Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
T
ITE AND
B
ELLE
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
.”
A
NOTHER
V
OYAGE
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.
As for Augusta’s dove, it (now definitely
she
) had taken up with pigeons and was building a nest with the masterful assistance of the stout gentleman who previously had paid her such marked attention. Two days before the departure of the family the dove laid an egg which completely occupied her thoughts. It meant more to her than did all the months of devotion Gussie had lavished on her.
The children were now almost completely recovered from the hardships they had endured, yet they were in a degree changed — Augusta most of all. She had grown taller and her child’s body had developed new and not so childish curves. The expression of her large eyes, always inclined to be pensive, was now often abstracted, even melancholy. She would appear lost in thought, yet could not possibly have told what she was thinking of. Sometimes her lips would part in a secret smile. She would spread her hands and examine them with interest, but again she would clench them and stalk away like a tragedy actress. Her father’s chaffing, her mother’s personal remarks, became almost unbearable to her. She wanted to burst into tears. At the same time she was full of gratitude for the magnanimity they had shown toward their runaways. She dreaded the going to sea and the thought of the movement of the ship made her seasick.
The change in Nicholas was noticeable also. He was more adventurous and appeared to have forgotten how disastrously his runaway voyage had turned out. He would boast of the dangers he had endured, swagger a bit in his talk. There was not a corner of the ship that he did not explore. Though he never thought with gratitude of his parents’ leniency, he showed it in his willingness to take charge of little Philip, to help him to walk on the deck or to carry him in his arms to visit different parts of the ship. They were favourites in all quarters. When they reached England, Adeline would, she declared, get a proper nurse for him.
There was no physical resemblance between the boys, yet anyone noting their movements, hearing their laughter, would have taken them for brothers. Little Philip longed to do everything Nicholas did, while Nicholas imitated their father, his walk, his speech, his air of a soldier.
On the second morning at sea, Ernest who, in the midst of all this movement of ship, of sea, of passengers, lived rather a lonely life, was wandering along the promenade deck, where ladies reclined in deck chairs, recovering from an encounter with seasickness or simply enjoying good salt air. Ernest took a second look at one of these. She reminded him of someone he had liked long long ago, when he was quite a small boy. Now he felt an experienced traveller, in his belted tunic which reached almost to the knees, his striped stockings, and his buttoned boots.
He trotted to where Augusta stood leaning against the rail. “Gussie,” he said, “guess who is on board.”
She gave him a dreamy look. “I’m no good at guessing. Tell me,” she said.
“Mrs. Sinclair!”
“Did she see you?”
“No. I ran away. Shall we tell her that we were on our way to visit her?”
“For pity’s sake — no.”
“We could say we just changed our minds.”
Augusta bowed her forehead to the rail. “I could die of shame,” she said. “Mamma will tell her that we ran away, and were brought back crying our eyes out. I for one will not see the Sinclairs. I will lock myself in my cabin and say I am sick.”
“What shall I do?”
“Do what you like.”
Ernest felt that Gussie had cast him off, and he seemed to remember having been very kind to her, time and again. He turned and trotted back along the deck.
Lucy Sinclair was sitting where he had left her.
He went close to her and asked, “Do you remember me, Mrs. Sinclair?”
She stared in astonishment, then exclaimed, “Why, it’s the little Whiteoak boy! Fancy meeting you here! Are your parents with you?”
“We’re all here. All but Gussie.”
“Gussie not here? Then where is she?”
“I — I really don’t know.”
Ernest’s mind became a convenient blank but he still gazed in admiration at Lucy Sinclair’s beige-coloured foulard coat trimmed with velvet, her hair done in a beautiful chignon.
At this moment Curtis Sinclair appeared, smiling and looking somehow very different from the man Ernest remembered.
“Ah, Curtis,” cried his wife, “you have quite deceived this little Whiteoak boy by your Dundreary whiskers.”
“Whiteoak,” repeated Curtis Sinclair, in bewilderment. “Why — it’s Ernest! Are your family on board, my boy?”
“All but Gussie,” said Ernest, his clear blue eyes on the whiskers. They made a great difference in the American’s appearance, and, to Lucy’s mind, a vast improvement. Certainly the disfigurement of his back was less noticeable with a fine fair whisker flowing towards each shoulder. The expression of his mobile face was more assured. His face was fuller. He had the appearance of a gentleman turned out in the height of fashion.
Philip and Adeline, taking a stroll along the deck, now appeared, she leaning on his arm. She gave a cry of delight when she saw the Sinclairs.
“What an auspicious meeting,” said Philip, “and what a surprise! Upon my word, Sinclair, you look stunning. Has it taken long to grow them?”
“Not so long,” said Curtis Sinclair, caressing his whiskers, “as you might think.”
“I hear they are the rage in London,” Adeline said. “I really long to discover if they are real.”
“Don’t deny yourself any pleasure I can give you,” smiled Curtis Sinclair.
Lucy Sinclair interrupted with, “You should grow Dundrearys yourself, Captain Whiteoak. You would look really splendid.”
“Yellow whiskers,” said Adeline. “I can’t think of anything less attractive.”
“A moustache is good enough for me,” said Philip.
Nicholas now came along the deck holding the chubby hand of the youngest Whiteoak. The Sinclairs greeted them affectionately, remarking their growth and good looks. Then Lucy said, “I do wish you had brought Gussie with you. She’s such a charming child.”
“We did bring her,” said Philip. “She’s around somewhere.”
“But Ernest told me that she was not on board.”
Philip stretched out a long arm and caught Ernest by the collar. “What nonsense is this?” His voice was threatening.
“Where is your sister?” demanded Adeline.
Ernest trembled. “She’s gone. I guess she fell overboard.”
“Overboard!” Adeline’s voice was piercing. Those about began to stare.
“Order a lifeboat launched,” cried Lucy.
“Perhaps she’s in her cabin,” Ernest said. “I’ll run and see.” He ran off. Adeline sped after him. She found the door of Augusta’s cabin locked and beat on it, calling her daughter’s name.
The door was opened. Augusta stood there. “Mamma,” she said, in a shaking voice, “I cannot face the Sinclairs — after what I did — please — please, let me stay here.”
“Oh, what a fright this little wretch gave me!” Adeline began to shake him but Gussie begged her to desist. “It was my fault, Mamma. Please don’t punish him. Ernest said that only to protect me.”
“I should think,” said Adeline, “you would be proud of such an adventure. The Sinclairs would be flattered to think you had set out to visit them.”
“No — no. It was so — silly,” said Gussie. “Please don’t tell!”
“Were there ever such children? It’s enough to wreck my nerves the things they do!”
Ernest asked, in his gentle voice, “Shall I run up to the deck and tell that Gussie is safe?”
As he was about to pass through the door, Philip entered. Adeline began eagerly, rather incoherently, to talk. Her voice followed Ernest as he ran lightly along the passage. Life had become intensely interesting to him. When he found the Sinclairs still occupying their deck chairs, and Nicholas and the youngest Whiteoak nowhere in sight, he perched on the foot of Lucy’s chair, and said, “Gussie might have fallen overboard but I rescued her. She wanted to visit you in Charleston but the lake was rough. So I rescued both her and Nicholas. Please don’t tell anybody. I don’t want a reward. Gussie’s crying because she’s afraid I’ll tell. I don’t really want to be a hero. I just enjoy rescuing my family.”