Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“How did it happen?” she demanded fiercely. “What did you do, you wicked girl?”
“I pushed the pram,” answered Gussie, “and it went over. I was giving him a ride.”
“It’s a marvel you did not kill him.” She took Gussie by the shoulders and shook her violently, then slapped her hands, then her cheeks. “Take that!” she said. “And don’t you dare tell Mamma or Papa about this. Now stop crying. You haven’t got the half of what you deserve.”
That afternoon the piano case was removed. The piano stood exposed to the sunlight, apparently none the worse for all it had been through. It remained to see what its tone would be. A platform on rollers had been constructed, on which it was drawn to the house, and a half-dozen men carried it with what were, to Gussie, rather frightening shoutings and strugglings. When at last it was safe in the drawing-room, the men stood about it admiring its rosewood case, the carvings of its legs, its silver candleholders, with almost as much pride as if it had been their own.
When the men were gone, Adeline and Philip, Daisy and Wilmott, were left.
“Now,” exclaimed Daisy, “things really begin to look settled and homelike! I always say that the piano is the soul of the house. I do hope it is not too dreadfully out of tune.”
“Please sit down and play something,” said Philip. “Let’s find out the worst at once.”
Daisy arranged herself on the stool, after a number of twirlings of it up and down till it was of the desired height. Then she broke into a Strauss waltz.”
“It’s not bad,” she declared, above the music. “Not bad at all. The tone is sweet.”
Philip was delighted. He put an arm about Adeline’s waist and, without considering whether or not she was in condition to waltz, whirled her away. “Hoop-la!” he cried. “Why, it’s ages since we’ve danced together.”
Supple and strong, Adeline skimmed the floor with him. Wilmott stood looking on a little gloomily, wishing he too had a partner. Then, seeing Gussie peeping round the door, he went to her, bowed deeply in the Frenchified manner he had picked up in Quebec, and said: —
“Will you do me the honour, Miss Whiteoak?”
She bowed gravely and, holding her by her hands, he led her round and round.
“We shall often have parties here,” said Adeline across Philip’s shoulder. “Surely we are the happiest people in the world!” She sank down on a sofa, happily flushed but a little tired after the waltz. Daisy turned round on the stool.
“I should so love to dance,” she said. “If anyone would dance with me.”
“Play us a tune, Wilmott!” said Philip, and raised Daisy to her feet.
Daisy’s playing had been gay, facile, if somewhat incorrect. Wilmott’s was slow, with a kind of precise sensuousness. Daisy’s sinuous body expressed, almost brazenly, her pleasure in the rhythmic movement. The two had frequently danced together this past winter.
“I do so love dancing with you, Captain Whiteoak,” she breathed. “I’m lost to all else in the world.”
He gave a gay laugh, held her a little more firmly and whirled farther down the room. Augusta stood by Wilmott’s side, thumping her small fists on the bass notes. He shook his head at her but she persisted.
“Gussie is spoiling everything,” cried Daisy. “Do stop her, Mrs. Whiteoak!”
Adeline swooped down on Gussie, picked her up and set her on the sofa. Gussie’s little pantaletted legs dangled helplessly.
“Is there no hope of our dancing together?” Wilmott asked of Adeline.
“When I have rested a little.”
Wilmott played a polka which the dancers executed with spirit.
Then he came and sat by Adeline’s side. He said: —
“I don’t think I want to dance with you to that girl’s playing. She plays horribly.”
Adeline stretched out her hand and took his. “You seem to be in an evil mood, James,” she said. “I think Daisy performs beautifully on the piano. And how she dances!”
“I had rather die than dance with her,” he said.
Philip came to them. “When you see the wallpaper on this room,” he said, “and the really handsome curtains on the windows and the carpet on the floor, you will see a room of some elegance.”
“It is certainly large,” said Wilmott. “The floor space is twice that of my entire house.”
“It is a divine room!” cried Daisy. “Picture it at night with all the candles blazing, dancers gliding over the floor, flowers in vases, an orchestra sweetly playing and outside the vastness of the forest! Oh, I envy you such a room! What do you suppose it feels like to be a pauper, Captain Whiteoak?”
“Very jolly, to judge by the look of you,” returned Philip.
“Oh, how cruel! Just because I hide my misery beneath a smile, you think I don’t care! Here I am — doomed to single blessedness! What man yearns to marry a girl without a penny?”
“In a primitive country,” said Wilmott, “a female is to be judged by her brawn.”
Daisy ran across the floor, holding out her arms.
“In that respect,” she cried, “I am even worse off. Look at me! Skin and bone! Nothing more.”
“Hoop-la!” exclaimed Philip, dancing toward her. “Strike up the music, Wilmott.”
He swept Daisy into another waltz, the music for which he provided by an extraordinary sweet whistling.
“I have something I want to tell you,” said Wilmott, taking Gussie’s tiny slippered foot into his hand. “But we never have an opportunity to talk nowadays.”
“Once we are settled it will be different. Then I shall have oceans of leisure. What is it you were going to tell me?”
“I have begun to write a book.”
Her face lighted. “Splendid! Is it a novel? Am I in it?”
“It is and I’m afraid you are. Try as I would, I could not keep you out.”
“I should be furious if you had. When will you read to me what you have written?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps never. I am very uncertain about it.”
“Those two,” observed Philip to Daisy, “seem predisposed to converse forever.”
“They are so intellectual. As for me, I have only two ideas.
“Do tell me what they are.”
“To be loved — and to love!”
Wilmott rose and went to the piano. He began to play, gravely yet sensuously. Gussie slid down the sofa and followed him. She strummed on the bass notes.
A
S PHILIP LOOKED
about him, he was struck anew by all that had been accomplished since Adeline and he had come here. He was often struck by this but this particular evening he felt something approaching awe. Not much more than a year ago he had purchased a thousand acres of land — forest, with the exception of a small clearing. Now a substantial house stood in its midst. About it was a park with as fine trees as you would see anywhere. Beyond the park there were fields, cleared of stumps and planted with oats and barley. There were even vegetables — next year there would be a flower border for Adeline. A barn was completed and in the stable beneath it there were two teams of fine farm horses, two saddle horses, and a general-purpose mare who was used for the trap or for light work. He had not been in haste to buy a carriage and carriage horses. His taste in such was exacting.
He stood between the barn and the house which he could just see through the trees, the warm red of its walls deepened by the glow from the setting sun. Smoke rose from two of its chimneys, greyish blue against the blue of the sky. Even the Jersey cows, grazing near him and looking as though such as they had grazed and bred in this spot for generations, did not move Philip as did
the sight of the smoke form his own chimneys against the sky. It was as though the smoke traced the word
home
there. Well, he had given his heart to this land. He wanted no other.
It seemed strange to him, when he thought of it, how he had been willing to leave the Army where he could have, with confidence, looked forward to advancement, how he had thrown all that aside for so primitive a life. As a youth he had wanted to enter the Army. It was a tradition of his family. Many a time he had rejoiced in the activities of military life. What had happened to him, then? It seemed that, from the time of his marriage, a strange element of unrest had come into his life. Not that Adeline had not enjoyed the pleasures of the military station, not that she had been a simple-minded country girl whose presence had drawn him from the old life. No, it had been something much deeper. It was as though Adeline had always been searching for truth and that when their lives were joined they had set out to search for it together. They had wanted reality, freedom from rules made long before their time, the opportunity to lead their lives in their own fashion. In Canada they had found that opportunity. Not once had he regretted what he had given up, nay — he rejoiced in what he had attained! He looked down at his heavy boots, his leather leggings, his corduroy breeches and jacket, and rejoiced that he looked and felt like a countryman. He went to the youngest of the cows who had lately had her first calf which still was with her, and put his hand on the cream-coloured smoothness of her shoulder. She was friendly, not timid, and raised her eyes to his face, her mouth full of the tender grass. Her little calf was by her side, weak yet lively, making feeble jumpings. He would not have exchanged them for a regiment of cavalry. A deep serenity possessed him. From early morning to night he had congenial things to do. In truth he had so much to do that sometimes he felt overwhelmed. Still, there was plenty of time ahead of him. In time he and Adeline would make Jalna what they wanted it to be. There was no haste. He had plenty of money. He had confidence in the future. He had a comfortable belief in God — a not too personal God, with His
eye always on your misdeeds, but ready to give you a hand in time of trouble and waiting at the last with magnanimous forgiveness for your sins — if they had not been heinous.
“Co-boss,” he said to the young cow, having learned the word from the farm hands, “nice little co-boss.” The calf bumped against his knees, its pink tongue protruding.
He saw Colonel Vaughan coming toward him across the field. He was carrying a basket. They exchanged greetings and the Colonel opened the basket.
“I have a little present for your wife,” he said. ”Some lettuces — ours are especially fine this year — also some cherries and a score of the marauders who planned to devour them.”
The interior of the basket was as pretty as a picture, Philip thought. The two great heads of lettuce were as green as the youngest grass. Their leaves were folded over their hearts, layer upon layer, firm and cool with scarcely a wrinkle. Only the edges were crisply curled. Against this greenness the glossy crimson of the cherries shone. A partition divided the basket and in the other half lay the bodies of twenty small, bright-coloured birds. They had throats as red as the cherries and crests on their little heads. Nothing could have been sleeker than their plumage.
“The rascals came in a cloud,” said Colonel Vaughan, “and settled on the tree. It was a pretty sight but I had no time to waste in admiring it. I got my shotgun and fired it into the tree. I recharged it for the stragglers. They fell off the branches like fruit.”
“By Jove, they’re pretty! But what is Adeline to do with them?”
“Have them stuffed. There is quite a good taxidermist in the town. A glass case filled with them, nicely arranged on small branches, is as pretty an ornament for a room as you could wish. If you want more I can give you double the number. I am having a score stuffed for myself.”
“Thanks very much. Adeline will be delighted.”
But he was a little doubtful as he entered the drawing-room where Adeline was sitting at her embroidery frame, utilizing the last brightness from the west. She looked charming, he thought, in
her dress of white cashmere with a cascade of lace down the front and at the elbow sleeves. He took twin cherries from the basket and hung them on one of her ears.
“There’s an earring for you!”
She put up her hand to feel. “Cherries! Oh, do give me a handful! Are they from Vaughanlands?”
“Yes. And these too. Look.”
She peered into the basket. Her face paled.
“Oh, how cruel! Who killed them?”
“Vaughan. But they were devouring his cherries. They would soon have finished them.”
“It was cruel — cruel,” she repeated. “Why did he send the birds here?”
“He brought them himself — for you — they’re to be stuffed. You’ll admire them when you see them in a nice glass case.”
“Never! Take them out of my sight! Oh, the darlings! No — let me see them!” She took one from the basket and held it against her cheek. Tears ran from her eyes.
“Now Adeline, be sensible. You work yourself into a stew over nothing — or next to nothing. What of the partridges, the pheasants, the grouse that are shot?”
“That is sport. This is murder. Those birds are used as food. These —” She pressed the dead bird she held to her lips, then raised her eyes with an outraged expression to Philip’s face. “These little birds are for beauty and song! What if they do eat the cherries?”
“What if there were no cherries left?”
“Who would care?” She kissed the breast of the bird. “Who would care?”
“Adeline, you have blood on your lips!” He took out his large linen handkerchief and wiped her lips. “Now, enough of this. Give me the bird. I shall find someone else who will enjoy having them.”
She submitted, only exclaiming — “They shall not be put into a glass case! I shall bury them myself.” She peered into the basket and again her tears overflowed.
Mrs. Coveyduck came into the room. She and her husband had arrived at Jalna some weeks before. They had been engaged in Devon by Philip’s sister, as cook and gardener. No two could have been more satisfactory. Sam Coveyduck was short, thickset and florid. He thought of growing things from morning to night and it was a dying thing that would not grow for him. He had a deep, luscious voice with a strong Devon accent. His wife was short too but more slender. She had sleek brown hair, a nunlike face and a will like iron. She was a good cook. She adored order. She settled down to rule the young couple at Jalna, benignly yet firmly.