Lucy Sinclair tried in vain to achieve order in her belongings. She felt that at any moment she might be sent for to join her husband. The greater the energy put into the preparations for departure, the greater the confusion. Cindy and Belle constantly washed, ironed, mended, carried bundles upstairs and downstairs, packed and unpacked portmanteaux, increasing day by day the dire confusion. Quarrels in the kitchen became so frequent, so noisy, that they could not be ignored. Cindy was subject to attacks of weeping, for she was becoming convinced that her family in the South had been murdered by the Yankees or that her husband had taken himself a new wife. Jerry was doggedly urging Annabelle to marry him, and she as stubbornly putting off the day. To put it mildly, things were at sixes and sevens at Jalna.
Like a thunderbolt, word came from Curtis Sinclair that his wife was to join him. He wrote from his father’s plantation. She and her servants would be met at the border by a reliable escort who would have money for travelling expenses. The jubilation that followed brought sheer chaos in its train. Then Adeline took matters in hand. With promptness and exactitude she supervised the packing, set Cindy and Belle to washing and ironing Lucy Sinclair’s intricate and much embroidered lingerie. The basement reeked with the smell of steaming suds, the rub-a-dub of the washboard. Their backs bent over the washtub, their knuckles fairly skinned from rubbing over the corrugated surface of the washboard, they lifted their voices in songs of rejoicing. Lucy Sinclair gave, in spite of Philip’s protests, extravagant presents to all the family. To Adeline a string of pearls. To Augusta a moonstone ring which she insisted the young girl should be allowed to wear at once. To Nicholas a gold watch and chain. To Ernest a gold pen. To baby Philip a pin set with turquoise, to hold his bib in place. She lay awake for hours trying to decide on a present for Captain Whiteoak. Finally she offered him a ring belonging to Curtis Sinclair set with a splendid carbuncle.
“No, no, my dear Mrs. Sinclair, I cannot accept this. In the first place it is much too grand for me. As you see, I wear only a seal ring with my family’s crest. It belonged to my father. In the second place, your husband will probably demand it of you as soon as you join him.”
“He would be delighted if he knew I gave it to you.”
“I doubt that.”
“Then I will tell him it has been lost.”
But Philip would accept no present. To Adeline he remarked, “Lucy is a little liar. But then, I suspect all women lie to their husbands.”
When the excitement of leave-taking was at its height, Annabelle suddenly decided that she was willing to marry Jerry at once and would like to travel southward as his wife; would feel safer travelling as a married woman, for she had heard terrifying reports of Yankee soldiers’ attacks on girls. She wanted the ceremony to be performed by the Negro preacher, who still continued to hold meetings regularly. Scarcely a week passed without the addition of a few more Negroes to the group, stragglers who came, it seemed, from nowhere but always were made welcome. Elihu Busby did much to assist them to find a roof to cover them and work for their support. He was generous with his money.
It was arranged that the marriage should take place after the midweek prayer meeting. Adeline Whiteoak gave the bride a white muslin dress with a wide plaid sash. She wore a straw bonnet covered with red and yellow flowers. Jerry, for the first time in his life, wore a white starched collar so high that it caused him real suffering. Yet he was a proud man wearing it. The Negro women present wore bright-coloured shawls or, failing these, red blankets over their shoulders. This was the first wedding in their midst. They demonstrated their joy in it by vociferously singing the hymns, by stamping of feet and clapping of hands. Later they were given a supper by the Whiteoaks.
To Philip and Adeline these last days of the long visit from their Southern guests were a trial. It seemed that the day of departure would never arrive. But finally the morning dawned, clear and joyously windy. Philip was to drive Lucy Sinclair, her servants, and luggage to the railway station where they were to be met by a Mr. Tilford, a Carolinian who had lived for many years in New England. He was a man of influence, a man to be depended on to escort Lucy to where she would be met by relatives.
As the wagonette stood before the door on the gravel sweep, Adeline, with her children about her, waved goodbye from the porch. She had put on the pearl necklace given her by Lucy Sinclair and, though it was not in accord with the everyday dress she wore, it expressed her lively appreciation of the gift. Gussie held aloft her hand that wore the moonstone ring. Nicholas stood upright with the gold watch in the pocket of his jacket, its chain across his chest. Ernest made as though to write on the air a message with the gold pen. Baby Philip threw kisses which caused Lucy to shed tears.
“Goodbye!”
“Goodbye!”
The loving words echoed among the falling leaves.
When the Whiteoaks had been newly settled at Jalna, Philip’s sister in Devon had sent out to them a married couple named Coveyduck, as gardener and cook. This comfortable couple had been the domestic mainstay of the house for years, but they were persuaded to go to Manitoba, where relations of theirs were, as they wrote, making more money than could be made in Ontario, leading in every way a better life. Now suddenly, on the very day of Lucy Sinclair’s departure, they appeared at Jalna and asked if they might be given their old situations. Such a felicitous surprise it was that Adeline hugged Mrs. Coveyduck to her in rapture, and slapped Coveyduck on the back. It was a summerlike day. Adeline kissed each of her children and carried little Philip to the basement kitchen. Mrs. Coveyduck had not before seen him. “Oh, what a little luv!” she exclaimed. She held out her arms to him. “Will ’ee come to me, luv?”
Philip would go to anyone regardless of colour or unfamiliarity. At once he took possession of Mrs. Coveyduck. She and her husband were thankful to be again at Jalna. They had had quite enough of the rigours of Western life. They had lost their fresh complexions, looked thinner and older. But they were full of energy and scarcely was their tin trunk unpacked when they set to work to restore order. Time and again Mrs. Coveyduck exclaimed that never, never had she seen a kitchen and pantries so dirty. Indeed, she would not be satisfied till she had, with Bessie’s help, housecleaned from attic to basement. Adeline could scarcely bear to wait for Philip’s return that she might tell him the crowning event of that wonderful day — like a conjurer produce the Coveyducks. All day she went about the house singing, sometimes on the tune, more frequently off it.
By early evening Adeline began to feel anxious lest Philip might have had an accident. Why was he so late in returning? The children waited by the gate to welcome him. The days were growing shorter. Soon it was dark. An owl began to hoot. A chilly wind whistled among the dying leaves.
Adeline was about to go to the gate to discover why the children lingered so long. Really they deserved to be punished. That little Ernest would be catching one of his colds.
Then suddenly she heard them running and, right on their heels, the sound of horses’ hooves. Nicholas was first to appear. He was almost beside himself with excitement.
“They’re coming!” he shouted.
“Your father?”
“All of them!” he shouted. “They’re back!”
Now, out of the twilight, appeared horses and wagonette. It was crowded as when it had set out that morning. Jerry jumped out and stood at the horses’ heads. They were restive, anxious for their evening meal. Philip alighted.
“What has happened?” cried Adeline.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing! Then why are you back?”
“We were not met. The stationmaster held the train while I went through every carriage enquiring. There was another train in six hours. We had a good meal at the hotel. You can imagine Mrs. Sinclair’s disappointment. We met the second train. No better luck. So I had to bring them back. I don’t know what the devil to think.” He stared ruefully into Adeline’s distraught face.
During this recital, Jerry stood, an eb
ony statue, at the horses’ heads. Cindy and Belle, worn out by emotion, slumped inside their shawls. The piccaninny slept. It was Lucy Sinclair who caught and held Adeline’s fascinated gaze. Lucy, who was inclined to snuggle luxuriously, indolently, among cushions, now sat bolt upright. The cushions had been provided, but she, a stark figure of tragedy, was as cut from stone. When Philip handed her out of the wagonette she moved rigidly past him, mounted the steps on to the porch and, out of pale set lips, said to Adeline:
“I shall never see Mr. Sinclair again. He is dead, I’m convinced of that.”
Adeline tried to embrace her but her arms hung helpless at her side. Her face was the picture of consternation. The vision that possessed her mind was the Coveyducks and the blacks contending for supremacy in the basement. Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. When Cindy and Belle bundled themselves out of the wagonette she could only say to them:
“Put your mistress to bed. Carry a tray to her.”
Lucy Sinclair and her women disappeared into the house. The statue that was Jerry now spoke.
“That thar Annabelle is mah bride,” he said, “an’ I ain’t nebber been to bed wid her.”
With a flourish of his hand, Philip ordered Jerry — “Get into that wagonette and drive to the stables. Tell the groom to feed and bed down the horses.”
The children, open-mouthed, were drinking in all this. Now Ernest spoke.
“Bed, my eye,” he said. But whether he referred to Belle and Jerry or to the horses, nobody knew. In fact the remark passed unnoticed.
But what Nicholas said did not.
With a look of deep concern he asked his mother, “Now that she’s back, must we return our presents?”
That artless question loosed the spell that held Adeline speechless. “Miserable boy!” she cried. “Worthless, ungrateful rascal! Thinking of nobody but yourself!”
“I think of all of us who got presents,” Nicholas answered boldly.
She ran down the steps towards him but he darted out of reach. “Philip,” she cried, “catch him! Give him a sound beating.”
“It was only a natural question,” said Philip. “But, as things have turned out, I think I should offer to return the presents. Mrs. Sinclair will need all her resources.”
Adeline fairly tore the string of pearls from round her neck and threw them at him. “Take them — take them! Leave me with nothing to repay me for these long months of patient self-sacrifice — nothing but an ache in me back and a pain in me stomach!” As always in moments of emotional stress, she assumed an Irish accent.
Philip deftly caught the pearls.
“Faith,” she cried, “if anyone has suffered in this visitation, ’tis meself!”
“For God’s sake, behave like a lady — if you can!” Philip implored.
“That’s right,” she hissed, “insult me in front of my poor little children!” Tears trickled down her pale cheeks.
Nicholas spoke up. “Papa, must I return the watch?”
“It’s the decent thing to do.”
His eyes filled with tears, the boy took the watch from his pocket and surrendered it to his father. Augusta slowly drew the moonstone ring from her slender white finger and, with dignified submission, laid it on Philip’s palm. Ernest had disappeared into the shrubbery but now returned.
“What about that gold pen?” demanded Philip, fixing a stern eye on him.
“I’m sorry, Papa,” said Ernest, “but I’ve lost it.”
“Already?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Come here,” said his mother.
Adeline opened wide her arms to her child and he ran into them.
What this family scene would have developed into was never known, because Mrs. Coveyduck, very red and flustered, now appeared. Without preliminary she announced, “Coveyduck and me — we think we’d better be going.”
“Oh, this is the last straw,” declared Adeline.
“I’m sorry for ’ee, madam,” said the cook, “but Coveyduck and me — we’re not used to working with darkies. Already they’re making a fine mess in the kitchen I’ve just cleaned. That new married pair are claiming the basement bedroom I’m just making ready for me and my ’usband. It’s more than human flesh and blood can bear. Those darkies be a murderous lot, if you ask me.”
Little Philip now toddled into the porch, calling out, “Cubbyduck! Cubbyduck!” He threw himself on her, clasping her knees.
Adeline spoke with dignity. “Baby welcomes you. We all welcome you. The blacks will be here only a short while …”
Mrs. Coveyduck said mournfully, “They tell me their massa is dead.”
“No, no, he is just delayed by a meeting with Mr. Lincoln. In the meantime you and your husband may use the bedroom in the attic. It’s a long climb for you from the basement, but it will be for only a little while, as I have said. Try to bear with the blacks. If you knew how tired I am you’d not desert me.”
The Coveyducks were persuaded to remain. The Negroes again took possession of the basement. Lucy Sinclair moved like one in a melancholy trance. When Philip sought to return the pearl necklet, the gold watch and chain, the moonstone ring, she at first refused them but was persuaded. With the first spark of her former mettle she said, with vehemence, that when she was sent for, if ever, she would restore them to Adeline and the children.
Some days later, when she had recovered from the exhaustion of the fruitless journey, she told Philip that she had decided to sell Jerry and Belle. They were a healthy, active young couple and should bring a good price. Did Philip know of anyone here in Canada who would be likely to offer her a good price? She had not yet grasped the fact that emancipation had taken place.
Ten days passed. Fall weather was threatening the last of the flowers. A flock of bluebirds about to migrate gathered in the garden. They sang their pretty songs, they showed, without peacock pride, their heavenly colour.
Philip Whiteoak tried, by every means possible, to get news of Curtis Sinclair. He considered the possibility of buying a small house for Lucy and her retinue. Certainly things could not go on as they were. There was a limit to what a man could endure. He would sit brooding — wondering what to do next.
Then the unexpected happened. From the railway station, in a hired carriage, appeared Mr. Tilford. He was a man of influence. He had come, armed with passes, plentifully supplied with money, to conduct Lucy Sinclair to Charleston. He was an old friend, a connection by marriage of her family. He had little time to spare. The southbound party must leave the following day.
XIV
THE VISIT OVER
An almost feverish excitement swept through Jalna like a forest fire, with the coming of Mr. Tilford. It spread from basement to attic, from barn and stables to the two cottages occupied by farm labourers. Everybody knew of his coming and that the lovely Southern lady would, early next morning, leave for her perilous journey, to meet her strange husband. All the neighbourhood knew of her leaving. All agreed that the journey was perilous. All agreed that the husband she was rejoining had something strange about him. Yet Mr. Tilford viewed the situation with fatalistic calm. He had little to say about Lucy Sinclair’s terrible disappointment in not being met on her first attempt to return to the South. He had little to say about the ruin of the plantations. It was obvious that he himself was not financially ruined. He was a shrewd business man — still youngish, with a future far from dark ahead of him. His mother was a Northerner and it had been through her relatives that he had gone into the cotton trade with England. He did not in his talk with the Whiteoaks show any violent partisanship. He knew so much and the Whiteoaks and Lucy Sinclair so truly little of the intricacies of the situation in the States that he preferred to skirt the edges rather than attempt to plunge into the depths.
Lucy Sinclair had gone to her room to make final preparations, which consisted in putting her hair in curlers, packing small things in a small dressing case and taking them out again, ordering her maids to do certain services f
or her and then expressing amazement that they had so done. As for Cindy and Belle, it seemed doubtful if they would close their eyes in sleep that night.
They would have sat up half the night talking, but it was necessary for Mr. Tilford to get rest. At midnight he was shown to his room, walking steadily, clear-headed in spite of all the Scotch whisky he had consumed. As for the Whiteoaks, they felt that they had a new grasp of the situation in the United States, the possible results of the civil war in that country, and its probable future. They lay awake a long while talking. At last there was silence from Philip to whom Adeline had put a question of (she considered) extraordinary importance. She repeated it on an imperative note. Now there came from him a bubbling snore. She was angry — outraged. “Insensate pig,” she tried to hiss, but could make no sound beyond a whimper. She doubled her fist and tried to strike him, but when the blow landed it was no more than a pat.
She was brought back to consciousness by a knock on the door. It was Mrs. Coveyduck with early-morning tea. It was seven o’clock. Outside the window a turkey-cock gobbled his pleasure in this Indian summer morning, and spread his splendid tail for the admiration of his several wives who trailed their long feet on the dew-soaked lawn. Philip and Adeline sat up in bed and attacked the tea and thinly cut homemade bread, spread with freshly churned unsalted butter. The Coveyducks were again in charge.
Another knock came on the door. This time it was no more than a tap. Still, the tapper had the courage of his need and he came straight in. It was Ernest in his little white nightshirt, with a frill round the neck.
“Well, young man,” said Philip, “and why are you barging in here, so early in the morning?”
“I’ve a splinter in my heel,” said Ernest, and at once began to get into bed with his parents.
Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny Page 48