Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Mrs. Cameron became hysterical and it was with difficulty that the Captain and the steward got her back to her cabin. For the remainder of the voyage she never left it. Fortunately there had joined the ship at Galway two new passengers with whom she made friends. They were a married couple from Newfoundland. The husband was in the fisheries business; the wife, deeply religious, was a great comfort to Mrs. Cameron.
The other passengers, and particularly those in the steerage, chose to regard the elopement as a youthful romance and poor Mrs. Cameron as a tyrannical parent. Conway Court had been a favourite on board and it was the general opinion that the plain young girl had done extremely well for herself — for it was taken for granted that he would marry her.
The winds were fair and the ship sped on. The livestock became fewer. A poor woman from Liverpool gave birth to a child with a terrible lack of privacy. In the salon Captain Whiteoak and Messrs. D’Arcy, Brent, and Wilmott played at bezique each evening, while they sipped French Brandy out of small green glasses that were filled from a wicker-clad bottle. Adeline would sit watching them, her wide skirts spread gracefully about her, her chin in her palm while her eyes moved contemplatively from one face to the other of the players.
Then one night a frightening thing happened. James Wilmott had just carried a small glass of the liqueur to Adeline’s side, for she looked pale and rather languid. There came a shuffling sound on the companionway, a growling sound of voices. Adeline half-rose in her chair. The four men turned their heads toward the door. Crowding into it they saw a mob of rough, fierce-looking men. They were carrying clubs, sticks, any weapon they could lay their hands on. The whites of their eyes glistened in the light of the swaying hanging-lamp. One of them raised a hairy arm and pointed to Wilmott.
“Yon’s him!” he exclaimed.
With a threatening growl the others moved in a body toward Wilmott, who faced them coolly.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“You are Thomas D’Arcy, Esquire, ain’t ye?”
“No, my name is Wilmott.”
D’Arcy rose to his feet. “I am Thomas D’Arcy,” he said, smiling a little.
“Yes — that’s him — the blackguard! The bloody villain! The cold-hearted brute!”
They came forward with cursings, most of them unintelligible from the brogue.
“What’s all this about?” shouted Philip, putting his stalwart figure in opposition to the mob.
Their spokesman shouted — “Get out o’ the way, yer honour! That villain, D’Arcy, is the man we want. We’re not going to leave two whole bones in his body, and may hell-fire blast it when we’ve done with it!”
“I’ve done no harm to any of you,” said D’Arcy, pale but contemptuous.
“Haven’t ye, thin? And didn’t ye evict Tom Mulligan’s ould parents into the winter night, and the rint for the tumble-down hovel that was their home only three months behind? And didn’t his poor ould father die of the cold and the wet and his poor ould mother of a broken heart? And here’s Tom to give ye the first blow himsilf!”
A thickset man waving long arms and a club detached himself from the rest and, with a black scowl, shrieked: —
“Take that, ye black-sowled murderer!” D’Arcy’s skull would have been opened by the blow if he had not snatched up his chair and defended himself with it.
In an instant Adeline found herself the spectator of a terrifying scene. Philip, Brent, and Wilmott also snatched up their chairs and met the attackers shoulder to shoulder with D’Arcy.
Philip shouted to her — “Run, Adeline! Out through the other door!”
Instead, she ran forward and flung herself on the raised arm of the spokesman, who brandished a hammer. She uttered a shriek that was heard even above the tumult. And at the same instant Captain Bradley and the mate appeared from the companionway carrying pistols.
“Now, men, do ye want a bullet in you?” shouted Captain Bradley. “Lay down those cudgels!”
Like a sudden squall, the fury of the peasants passed. They stood quiet, relaxed, like the sails from which the gale has receded. They stared in silence at the Captain.
“These men,” explained D’Arcy, “seem to think I evicted the parents of one of them and caused their death, but I did nothing of the sort.”
“It was yer agent done it!” retorted the spokesman. “It was that twister, McClarty — the murderer — and yoursilf off to the races at Dublin or Liverpool and niver knowing how yer tenantry is trated! Ye didn’t care, if you could lay hands on the rints.”
“Aye, that’s true,” added Mulligan. “And my poor ould parents getting their death out of it!”
“It’s a shame to him!” cried Adeline. “And if I had known it I should have been fighting on your side, Mulligan, instead of against you!” She was beside herself with excitement and exhilaration. She could hear the whistle of the wind, the clash of the waves. The wild scene had stirred something savage in her. The peasants crowded about her.
“Thank you, me lady! God save you.”
“May the Saints bless you! May yer children grow up to comfort you.”
D’Arcy spoke calmly to the men. “Why did you attack me,” he asked, “after all these weeks?”
“Sure, we’d just found out who you are, divil take you!”
A movement passed through them and it seemed for a moment that Adeline might be put to the test. But Captain Bradley’s authoritative voice ordered them below and like a troubled wave they receded, though with mutterings.
Philip had been embarrassed by Adeline’s outbreak against D’Arcy. He foresaw that their relations would not be so pleasant for the rest of the voyage. D’Arcy was watching her sulkily as she paced up and down the salon declaiming against the cruelties of absentee landlords, telling of how her own father never left his estate and knew the personal history of every man, woman, and child on it.
“Your father may be a paragon, in all truth, Mrs. Whiteoak,” returned D’Arcy, “but you cannot blame me for all the wrongs of Ireland.”
“You’ve no love for the people nor for the land,” she answered. “Your heart is not there! So what can you bring to the place but misfortune?”
“Well,” put in Brent, “I’ve sold every acre I owned in Ireland, and I’m glad of it!”
“I’d be better off if I had done the same,” declared D’Arcy.
Adeline flashed a look of scorn on them both. “And have ye no pity in your hearts,” she cried, “for the suffering of those poor people?”
“Come, come, Adeline,” interrupted Philip. “It’s late. You should go to your bed.” He turned to D’Arcy. “She is overwrought and tired.”
“I’ll lay my head on no pillow tonight. I’ve seen too much. I’ll stay here with Mr. D’Arcy and Mr. Brent and argue the matter out with them till sunrise.”
“I’m sorry,” said D’Arcy, “but I think I shall have to rest for a bit.” He put his hand to his forehead and she saw a discoloured swelling near his temple.
She went close to look at it. “Ah, well and did a blow really land on you!” she exclaimed. “Ah, I am sorry for that!”
Her anger was gone. She had a basin of hot water brought and herself bathed his head. Their friendship was restored.
But the next day she was not well. She could not leave the cabin. The weather became stormy. She suffered from nausea. Philip, coming into the cabin, found her sitting on the side of her
berth, very pale, her eyes wet with tears. But there was nothing tearful in her voice as she turned its vibrant tones on him.
“Well,” she demanded, “and what do ye think has happened to me?”
“Are you worse?”
“Aye, I’m worse.” She stared moodily for a space at the heaving floor of the cabin, then raised her eyes accusingly to his. She said: —
“Aye, I’m worse and shall be worse still before. I’m finished with it. I’m going to have a baby!”
“My God!” The glass of sherry he had brought her dropped from his hand.
“Well,” she cried, “you are a ninny! To think that you’d let fall a glass at the news, when it’s I who ought to be throwing things about.”
“I didn’t throw it! I dropped it.”
“’Tis one and the same — at a moment like this — and I needing the sherry!”
“Are you positive?” he asked.
“That I need the sherry?” “That you are going to have a baby?”
“I wish I were as positive that this ship would arrive in port.”
He could not help exclaiming — “I wish to God you’d waited till we were settled in Quebec!”
She retorted, the colour returning to her cheeks — “And I wish
you
had waited. But no — would such a thought ever enter your head? No — my lord, you must have your pleasure, let come what may! And now you say you wish
I
had waited! Oh, It’s well that the good Lord made women patient and mild — with all they have to go through from the unreasonableness and selfishness of men! Yes — I wish we’d both waited before ever we took the way to the altar.”
“You took good care not to let me see you in one of your tempers before I married you.”
She looked him in the eyes. “And did you ever give me such cause for temper before you married me?” she demanded.
He burst out laughing. “Now you are just ridiculous,” he said.
He brought her another glass of sherry.
As he saw her sitting on the side of the berth wrapped in a great shawl with red stripes on it, and her fingers playing with the fringe of the shawl, a pang of pity went through him. For all her fine properties she looked like a forlorn child. He sat down beside her and held the glass to her lips.
“My only reason,” he said, “for wishing this had not happened till later is because of the discomfort of travelling when you’re
enceinte
.”
She gripped his fingers and managed to smile a little.
“Oh, I shall be all right,” she said.
He gave her another sip of the sherry. Then he exclaimed — “If it’s a boy we’ll call him Nicholas, after my uncle!”
“I’d have liked Philip.”
“No. I don’t want any Philip but myself in your life.”
“Very well. He shall be Nicholas. But never Nick or Nicky for short.”
“Never.”
A knock came on the door. It was the overworked stewardess to tell them that the ayah was once more very seasick and quite unable to look after the baby. The ship was now wallowing in a trough of the waves. She herself seemed to be suffering also, for her timbers gave forth the most melancholy creakings and groanings. Those on board could not help remembering her former betrayal of them and were prepared at any moment to hear that she had sprung another leak.
“Bring the child here,” said Philip.
The stewardess brought Augusta who came smiling, a shell held to each ear.
“Would it be possible for you to look after her?” Philip asked the woman. “My wife is not well. I shall make it worth your while.”
“I’ll do what I can for the poor bairn but I’m nearly run off my feet as it is. Half the passengers are sick again.”
When she had gone Adeline exclaimed: —
“I do dislike that woman! She never speaks of Gussie without
calling her ‘the poor bairn’ — as though we neglected or ill-treated her!”
Philip set his daughter on his knee. “If only she had taken to my sister,” he said, “as she should have done, she might be enjoying herself in England now, instead of adding to our problem here!”
Gussie threw her shells to the floor and reached out for his watch chain. He took out his large gold watch and allowed her to listen to its tick, which enraptured her so that she bounced on his knee.
The weather grew stormier. There was no forgetting it. Day and night the struggle between it and the ship went on. Wind, waves, and teeming rain hammered, tossed, and drenched the ship. Sailors scrambled to the most precarious and dizzy heights up the masts as she struggled on, hour by hour making the way a little shorter. Oh, that the land would appear! Adeline had never felt so ill in her life. She could scarcely stand, yet she had to drag herself to the ayah’s cabin and do what she could for her, which was little enough. She had to tend her child who still cried a great deal and, when the child was quiet and Adeline might have slept a little, Boney would take it into his head to shout of his pleasure which seemed unbounded.
Suddenly the condition of the ayah became alarming. Her small form grew shrunken, her face almost green. Only her great burning eyes, with the dark shadows under them, looked alive. Her fevered mouth babbled of far-off days in India. Adeline was distraught to see her so. She gathered together all her strength to care for her. She supported her in her arms and every few moments wiped the sweat from the sunken face with a handkerchief.
The silver bangles on the small brown wrists tinkled ceaselessly as the restless hands moved upon her breast. Then suddenly her eyes opened wide. It was on the third day of her terrible illness. She looked up mournfully into Adeline’s face as though in question.
“What do you want, Huneefa?” Adeline asked.
She seemed not to hear but began to arrange her heavy dark hair on her forehead. She took it lock by lock in her thin fingers and arranged it as though for a festival.
Adeline laid her back on the pillow. She tottered out into the passage and called hoarsely for Philip. He was not near but James Wilmott heard her and came, his face full of anxiety.
“Come quick,” she said. “Huneefa is dying!”
He came into the dark, sour-smelling cabin.
“I must fetch the doctor,” he said.
As though to add to their miseries the doctor had, two days before, slipped on the deck and injured his hip. He could scarcely move for the pain but he came supported on Wilmott’s shoulder. He was a young man of little experience but one glance at the ayah told him that her hour had come. He told Wilmott to take Adeline back to her cabin but she refused to leave. In a short while Huneefa died.
Her death came as a shock to Adeline and, in a lesser degree, to Philip. All their married life she had been an intimate shadow, first as a maid to Adeline, later as ayah to Augusta. They had taken her devotion for granted. As she was never really well, her illnesses caused them no alarm. Even the jaundice which had complicated her seasickness had not brought real apprehension. Now it seemed that she had willfully deserted them — Huneefa who had been so unquestioningly faithful! They discovered what a strong prop her frail body had been in the edifice of their life.