Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“Now it’s all settled!” Adeline had cried. “Nothing can hinder us!”
So Philip sold his commission, his horses and polo ponies, and Adeline sold the furniture of the bungalow, keeping only certain things precious to her to remind her of India — the beautiful painted leather furniture of her bedroom, a brass-bound cabinet and chest, some silken embroidery, carved jade and ivory ornaments. With these she would make a show in Quebec. They
set sail from Bombay with their infant daughter Augusta and the ayah who had cared for her since her birth. The ayah was terrified at the thought of crossing the great seas to the other side of the world but she so loved little Augusta that she was willing to go anywhere with her. The most important of the party, in his own opinion, was Adeline’s parrot, an intelligent and healthy young bird, a fluent talker and brilliant of plumage. He was a contradiction to the belief that grey parrots are the best talkers for he enunciated clearly and had an ample though sometimes profane vocabulary. He loved only Adeline and permitted only her to caress him. She had named him Bonaparte. She had a sly admiration for the Little Corporal. She had an admiration for the French and was married for many years to Philip before, under his influence, she became really loyal to the English Crown. Philip had nothing but scorn and dislike for Napoleon. His own father had been killed in the Battle of Waterloo and he himself born a few months later. He had no respect and little liking for the French. He called the parrot Boney for short and that in a tone of good-humoured derision.
The journey from India to England had seemed endless. Yet on the whole it was not unpleasant. They were setting out toward a new life. There were a number of congenial people on board and among these the Whiteoaks were the most sought after. The weather was fair and Adeline’s health improved during the voyage. But by the time they reached the Bay of Biscay, which was grey and wild, they yearned toward the shores of England. They had landed in Liverpool the week before Christmas.
With their child, the ayah, and the mountain of luggage they had made the long journey by stagecoach from Liverpool to the cathedral town of Penchester, in a southwestern county where Philip’s only sister, Augusta, was anxiously awaiting them. For her the baby had been named. She was married to the Dean of the Cathedral, a man considerably older than herself, a bookworm and hater of change and confusion. They were a happy couple for Augusta spent her days in devotion to him and he gave her her own way in everything. She looked like Philip but was softer and
less handsome. She had a happy nature and her one sorrow was her childlessness. She had looked forward eagerly to the coming of her little namesake but disappointment lay in store for her. Baby Augusta was so shy that she could hardly bear to go beyond her ayah’s arms. And the ayah selfishly encouraged her in this. She wanted her charge to love no one but her. And she clung to the child with a fierce possessive love.
This was bitterly disappointing to Philip’s sister. Still she hoped to overcome the little one’s shrinking as the days went on. What she really had in mind was to keep the child with her when its parents went on to Quebec. She knew that she could persuade the Dean to let her do this. She had always wanted a little girl to love. To her, the baby’s black hair and eyes, her sallow skin, were romantic and alluring.
“How do you suppose they came by her?” she asked her husband. “Philip, with his pink cheeks — Adeline, with her auburn hair and creamy complexion!”
“Better ask that Rajah she’s always raving about,” observed the Dean. “He might be able to tell you.”
His wife looked at him in horror. In all their married life he had never before made such a ribald remark. And that about her own brother’s wife!
“Well,” said the Dean, in self-defence, “look at the magnificent ruby ring he gave her!”
“Frederick!” she cried, still more horrified. “You are not in earnest, are you?”
“Of course not,” he answered, in a mollifying tone. “Can’t you take a joke?” But he added — “Then why did the Rajah give her the ring? I can see that Philip didn’t like it.”
“The Rajah gave her the ring because she saved the life of his son. They were riding together when the boy’s horse bolted. It was a spirited Arab steed and it became unmanageable.”
The Dean gave what was nearer to a grin than a smile. “And Adeline was a beautiful Irish hussy and she caught the Arab steed and saved the Rajah’s heir,” he said.
“Yes.” Augusta looked at him coldly.
“Was Philip there? Did he assist in the rescue?”
“No, I don’t think he was there. Why?”
“Well, the Rajah might not have rewarded an upstanding British officer so handsomely.”
“Frederick, I think you’re horrid!” she exclaimed, and left him to his own sinister musings.
It was Adeline’s idea to have their portraits painted while they were in England. They might never have another such opportunity. Certainly they would never be handsomer than they were at this time. Above all, she must have a real portrait — no mere daguerreotype would do — of Philip in all the glory of his uniform of an officer of Hussars. To the Hussars and to the Buffs the Whiteoak family had, in times past, supplied many a fine officer but never, in Adeline’s mind, one so dashing, so noble-looking, as Philip.
The idea was agreeable to Philp too, though the amount he had to hand over to the artist was rather staggering. But his portraits were fashionable, especially among the military class. Not only could he make a uniform look as though it would step out of the frame; he could impart a commanding look to the most insignificant and dyspeptic officer. Where lady sitters were concerned he was at his best with flesh tints, ringlets, and shimmering fabrics. Probably his portraits of Philip and Adeline were the most successful of his career. It was a heartbreak to him that they were to be taken out of England before they could be exhibited at the Academy. He did, however, give a large party to show them in his studio, at which the young people were present. This had been the night before they had seen
The Bohemian Girl
.
The idea of owning portraits of themselves in their prime had not been all that was in Adeline’s mind when she suggested this extravagance. She knew that it would entail many weeks in London for the sittings and she was determined to have as pleasureful a
time as possible while in England. There had been three visits to London. This was their last. Tomorrow they were to return to the quiet cathedral town. Adeline threw herself into a stuffed velvet chair in the hotel bedroom and exclaimed dramatically: —
“I’m so transported I could die!”
“You feel too much,” returned Philip. “It would be better if you took things coolly, as I do.” He looked at her anxiously, then added: “You are quite pale. I shall ring for a glass of stout and some biscuits for you.”
“No. Not stout! Champagne! Nothing so prosaic as stout after that divine opera. Oh, never shall I forget this night! Oh, the heavenly voice of Thaddeus! Oh, how sweet Arline was! Philip, can you remember any of the songs? We must buy the music! Try if you can sing ‘I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble Halls’!”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
“Try ‘Then You’ll Remember Me.’”
“I couldn’t,” he returned doggedly.
“Then — ‘The Light of Other Days!’ Do try that!”
“I couldn’t — not to save my life.”
She sprang up, letting her fur-trimmed evening wrap fall to the floor, and began to pace up and down the room. She had a passionate but not very musical voice and little idea of tune, but she managed to get the first bars of her favourite song from the opera.
“I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,
With vassals and serfs at my side —”
As she sang she raised her chin, showing the beauty of her long milk-white neck. She smiled triumphantly at Philip. Her voluminous light-blue taffeta crinoline swayed about her, in all its ruchings and narrow velvet edgings. Above her tiny waist her round breasts rose, supporting a mass of lace, caught by turquoise pins and little velvet flowers. Her shoulders glistened in lovely pallor in the candlelight. Just touching her neck her auburn curls descended from her heavy chignon. Philip saw her beauty but he
saw also the thinness of her arms, the too vivid redness of her lips and brightness of her eyes. He rose and pulled the bell cord and, when a servant appeared, ordered the stout.
She had given up the song. Now the tune had quite eluded her but she found it hard to settle down. She drew back the dark red curtains and looked down into the street where the gas lamps made pools of light on the wet pavement and the cab horses clip-clopped past with draggled manes and rain-soaked harness. The mysterious lives of the people in the cabs filled her with a strange longing. She turned to Philip.
“We shall sometimes come back, shan’t we?” she asked.
“Of course we shall. I’ll engage to bring you back every second or third year. We are not going to bury ourselves in the wilds. And don’t forget New York. We will visit it too.”
She threw her arms about his neck and gave him a swift kiss.
“My angel,” she said. “If I had to go to bed tonight with anyone but you, I’d throw myself out of that window.”
“And quite properly,” he observed.
They drew apart and stood in decorous attitudes as the man-servant reappeared with the refreshments. He laid a snowy cloth on an oval, marble-topped table and then set out several bottles of stout, biscuits and cheese, a cold pigeon pie for Philip and a small bowl of hot beef extract for Adeline.
“How good it looks!” she exclaimed, when they were alone. “Do you know, I’m getting my appetite again! D’ye think I dare eat some of that cheddar cheese? I do love cheese!”
“What expressions you use! You love
me
and you love
cheese
! I suppose there’s no difference in your affection.”
She laughed. “You old silly!” Then she pressed her hands to her sides. “But really, Philip, you will have to unlace me before I attempt to eat or I shall have room for nothing but a biscuit.”
As he helped her with the intricate fastenings of her dress, he said seriously — “I cannot help thinking that this tight lacing is all wrong. In fact the doctor on shipboard told me that it is responsible for many of the difficult births.”
“Very well,” she declared, “when we are in Canada I shall leave off my stays and go about like a sack tied in the middle. Picture me in the wilds! I am on a hunting expedition. I have just trapped or shot a deer, a beaver, or something of the sort. I am on my way home with my quarry slung over my shoulder. Suddenly I am conscious of some slight discomfort. I recall the fact that I am
enceinte
. Possibly my hour has come. I find a convenient spot beneath an olive tree —”
“They don’t have ’em there.”
“Very well. Any tree will do. I make myself comfortable. I give birth to the child, with scarcely a moan. I place it in my petticoat. I resume the burden of the deer or beaver on my back. I return home. I cast my quarry at your feet and my infant on your knee. ‘By the way,’ I remark, ‘here’s a son and heir for you!’”
“Egad! That’s the way to do it.” He struggled with the hooks and eyes. “There — my angel. Out you step!”
The blue taffeta fell in bright cascades to the floor but the crinoline still stood out about her lower half, above which her tiny waist appeared as a fragile support for bust and shoulders. Somehow he got her out of the crinoline, the petticoat, and the many-gored corset cover but he had a time of it with the corset lace, which had tied itself in a tight knot. His fair face was flushed and he had given vent to an oath or two before she stood released and graceful in her shift. He gave her an abrupt little push instead of the kiss she expected, and said: —
“Now, put on your peignoir and let’s have something to eat.”
He stood watching her with an air half-possessive, half-coaxing, while she drew on a violet velvet dressing gown and divested her wrists of her bracelets. As she seated herself at the table she gave a little laugh of complete satisfaction. Her eyes swept across the viands.
“How hungry I am!” she declared. “And how good everything looks! I must have some of that cheese. I adore it!”
“There you go again!” he said, cutting a wedge from the cheese for her. “You adore
food
! You adore
me
! What’s the difference?”
“I said nothing whatever about adoring
you
,” she returned, putting her teeth into the cheese. She laughed like a greedy young girl. It was part of her charm, he thought, that she could sit there eating greedily and still look alluring. She appeared unself-conscious but her passionate love for him, her desire to express it, to put her nature beneath him, even while, in her femininity, she triumphed over him, made her slightest gesture, her half-glance, symbolic. He sat watching her, feeling that in some strange way the fact that she was eating greedily, that her arms were too thin, that her stays had been too tight, only increased her desirability.
At last she rose and came to him. My God, he thought, did ever a woman move as she moves! She can never grow old!
She came to him and sank into his arms. She lay along his body as though her will were to obliterate herself in him, willfully to become no more than a creature he had created by his passion. She tried to time her breathing with his, so that their two hearts should do even this in unison. He bent his face to hers, and their lips met. She turned her face swiftly away. Then, turning it again, with closed eyes, toward him, she kissed him in rapture.
But the next morning she felt a sadness in her. They were leaving London. When might she see it again? Perhaps never, with all the dangers of travel between. What would happen to them in the New World? What strange distant place lay awaiting them?
It was a journey of many hours from London to the cathedral town of Penchester. When Adeline alighted from the train she was very tired. Dark shadows made her eyes sombre. She looked ill. But the Dean’s carriage was waiting to meet them, with its comfortable cushioned seats and its lamps shining bright in the dusk. The streets were quiet, so they bowled along easily. Soon the towering shape of the Cathedral rose against the luminous west. Its windows still held a glimmer from the sunken sun. It looked ethereal, yet as though it would last forever. Adeline leant forward to gaze at it through the carriage window. She wanted to imprint
its image on her mind, to take with her to Quebec. She felt that not even the Dean understood and loved the Cathedral as she did. And the sweet little streets that clustered about it — so dim, so orderly, so melting into the tradition of the past!