She stood outside Conway’s door listening but there was so much noise of movement and shouting she could hear nothing. She opened the door.
Conway lay stretched on the berth, a happy smile on his face, his pale hair falling about his cheeks. His long greenish eyes followed every movement of Mary Cameron who was bent over a portmanteau carefully packing his toilet articles, under his direction.
“Well, this is a pretty sight!” cried Adeline. “Oh, you lazy pig, Con! Get up out of that and do your own work! Mary, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why aren’t you helping your mother?”
Mary raised a flushed face. She said, with a touch of defiance: —
“Everything is done for my mother. She is resting till we disembark.”
“Then go and sit by her. Don’t you know better than to be alone with a young man in his cabin? Have you travelled halfway round the world and learnt nothing?”
“My mamma has told me,” answered Mary, “to be afraid of Indians and to be afraid of Chinamen and Frenchmen but she has not told me to be afraid of Irishmen.”
Adeline found it hard not to laugh but she said sternly — “Then she did wrong, for they are the worst of all. Now, run off. If Con needs help I’ll give it to him.” She pushed Mary out of the room.
She came to her brother and took him by the ear. She bent down and put her face close to his.
“Con,” she said, “have you ever laid a bad hand on that girl?”
With the shamelessness of a child he distorted his face against the pain of his ear.
“Let me be!” he said. “I shan’t tell you.”
“You will or I’ll tell Philip to question you. You’ll not like that.”
He twisted his head so he could kiss her forearm.
“Sweet Sis,” he said.
“Answer me, Con!”
“I swear I’ve said nothing to Mary you might not have heard — or her mother.”
She let him go. “Thank God for that! Now, get up and pack your bags.”
But she was soft enough to help him. The beautiful harbor lay spread before them; the grey stone town rising beyond it, and beyond that the dark mountains of Clare. An ancient feudal castle stood on one of the hills. The townsfolk were gathering to see the ship for it was rarely that one of her size entered the harbor.
Now there came all the confusion of disembarking — they who had thought not to leave the ship till they landed at Quebec! Off they came, carrying their belongings, looking paler than when they had set out, some excited, some forlorn, a few in tears. The poor livestock were led or harried off — some so weak in the leg they could hardly walk. They were dirty, they were dazed, though the poultry bore the adventure best. Maggie, the little goat which had been sent for Augusta’s nourishment, was the one exception. She seemed not to have suffered at all from the experience but trotted off on her little hoofs, her bell tinkling. One of the sailors had taken a fancy to her and had combed her long silvery hair. As she was led from the pier she saw a small patch of green and hastened to tear off a mouthful and munch it.
Boney, too, had borne the voyage well. The rolling of the ship had been a pleasure to him. To hang head downward was one of his diversions. He left the ship, sitting on Adeline’s shoulder. His beak was parted in what looked like a smile of triumph. His dark tongue was a wonder to the crowd who soon collected about her.
“You had better have carried him in his cage,” said Philip.
“Indeed I had,” she agreed, “and I’d put him in it now but it’s far behind with the stewardess, and it’s a heavy thing to carry.”
The truth was she enjoyed the sensation they were making. She smiled and nodded at the crowd in a way that delighted them.
“Och, see the fine lady with the bird!” someone cried. “Come quick! ’Tis a sight to beat all!”
Others came running. “Bad cess to ye,” cried one, giving his fellow a clout, “’tis yourself that do be hidin’ the view of her. Sure, I can’t see her at all.”
The crowd increased. If the sight of Adeline with the parrot was enthralling, the sight of the ayah in her robes with the white-clad child in her arms and, in the child’s arms, the beautiful wax doll increased the excitement to screaming point. The two Irishmen, D’Arcy and Brent, shouldered the crowd aside. Patsy had heard of a carriage that could be hired and presently it came rattling over the cobbles, drawn by a decrepit-looking grey horse who still could move with a strange devil-may-care alacrity.
Adeline found the priest’s young nieces and asked them where they would stay while repairs were being made. They were weighed down with bundles and looked scarcely so bright and rosy as when they had set out. They had a friend in the town with whom they would leave their possessions. Then they would walk the ten miles to their uncle’s house, spend the night with him, then go home for a sight of their parents. They looked more troubled than happy at the prospect.
“Faith, the last good-bye near killed our mother,” said the older girl, “and the next one will be worse but she’d think it quare and cruel of us if we didn’t go back to see her.”
“I can hardly wait,” said the other, “to see her and my da and all the young ones agin. Sure we’ll have things to tell thim to frighten the life out of thim.”
“Don’t you do it,” said Adeline. “Tell her the sea was as smooth as a pewter plate and the wind no more than a baby’s breath. Tell her that only a wee board came loose on the ship but the Captain was so particular he brought us all the way back to Galway to have it set right. Tell her that I have my eye on you and mean to keep it there till we land in Canada.”
“Yes, my lady,” they agreed, showing their fine teeth, “we’ll tell her what you say. We’ll niver say a word to scare her.”
Adeline watched them trudge off with their bundles. She could see the snowy whiteness of their napes beneath their curling dark hair. Now she thought of Mrs. Cameron and Mary. She gave a sigh, feeling suddenly the weight of responsibility for all these weaker creatures.
She saw Philip putting mother and daughter into the carriage. The ayah and Gussie were already in. He called out: —
“Make haste, my dear! Let’s get away from here.” An impatient frown dented his fair forehead.
Up the cobbled street the carriage rattled, followed by part of the crowd. Many of them were boys and girls who jumped up and down screaming in their excitement. Philip and the young Courts walked. Philip disliked being a part of such a procession but his brothers-in-law played up to it with gestures and chaff.
Later, looking down from her bedroom window, Adeline saw that a fight had started in the street. Errand boys, butchers, beggars, anyone and everyone were shouting and fighting with fists and clubs. Dogs were barking and howling. Then suddenly a squad of peelers appeared. The fighting ceased. The crowd melted into lanes and cellarways. A Sabbath calm soothed the street.
Philip had watched the scene over Adeline’s shoulder with an amused smile.
“A funny lot, your people are!” he said, when it was over.
“They are as God made them,” she replied, a little defensively.
“And are you sure it was God, my darling?”
“Well, He may have had a little help from outside.”
He kissed her. “I scarcely have seen you alone,” he said, “since we sailed. There was always the baby or your brothers or Mary. Egad, I shall be thankful when all this is over and we are established in Quebec.”
“So shall I. You’d never guess what Mr. Wilmott said when we stepped off the ship.”
“What?”
“He said — ‘Do you know I never expected to set foot on these islands again? I hoped never to set foot on them again.’ ‘Never come home to visit again!’ I exclaimed. ‘Never,’ he answered. And he looked sombre — like the hero of a romantic novel. I’ve done my best to encourage an attachment between him and Mrs. Cameron but it seems hopeless.”
“A seasick widow is not alluring,” said Philip. “And, to judge by the looks h
e gives, he is more likely to form an attachment to you. He’d better be careful.”
“That old sobersides,” laughed Adeline. “He’s not at all my sort. But I do like him as an acquaintance and I hope he’ll settle in Quebec near us.”
“I think we ought to let your parents know we are here,” said Philip, abruptly changing the subject. “It will take quite a week for repairs and, if they find out from other sources, it might give them a bit of a shock.”
“No, no,” cried Adeline, “I can’t bear another good-bye! It would be unlucky.”
“We could tell them not to come.”
“Nothing would keep my mother away. And my father too — he’d come and create some sort of disturbance. He’d probably abuse the Captain for not having a stauncher ship.”
“They may see it in a newspaper.”
“I’m willing to risk that. Next week they go on a visit to my grandfather. They’ll have no time for newspapers.”
So she had her way and they settled down to the strange interlude in their voyage. They explored the streets of the grey old town. Philip and Mr. Wilmott went on fishing excursions. Adeline wandered with her brothers and Mary Cameron along the mountain paths of Clare or on the shore of the bay and brought home pocketfuls of shells for little Augusta. Every day there was the visit to the ship to watch the carpenters at work. Every day people thronged from the country about to see the wonders of the ship. It was grand to see them dancing on the deck in the spring evenings — their lithe bodies bounding and leaping to the whistled tune, clear as a pipe. They snapped their fingers and whirled and bounded in the dance. They had shapely limbs and Spanish faces and there had never been so much merriment on that ship before.
One evening they were dancing by moonlight and the moon went under a cloud so that no one could say who was who. But a handsome fellow in a blue coat had had his eye on Adeline. He pushed his partner from him and, dancing past Adeline, touched her with his hand. She was standing between her brothers with Mary Cameron hanging as usual on Conway’s arm. Adeline gave a little laugh as the man’s hand touched her shoulder and he could see the white flash of her teeth in the dimness. He danced round the deck and in a moment was at her side again. His arm slid about her. She sprang into the dance. Wildly they danced to the sound of the whistling and the pair of them moved in such beautiful accord that it was pity the whole world could not see — but it was well for her that Philip did not. She was transported by the joy of movement but she kept her eyes on the cloud that hid the moon and, when its edge was silvered, she struck her partner on the breast and whispered — “Let me go, ye devil!”
As the moon cast its radiance on the deck she stood tall and slim by Sholto’s side. She saw then that Conway and Mary had been dancing.
He grinned and said — “Now I’ve got something to hold over your head, Sis. Don’t you go telling tails on me.”
A bell sounded and all had to leave the ship.
The next day a period of fog and drizzle set in. There was no more dancing on the deck. The days moved heavily. The Captain had promised that repairs should be complete in ten days but it was two weeks before they were ready to sail. There was a strange and rather sombre excitement in this second setting forth. The passengers were now so well aware of the evils which might befall them. Their faith in the worthiness of the ship had been shaken. Of course any ship might spring a leak and Captain Bradley declared that the Alanna was now as sound as a nut.
They went to church on the Sunday before sailing. Adeline, Philip, Mr. Wilmott, and Mrs. Cameron to the Gothic Abbey church were the beautiful groined arches of the roof, the sculptured bosses, were obliterated under coat after coat of whitewash, and where the congregation was scattered. The Irishmen, D’Arcy and Brent, returned from the Catholic Chapel and told how they were not able to get inside the building for the Mass but had to kneel in the churchyard with the overflowing crowd. Conway, Sholto, and Mary wandered along the shore. They had begged to be excused from church and Mrs. Cameron would deny her daughter nothing. Also she had heard of an epidemic of fever going about in the town and surely Mary would be safer on the shore with two boys to look after her.
The hour of sailing came and down the cobbled street moved all the conglomeration of objects that had been removed from the ship. The luggage came bumping and rattling over the stones. The lievestock was harried, driven, and prodded toward its quarters — all but the little goat, Maggie, who trotted on as gaily as she had trotted off. The ayah looked less fragile after her weeks on land but she wore an expression of foreboding as she glided on to the ship holding the baby close. Gussie, in her turn, clutched her wax doll in its silk crinoline and bonnet. The doll was large, a load of Gussie’s tiny arms, so, as the ayah stood with her in the stern and gazed at the churning of the water as the ship moved away from the pier, Gussie leaned forward and let the doll fall overboard. She looked around slyly at the ayah’s face. “Gone,” she remarked, and it was the first word she had spoken.
For an instant the pink face smirked up at them out of the foam, the crinoline was inflated, then there was nothing. The ayah broke into a storm of Hindu reproaches. She hissed these at Gussie in a terrifying way and shook her but Gussie knew the ayah was her slave.
The sun came out brilliantly, gilding these last moments of departure. The hurry and scurry were over. All was neat and shining. The decks were clean. The brass of the railings and the officers’ buttons gleamed. The sails took in a little of the breeze as though testing its quality, then received it in its fullness and spread themselves white and rounded before the masts. Now there was no dreadful listing of the deck, only a tremulous, happy quiver ran across it as the Alanna rose and dipped on the small waves.
Philip and Adeline stood with fingers locked looking back at the land. The town, the mountains of Clare, the movement of figures in the foreground, were still so clear — like a painted picture before them. They could see a tall woman driving a pig into the sea. She had tied a string to its hind leg. She had tucked up her skirts and waded in after it. She began to scrub it with all her might while it squealed in a manner to split the heavens. Then they saw her drive it out, white as a pearl, all its filth left behind it, a very angel of a pig to look at.
“Oh, the lovely pig!” cried Adeline, laughing in delight. “I do wish my brothers had been here to see that! Why don’t they come up from below? Do you know, Philip, that little Mary is wonderfully improved. You should have seen her settling her mother in and fetching her a cup of tea to drink. Why — look! The post chaise and horses! Merciful heaven, Philip, ’tis my father and mother and the wee Timothy with them and the four horses all in a lather!” Her voice broke into a scream. “Philip, stop the ship!”
For a moment he stood stock-still in consternation. He saw his father-in-law leap from the box, throw the reins to the coachman, and assist his wife to alight. He saw him take off his hat and wave it, motioning the ship to stop. The space between them was steadily widening. Philip ran along the deck for a few strides, then halted.
“The Captain will never do it,” he said.
“He must,” she declared, and flew toward the wheelhouse where the first mate had the wheel in his hands.
“Oh, Mr. Grigg!” she cried. “You must turn back! There are my father and my mother on the pier — come to get just one more glimpse of me! I can’t leave them like this.”
“It’s impossible,” he declared. “I would na turn back for the Queen of England. It’s against all rules.”
“I’ll take the responsibility.”
“I canna let ye!”
“I’ll take the wheel from you!”
“I canna let ye do that.”
She put her hands on the wheel and strove to turn it. She was strong and she actually was changing the course of the ship. He cried in a panic: —
“How daur ye? Ye’ll have us on the rocks, wumman! Let the helm loose!”
The passengers were crowding about.
Philip came and took
her by the wrists.
“Come away,” he said. “I’ve spoken to the Captain. He cannot turn back. Come and wave to your parents or it will be too late.”
She burst into tears and, breaking away from him, ran weeping down the deck. The tears blinded her and at first she saw only a distorted image of her parents on the pier. As their figures became clearer she was horrified to see how they had lessened. Why, they looked no more than dolls! There was her formidable father looking no more than a doll — a doll that shook its fist at the receding ship. Or perhaps at her! She might never know which. Her last earthly vision of him might be of him shaking his fist at her and the ship. She put her palms to her quivering mouth and threw kisses to the fast-diminishing figures of her parents and her young brother.
She saw James Wilmott standing at her side. There was a strange expression on his sombre face. He spoke in a new voice: —
“Darling girl,” he said. “Don’t cry. I can’t bear it. Please don’t cry.”
At that moment Philip reached her other side. To take her mind off her disappointment, he said: —
“Where are Conway and Sholto? They should come and wave good-bye.”
“It is too late! Too late!”
“Shall I bring them?”
“If you like.”
He strode off.
On the dock near her people she could see a little group of the relatives of the steerage passengers. They were huddled mournfully together as though for comfort.
The ship was now caught by a fresh wind. She mounted an on-rushing green billow. There was a straining of cordage, a great bulging of white sails. She leant, as though joyfully, she came about, the land was hidden and, when once more it was visible, it was far away and no more had any relation to the ship.
01 The Building of Jalna Page 7