Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
T
HE
N
IGHT
P
ROWLERS
Dusk had fallen. It had passed into darkness, for the moon had not yet risen. It was a wonder that the three men could find their way to the house. Yet they had been well directed and one of them carried a lantern. Just inside the gate they had left the horse and buggy by which they had come. They walked quietly, speaking only in low tones. Their speech had the accents of the South.
Nero, the Newfoundland dog, had a keen ear. As the men approached he gave a deep growl and raised his majesty on the porch where he liked to sit on a warm evening. The light from the narrow stained-glass windows on either side of the front door fell on him.
The door opened and his mistress appeared. Swiftly she took him by the collar and dragged him into the hall, he lumbering along without protest but with a bark and growl at the approaching men.
When they saw that the door was shut they came into the porch, not stealthily but with the air of friends making an evening call. Though they did not knock, the door was opened to them by Adeline, who said, “Good evening to you,” and gave them a smile that showed her white teeth, with a tiny corner broken off one of them.
The men bowed gravely, taking in her beauty with their travel-weary eyes, giving a glance to the lamp lit hall, with its graceful stairway. Nero had been shut in a small room at the back of the hall from where his low bubbling growl could be heard.
“Come right in,” she invited them, and they entered the sitting room on the right of the front door.
It was lit by a lamp with a china shade, showing a design of red roses. This stood on a mahogany table where there was a framed photograph of the Whiteoaks taken in Quebec, soon after their arrival in Canada. They were shown as in a snowstorm which had been cleverly simulated by the photographer. The heavy curtains in this room had been drawn close. No breath of air stirred it.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said one of the men.
“Sit you down,” she said, “and I’ll tell Mr. Sinclair you’re here.” She looked benignly at the men out of her dark eyes.
Again she was thanked. The three left alone drew sighs of relief and stretched their legs. They had travelled far under difficulties. Now they had arrived at their goal. In spite of weariness they were tense as they waited. They did not exchange a word.
Adeline fairly flew up the stairs.
Hanging over the banister was Nicholas.
“Listening — you rascal!” she hissed. “Go to your room.”
“Who are the three men, Mamma?” He was altogether too self-possessed, too bold, she thought. But she had no time to waste on him. She hastened up the stairs, her voluminous skirt gathered up in her hand. She tapped on the door of the Sinclairs’ room.
It was opened to her by her son Ernest.
Seeing her expression he said, in an apologetic voice, “I am only making a little call, Mamma.” He looked so sweet standing there in his green velveteen jacket and lace collar that she could not resist taking him into her arms and planting a maternal kiss on his cheek.
“Come in — come in,” Lucy Sinclair called.
“Where is Mr. Sinclair?” Adeline asked. She tried to speak calmly. “There are visitors for him.”
“With your husband in the smoking room.” Lucy Sinclair sought to control her excitement.
“I will run and tell him,” cried Ernest. He flew along the passage to the small room at the end and back. “Mr. Sinclair will go down directly, Mamma. Shall I take the message?”
“No, no, it’s high time you went to bed.”
Adeline swept down the stairs and made a conspiratorial entrance into the sitting room. She was astonished to find Augusta and Nicholas in amiable conversation with the three callers. She could hear Curtis Sinclair descending from above. She waited till he appeared, then swept her children out of the room. She pushed them ahead of her through the open front door into the porch; Augusta moving slowly, with an offended air; Nicholas executing a caper and throwing a glance of defiance over his shoulder at Adeline.
“You’d give me a saucy look, would you?” she exclaimed and cuffed him on the ear.
Augusta’s colour rose. “You have always told us, Mamma,” she said, “to make strangers welcome.”
“No insolence from you,” said Adeline, “or you’ll get what I gave Nick.”
“Who are those men?” Nicholas demanded unabashed. “They look rough. Not at all like Mr. Sinclair.”
“It is none of your business who they are.”
“Do
you
know?” he asked, with a mischievous smile.
“Of course I know. But they are here on business connected with the Sinclairs’ estate. In this time of war it is necessary to keep their movements secret. So you must be careful not to mention this visit to anyone.”
Dutifully they promised and she glided away, with a conscious air of mystery.
“She is in her element,” said Augusta, looking critically after her mother.
“You are trying to talk like Mr. Madigan,” said Nicholas. He put his arm about her waist that was not yet corseted, and urged her down the steps and onto the driveway. “Let’s dance,” he said. “One, two, three, and a kick to the left. One, two, three, and a kick to the right.”
Willingly, for the night air, the glimmering starlight, made her reckless, Augusta joined in this dancing progress. Their supple bodies linked, they danced, like charming marionettes, along the drive to the gate, her long black hair floating behind her. At the gate they came to a sudden stop, listening. They heard the approach of a horse’s hooves, the rattle of buggy wheels. The horse was drawn up, as it neared the entrance. The children saw Titus Sharrow and the mulatto girl, Annabelle, alight. They saw him clasp her to him and give her a fervent kiss.
In shocked surprise Augusta would have fled, but Nicholas held her by the arm. “We’ve got to know what’s going on,” he whispered.
No whisper escaped the sensitive ears of the half-breed. In a bound he stood, half-menacing, half-apologetic, beside the brother and sister.
“You watching me?” he demanded.
Annabelle was hiding in some bushes.
“Yes,” Nicholas said boldly. “We were trying to find out what you’re up to.”
Tite spoke softly.
“I was giving this poor horse a little exercise. Someone had tied him to the post by the gate and he was wild with the flies bothering him. So I took him for a little drive. It’d be best for you to say nothing about it. There are queer goings-on, you know.” There was a veiled threat in Tite’s soft voice.
Brother and sister turned back toward the house. They stared with curiosity at the closed curtains of the sitting room. “Gussie,” said Nicholas, “what do you suppose they’re doing in there?”
“Tite had no right to say there are queer goings-on,” she cried.
“But who can those strange men be?”
“They’ve escaped from the war, I am certain, and are seeking refuge with us.”
“One thing is clear,” said Nicholas. “We must keep our eyes and ears open, and not repeat anything of what we have seen tonight to Ernest. He can’t keep a secret, you know.”
“I feel the weight of it here.” And Gussie laid her hand on her chest.
When quietly they entered the hall, they were just in time to see their mother carrying a tray with glasses and a decanter of wine on it. They were astonished to see her bearing this into the sitting room, for she was not in the habit of carrying trays about.
“Why are you two loitering here?” she demanded. Then said, “Nicholas, go to the sideboard and fetch the biscuit box and be quick about it.”
The tray in her hand, she waited for him, while Gussie surveyed the situation with disapproval.
“Mamma,” said Nicholas, “do let me carry the tray for you.”
She would not allow that, but he pressed through the door after her and passed the china biscuit-box. The Southerners regarded him distrustfully.
“This boy,” Adeline said grandly, “is safe as a church. He would rather die than mention your coming.” And she gave her son a threatening look.
When, a few minutes later, he rejoined Augusta, he was glowing with a sense of responsibility.
“Hurrah!” he cried. “I’m up to my neck in this.”
“Nicholas,” said Augusta, “I do wish you’d try to control yourself. You know how Mr. Pink preaches self-control. His last sermon was on that subject.”
“Let him control himself and not be so long-winded,” said Nicholas loftily.
Ernest appeared at the top of the stairs in his nightshirt which touched the floor and had a little starched frill around the neck.
“You had better come up,” he said. “Mr. Madigan is lying on his bed singing and there is a bottle beside him.”
Nicholas and Gussie bounded up the stairs.
An air of mystery pervaded. Try as Philip would to lead a normal life, it was impossible with all this secretive coming and going about him. He sometimes wished he had not allowed himself to get involved in this conspiracy. It might, he feared, cost him the friendship of at least two of his neighbours, if these secret meetings leaked out. Adeline was exhilarated. She wished for something more than the passive part she was playing. She was above eavesdropping at the keyhole of the sitting-room door to discover, if she could, what these men were really up to. She could not believe that Philip did not know all.
“Why don’t you insist,” she demanded, “on Curtis Sinclair making a clean breast of it? You have a right to know.”
“One thing I’m certain of,” said Philip, “is that I don’t want to know more than I already know.”
“How much do you know?” she shot at him.
He was not to be taken off guard. “I am lending my house,” he said, “as a meeting place. That’s the sum total of it.”
“You’re maddening,” she cried. “I won’t be treated so! Am I to carry refreshments to these rough men and never be told why they are here?”
“Ask Lucy Sinclair,” he said. “She must know.”
“I have asked her. She tells me that she has sworn by all she holds sacred to divulge nothing.”
“You sound very theatrical,” said Philip.
Bareheaded she travelled the narrow path to Wilmott’s cottage. It was now August. Summer was past its most burning sun. Full-blown white clouds appeared from nowhere and cast their shadows on the green land. Sometimes the clouds darkened and sent down a shower. This had happened early that morning, so the path was now soggy wet under Adeline’s feet. Burrs caught on her long skirt and hung there.
The path lay close beside the river for a short distance before it discovered Wilmott’s small cottage. The river was the grey of a pigeon’s breast, though now and again when the sun pushed the clouds aside the gentle greyness blazed into gentian blue. At one of these moments Adeline stood on the river’s bank, lost in admiration of its blueness. But even while she admired, the canopy of cloud moved inexorably over the scene, not with the effect of gloom but rather as though in placid acceptance of the coming of fall. Those rushes called “cat tails” grew in a clump at the river’s edge. Adeline thought she would ask Tite to gather some of them for her. There was a certain tall Chinese vase in the drawing-room at home in which they would be as pretty as a picture.
Now she saw on the river the flat-bottomed boat belonging to Wilmott, its oars gently moving in the silent water. In the boat were Tite and the mulatto girl, Annabelle. She lounged in the stern trailing one hand in the water. “Like a lady of leisure,” thought Adeline.
She called out, “I see you two! And I warn you, Tite Sharrow, to be careful what you’re up to.”
Tite lifted the oars, from which a delicate rain of clear drops slid back into the river. He called, in his soft voice, “I’m only taking Annabelle for a little boat ride. She’d never been in a boat.”
“Does your mistress know you’re doing this, Belle?” called out Adeline.
The girl burst out laughing. “Ah’ll tell her, Miss Whiteoak. Don’ you worry. Ah’ll tell her.”
As Adeline stood there she felt the moisture from the wet earth rise between her toes. Her shoes were sodden wet. She did not mind. In curiosity her eyes followed the boat as it moved mysteriously up the river between the misty green banks. The half-breed and the mulatto. What was between them? She must warn Lucy Sinclair and James Wilmott of the danger to Annabelle. Yet how boldly Annabelle had spoken — and shown all her white teeth in laughter! Doubtless she was a hussy.
Adeline herself was laughing as she followed the path to Wilmott’s open door. She could glimpse him sitting at a table writing. He looked serene, absorbed in what he was doing. Yet he heard her laugh and raised his head. The sight of her, the sound of her laughter, made his pulse quicken.
“Good morning to you,” she said.
He sprang to his feet. “Mrs. Whiteoak,” he exclaimed.
“Am I not Adeline — James?”
“I try not to call you that,” he said, “or to think of you as that.”
“Yet,” she smiled, “I don’t feel in the least guilty when I think of you as James or call you James.”
“It’s different.”
“But why different?”
“I belong to no one.”
She considered this. Then — “I refuse to belong so completely to anyone that I cannot call a friend by his Christian name — especially such a solemn sweet name as James.” She came into the room.
“Dear James,” she said, “forgive me if I have interrupted your study. What is the book?”
“I have a habit,” he said, “of copying into this notebook extracts from what I have read — bits that have particularly impressed me.”
“How fascinating!” she cried. “May I see?” She bent over the page.
Wilmott tried not to look at her milk-white nape. No man could be expected to look at it and not desire to touch it. Adeline read, “‘The uttered part of a man’s life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.’”
“Thomas Carlyle,” said Wilmott.
Adeline raised her head to give him an admiring look. “How clever you are!” she breathed.
“Do you agree with Carlyle?” Wilmott asked.
“It’s quite beyond me.” She spoke humbly. “But if you agree, I do also, James.”