing a plumed helmet, galloping along the drive. He drew in his horse beneath her window. He raised his arm and she could see the glint of his breastplate beneath his cloak. He lowered his visor and she could see that his face was the face of Guy Lacey. Her head drooped and she closed her eyes.
“My dove — my lovely dove,” she whispered, and the dove made little moaning noises.
“Thou hast dove’s eyes,” she whispered, and the dove pressed his breast to her cheek in an ecstasy of companionship.
When again she opened her eyes, the horseman had vanished. Was that the beat of hooves she heard in the distance? No — it was the sound of the stream, down in the ravine, passing in the cool darkness beneath the rustic bridge. In the mystery of the lawn the young white birch tree stood naked, its narrow golden leaves on the grass like a cast-off garment.
Augusta’s head drooped to the windowsill. The dove, finding it difficult to keep his foothold on her shoulder, moved to the back of her neck. A breeze ruffled her hair. She realized that she was tired and for a while she slept.
When she woke she saw the candle burning low. She thought of the two boys snug in bed. Quickly she drew off her clothes and found her nightdress folded under her pillow. Before putting it on she carried the candle in front of the looking-glass and gazed pensively at her naked reflection in the glass. Why did it interest her so greatly, she wondered. Whoo-whoo! cried an owl from the ravine. The dove had been shut in his cage, but at the cry of the owl he raised his head from under his wing and gave an enquiring look towards the ravine.
It seemed no time till the misty morning sunlight shone through the scented boughs of the pines into the room. The days were growing shorter. This, she realized, was a Sunday morning. There would be breakfast, with perhaps ripe pears on the table — one’s best clothes — and then church.
She poured water out of the ewer into the basin, where it fell tinkling with a chill sound. She could hear the boys quarrelling in their room as to whether or not Ernest’s ears should be washed.
“There is sand in your ears. I can see it,” came in Nicholas’s voice.
“My ears are cleaner than yours,” said Ernest. “They are the cleanest ears in the family.”
“Go and tell that to Mamma.”
“All right — I will.”
“What a little liar you are!”
Gussie hurried down the stairs. For some reason she felt light and gay.
Philip and Adeline were already at table eating oatmeal porridge. This had been cooked a solid two hours by Mrs. Coveyduck, till it was of a creamy consistency. A large bowl full of it was placed in front of Philip and he had just given himself a second helping when Augusta entered. She dutifully kissed both parents and, with a look askance at the porridge, said, “Just a tiny bit for me, Papa, please.”
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Philip.
“Nothing, except that I’m not fond of porridge.”
“You’d have a better colour if you ate more porridge. Look at your mother’s complexion.”
“That’s the Irish climate,” said Augusta. “This climate dries you up. Mrs. Coveyduck told me so.” She drew back from the dish of porridge Philip set in front of her. “Oh, Papa,” she protested.
“Eat it up,” he ordered.
Just then the two boys romped into the room.
“Boys!” exclaimed Adeline. “Is that the way to come to breakfast on a Sunday morning?”
“Go straight out,” ordered Philip,
“and come in properly or you’ll get no breakfast.”
Subdued, the two slunk out and entered again with decorum.
Adeline said, “If my brothers had come rioting to table at my home in Ireland, my father would have thrown them out on their heads and they would have had no morsel of food.” She sighed deeply, then went on, “Ah, what beautiful manners has my father! The courtesy, the amiability of an Irish gentleman! ’Tis my regret that he does not live nearby for a constant example to you.”
This remark, for some reason, appeared to strike Philip as funny. He laughed silently for some moments. It was fortunate that Mrs. Coveyduck placed a platter of poached eggs on toast in front of him at this juncture.
“I’ll wager,” he said to Ernest, “that you’re hungry for your breakfast. Eat your porridge and you may have a poached egg.”
“I am not hungry,” said the little boy. “I’d rather go to church than eat.”
“Good Lord!” Philip laid down his knife and fork and stared in dismay at his son. “He’ll be wanting to take holy orders next.”
Nicholas said, “He’s been talking in that pious way ever since we got up.”
“Part of the time,” returned Ernest, “we were talking about my ears.”
“He has sand in them,” said Nicholas.
After breakfast Adeline had a critical look at both her sons — made Ernest wash his ears and herself attacked the tangles in Nicholas’s thick wavy hair, which he simply smoothed by running a hairbrush over it.
At last the family were ready for church, and very elegant they looked, Adeline in an immense hooped skirt that caused her to take up room for two in the barouche. Philip drove the spanking pair of bays. The two little boys, in velvet jackets and hats with tassels, were in the driver’s seat with him. Nero ran alongside, Augusta, her long black hair floating, sat with her mother.
The church stood on a small but noticeable eminence and was surrounded by trees that had, during the last three days, become almost bare. Above arched the sky of an amazing blueness, like a southern sea. Against it sailed a great flock of passenger pigeons, as over a sea. Nicholas raised an imaginary gun in his arms, fired imaginary shots.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 51