The owner of the dinghy, Peter Blanchflower, descended from the steamer into the little craft. Thankful he was to have it restored to him, not damaged — only dirty. He sloshed through the water, in which floated the debris of the children’s voyage. He found an empty tin and began to bail out the water. Wilmott, leaning over the rail of the steamer, asked:
“Would you like me to help you?”
“Not unless you want to come, sir.”
“Are you sailing back to your boathouse?”
“Yes. The wind is in the right direction. We should arrive some time before the others, who must come from the pier by road. I’d like to have your company, sir.”
Climbing with agility over the rail Wilmott too descended into the dinghy. Between them they put the sailing gear in order. Isaac Busby came to look down on their activities. He said to young Blanchflower, “In my opinion you should share equally in the reward with Tite Sharrow.”
Blanchflower raised his face which the spring sunlight discovered as particularly candid, unassuming, and attractive. With the sail’s rope between his teeth he said, “I have done nothing.”
Wilmott said, “I agree. The reward should be shared.” Wilmott felt that he would be more comfortable in his own mind if Tite were not given the full reward. To him there was something shady in this rescue, though he could not have told what.
Blanchflower, however, was obdurate, refusing any part in the reward. Tite stood now, at a little distance, listening. A lithe dark figure, his beautiful torso glistening in the sunshine, he listened as though aloof from all these doings.
At about the same time the steamer and the dinghy moved in different directions across the gay springtime lake, the steamer returning to Stead, the dinghy, breeze borne, to the boathouse. Philip called out to Wilmott and Blanchflower an invitation to come to dinner. So, having housed the dinghy and conveyed the news of the rescue to Annabelle, the two set out to walk to Jalna. On the way Blanchflower exclaimed to Wilmott, “I cannot think of a better life than that led by you and the Whiteoaks. When I take my holidays I’d like nothing so well as to come and camp by your river, if I might.”
“You’d be very welcome,” said Wilmott, who found the young man congenial company. He even confided to him that, some years before, he had written a novel but had never yet mustered the courage to send the manuscript to a publisher. Blanchflower, a confirmed reader of fiction, said with fervour that there was nothing he would enjoy so much as reading the novel.
By the time they reached Jalna they found the family returned, the doctor’s gig in front of the door, and the children tucked in bed. They had been given warm bread and milk, though Nicholas had great difficulty in swallowing because of inflamed tonsils. Little Ernest lay in beatific happiness, simply at being able to hold his mother’s hand and gaze out of swollen eyes into her solicitous face. He did not notice how pale she was or the blue shadows beneath her eyes. His mind was dazed by the joy of lying safe in her bed, with her beside him. Nicholas was on the sofa in the library, with Nero on the rug beside him and Philip close by. Now and again Philip would say, “All right, old man?” and Nicholas would nod, his eyes filling with tears, his hand reaching towards Philip.
Augusta, having been given a hot bath, a drink of beef broth, was tucked up in bed. She could hear her dove cooing on the gable above. She was content to lie tranquil, unutterably tired, savouring the fact that she and the boys had been rescued from the peril of the lake.
She dozed, but was waked by the consciousness that someone was standing by the bed, looking down at her. It was young Blanchflower standing there with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand.
“Your mother was bringing this to you,” he said, “but she looked so weary I asked if I might.” And he added, “I have a young sister about your age.”
She did not try to hide her weakness from him.
He put a hand behind her shoulders and, raising her a little, held the coffee cup to her lips. She drank.
Never again, in all her life, did any drink taste so delicious. Never again did any young man look so beautiful. She would have liked to kiss his hand. Instead she whispered, “I ran away.”
“So did I — once,” he said, and tucked the quilt about her. “I ran — to Canada.”
“I’m glad,” Gussie whispered. When next she opened her eyes he was gone, but, in her fancy, his image had effectually banished the image of Guy Lacey.
XXVI
TITE AND BELLE
A week later Wilmott sat by the writing table in his little sitting room, not writing, but with his head resting on his hand, thinking. He thought of young Blanchflower and how he had read the manuscript of Wilmott’s novel, written ten years before, and been enthusiastic about it. Wilmott valued his opinion. Now Adeline Whiteoak had promised, with all her native enthusiasm, to take the manuscript with her to the very den of a publisher in London. She was pleased to do this for her friend, thoroughly resolute about it.
At this moment Wilmott was trying to put out of his consciousness the palpable unhappiness of the mulatto, Belle. She had been broadly smiling, almost exuberantly happy. Now her mobile face expressed foreboding and gloom. Her eyes looked bloodshot, as from wakeful nights and weeping. Yet she should have been happier than ever. Here she was, married to the man she obviously, even slavishly adored. Yes, slavishly — and she a free woman — as free as any woman who loved Tite could be. Added to the other causes for her happiness was the fact that the reward offered by Philip Whiteoak had been paid in full to Tite. The half-breed had wanted to keep the cash under the mattress of his bed, and this he had done for the first two nights after possession of it. On the third night, however, Wilmott was woken by an outburst of hysterical crying by Belle. This was no outburst from an undisciplined half-savage creature but a heartbroken cry from a woman’s depth of misery.
Wilmott had sprung up and, without knocking, strode into the young couple’s room. The room was dark except for a pale moonlight. Tite could be seen clasping Belle to his chest while, with her arms thrown about him, she appeared to be struggling to free herself.
“Now, what is this scene about?” Wilmott had peremptorily demanded.
Belle had completely disappeared beneath the bedclothes but her sobs still shook the bed. Tite had risen and stood, a bronze night-shirted figure, facing Wilmott. They went into the outer room.
“I’ve stood all of this that I can,” Wilmott said. “It’s got to stop.”
“Belle is ailing, Boss,” said Tite.
“Is she expecting a baby?”
Tite spoke reproachfully. “Boss, surely you do not think I would inflict such an inconvenience on you…. No — Belle is ailing because she is too religious. She is all the while accusing herself of sin. She is tormenting herself over fancied sins.”
“Have you any inkling as to her fancies?”
“I have none, Boss.”
“I will go to her,” said Wilmott. “Perhaps she will confide in me.”
“I beg of you not to do that, Boss. It will only excite her…. What she needs is a change. My grandmother is very skilful in treating sick folks — with herbs and with good advice. If you think you can get along without us, Boss, I will take Belle to visit my grandmother on the Indian Reserve.”
Truly the prospect of being without that dusky pair was very pleasing to Wilmott. He had relished the presence of the pretty mulatto in the house. She was so sweet-tempered, so gay, so solicitous for his comfort. Now how depressing the change! Belle had gone off most dreadfully in her looks — still more in spirits. When the pair drove off in a mud-encrusted old buggy which had appeared as from nowhere, Wilmott had watched their departure with a groan of relief.
Yet how empty, how even desolate seemed the little house! The sound of the river, edging its way among the reeds, was lonely. His mind flew to the days when he and Tite were sufficient to each other for company. Of course he had invitations to dinner, to Jalna, to the rectory, to the Laceys and the Busbys, but still
he continued to miss Tite. For one thing he was so accustomed to the physical presence of Tite, his gliding, yet so distinctly masculine movements, his low, gravely modulated voice. Wilmott had taken Tite under his roof when Tite was an almost illiterate stripling. He had found a receptive pupil, so good at his books, so seemingly ambitious, that the two had talked freely of his studying law, of becoming a famous lawyer. But it was just talk. Anyway, what chance was there for a half-breed lawyer in this country? And Tite was not truly ambitious — any more than Wilmott ever had been. The life they lived suited them perfectly. They were perfect companions.
The truth was that Wilmott was jealous of the part Annabelle played in Tite’s life. Even her good cooking did not make up for the loss in companionship.
Tite had not said when he and Annabelle would return. Sometimes, during the long rainy week that followed their departure, Wilmott wondered if ever they would come back. There had seemed something so definite, so final in their leave-taking.
On an evening when the rain had ceased and Wilmott, in his punt, was about to push off from the little wharf, the grave, gentle note of Tite’s voice sounded directly behind him.
“I’m back, Boss,” he said.
Wilmott was dumbfounded. For a moment he was speechless, then he asked, “Where is Belle?”
“She is still at the Reserve, Boss.”
“With your grandmother?”
“No, Boss — with my cousin. I’ve sold her to him.”
“You couldn’t…. It’s against the law.”
“Not against the Indian law, Boss.”
“Belle will be heartbroken. It’s an abominable way to use her.”
Tite dropped lightly from the wharf into the punt.
“Boss,” he said, “Belle is a slave. She is used to being bought and sold.”
“You never think of her feelings. How will this cousin of yours treat her?”
“He will treat her very well. He is a kind man — a widower with three small children. He needs a wife, Boss. We don’t.”
“The whole affair is unspeakable. Get out of this boat!” Wilmott spoke loudly. He felt that he hated this cruel half-breed who now said:
“Belle is a religious young woman. My cousin is a religious man. I have tried hard to be religious, Boss.”
“You’re a hypocrite, Tite.”
“On the contrary, Boss, I am very sincere. I do the things and think the things that other men would like to do and think. What I like best is to serve you — to think of what you tell me.”
“Get out of this boat!” repeated Wilmott.
For answer Tite picked up a fishing rod that lay on the wharf within reach. Also there was a tin of bait. Tite chose a worm and gently put it on the hook. The punt was drifting downstream. Tite dropped the baited line over the side and shortly a fine salmon was drawn in.
“How old is this cousin of yours?” demanded Wilmott.
“He is sixty, Boss.”
“What did he pay you?” It was hard for Wilmott to get out the words.
Tite gazed reflectively at the salmon. He said:
“My cousin paid me forty dollars in cash, Boss. He also gave me two acres of land, with a gravel pit on it. He is a well-off Indian, Boss. Belle will be properly looked after. She is lucky to have such a husband.”
The gentle scents of early summer rose from the banks of the river. Along its banks marsh marigolds bloomed to the water’s edge. Wilmott’s anger at Tite faded. It was useless to try to change him. He was as fluid and as stable as the river.
Like a benign shadow he glided about the little house, restoring the order upset by Wilmott. Together they sat down to their evening meal. A slim new moon rose out of the river and shone its silver light on them.
Tite remarked, “It seems to me, Boss, that you and I are not marrying men. We are so happy in the company of each other. A woman is quite de trop.”
XXVII
ANOTHER VOYAGE
So exhausted were the three runaways when they were brought home, so thankful they were to be there, that they never considered whether retribution for their escapade would befall them, but as they recovered they were expectant of dire punishment. They were quite mistaken. Philip had said to Adeline, “The young ’uns have suffered enough, in my opinion,” and she had acquiesced. She herself was so thankful to have them safe that she shrank from anything that would upset that peace of mind.
It was a joyful occasion when the children were able to join the grown-ups at the tea table. Wilmott and Blanchflower also were there — that young man having been accepted into the family circle.
“I see quite a difference in the children,” said Wilmott. “I think they’ve grown.” He gave them his smile that had a rare sweetness in it.
Philip looked them over with some complacence. “They’ve terrific appetites,” he said, “yet they all have lost weight. Ernest is positively skinny.”
“The sea voyage will restore them. They will come back with roses in their cheeks,” said Wilmott.
“Look at Gussie.” Philip fixed his brilliant blue gaze on his daughter. “She’s as yellow as a crow’s foot.”
Young Blanchflower gave an admiring glance at Augusta. “It seems to me,” he said, “that Miss Gussie’s complexion has a delicate ivory quality.”
This remark sent the small boys into fits of smothered laughter. Augusta’s long lashes were downcast.
“I am at my wits’ end,” put in Adeline, “to accomplish all I must before we sail. Only think — six people to be outfitted!”
“I only make your party as five,” said Wilmott.
“What of my baby?” exclaimed Adeline. “Never again shall I let my children out of my sight.”
“But what a care he will be!” said Wilmott.
Philip gave him a wink. “Why, don’t you remember how, on the voyage out, I had the entire care of Gussie? Didn’t I, Gussie? I did everything — actually everything — for that infant.”
The boys again gave way to smothered laughter.
Philip, seeing that they had quite finished their tea, ordered them from the table.
Adeline called to them, “And don’t you dare to leave the room!” Turning to Blanchflower she added, “It behooves me to cherish the few children I have left.”
His face was full of sympathy. “I did not know … I’m so sorry,” he stammered.
Tears filled her eyes. “It’s my poor nerves,” she answered. “I can’t remember how many I should have.”
“They’re all four safe,” laughed Philip, “and we thank God there are no more of them.”
“Our youngest is a lovely child” — her eyes glowed in pride — “he’s a blond like his father. We have no red-heads — which shows what a modest woman I am. Ah, but my poor nerves are shattered! You’d never believe how I’ve changed. Am I not greatly changed, Gussie?”
This was too much for Gussie. She came to her mother’s side and gazed down at her in contrition and pity. Tall child as she was, Adeline drew Gussie on to her knee and beamed at those about the table. Wilmott stretched out an arm and drew Nicholas, his favourite, onto his knee. Seeing this, Ernest at once climbed to Philip’s lap and helped himself to another scone. Young Blanchflower thought he never had seen a more devoted family.
“I hear,” said Adeline, “that Tite Sharrow has come back without Belle, and that they’ve separated. Is that true, James?”
“I will tell you of that when these young ones have retired,” said Wilmott.
“Please tell it now,” begged Ernest. “We love gossip.”
Philip gave a shout of laughter. “You don’t even know what gossip is.”
“We hear quite a lot of it,” said Nicholas, “but we heard nothing amusing when we were on the lake. Do tell us!”
“No — no.” Wilmott pushed him off his knee. Philip looked at his watch. “It’s time all three were in bed. Dr. Ramsay says you young ’uns must be in bed by sundown for the next fortnight. So — kiss goodnight all round and off
you go.”
Augusta stood up straight, then bent to kiss her mother, next Philip, then Wilmott. When she reached Blanchflower she hesitated.
“Go ahead, Gussie — give him a nice kiss,” came in Adeline’s laughing tones.
The silken mane of Augusta’s hair fell over Blanchflower. She just touched his forehead with her lips that still were pale from the ordeal she had suffered.
Back in her own room she thought, “Why, oh why, didn’t I give him a nicer kiss! But — if I had — they would have laughed at me.”
It was heaven to be safe at home again. It was bliss to wake in the night and to feel the bed steady beneath one. It was bliss to hear the rain beating on the roof and know it could not get at you.
The weeks that followed were crowded with preparations for the journey by land and sea. The three boys had been born in Canada — Augusta in India, but she remembered nothing of the voyage out.
It was thought that the children were not yet strong enough for study. On his part Wilmott relaxed with almost conscious delight in the warmer weather, in the fullness of growth, in the abundance of fish in the stream, in the birdsong that thrilled the woods, and, not least, in the return of Tite as a single man. Rigorously he put from his mind the manner of this achievement.
Of all those affected by this journey, Nero understood least but felt most. He had been told nothing, yet knew all. He knew, for instance, that he was too big to conceal himself in a piece of hand luggage. His hope lay in so closely attaching himself to something that was accompanying the travellers that they would take him unknowingly. When the first trunk was carried down the stairs and set in the hall he placed his woolly body firmly beside it. When other trunks and portmanteaux appeared he investigated each one in turn and gathered them, as it were, under his guardianship. But when members of the family, dressed for travel, came to the hall Nero would raise such pleading eyes to them as might have moved a heart of stone. Yet so occupied were they by their own affairs that they scarcely noticed him. Now and again he would heave a profound sigh. On the last day before departure Tite Sharrow brought a stout leather thong and fixed it to Nero’s collar. Tite was strong but he was tired out after he had dragged Nero the wooded way to Wilmott’s cottage. It would be months before that loyal Newfoundland would return to Jalna, except to visit the house each day and make sure that all was in order and possibly be given a second dinner by Mrs. Coveyduck.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 61