Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny (56 page)

Guy Lacey gave his light easy laugh. “Have you ever seen the sea, Gussie?”

“Not to remember. When I was a baby I went in a sailing ship from India to England — then came to Canada.” She was proud of having travelled so far, but Guy Lacey only said, “This lake is tame compared to the sea.”

“Is it?” she breathed, her eyes on the dim blue horizon; then added, “Is the sea colder than this?”

“Do you find the water cold?” he asked solicitously. “Then the thing to do is —
duck
.”

“Duck?” she repeated.

“Yes. I’ll count three. Then we’ll both duck.”

“Do!” she giggled, and so unusual it was for Augusta to giggle that instantly she looked serious.

Guy was counting. “One — two — three —
duck
!”

Down they went, he now gripping her two hands. They were engulfed, half-drowned it seemed, in the immensity of the lake. She held her breath.

Then it was down again and up into the balmy air, her long tresses — Guy thought of her hair as “tresses” — streaming over her shoulders.

“Why, Gussie,” he exclaimed laughing, “you look just like a mermaid — that lovely black hair — those alluring eyes.” His white teeth gleamed in his wet face. He had a lock of yellow hair plastered on his forehead.

They danced up and down, holding hands. Gussie was no longer cold. Her blood raced through her veins. She felt wild, reckless, as she had never felt before.

“Hoopla!” shouted Philip, and bore down upon them.

He was followed by the two boys, Guy’s little sisters and Adeline. A battle of splashing ensued. The small boys sought to duck Guy but it was he who ducked them. Adeline delighted in this sort of wild play. None of the young people was so boisterous as Philip and she. Those remaining on the shore were well occupied. Admiral Lacey was in charge of Baby Philip who, from the safety of the Admiral’s arms, watched his family apparently about to drown and, being safe himself, enjoyed the spectacle. He clasped his hands over his round little stomach and laughed in glee. Every few moments Admiral Lacey would shout to his daughters:

“Be careful, girlies!”

Or to his son, “Watch over your sisters, Guy!”

Not one of them paid the slightest attention to him or indeed heard him.

Mrs. Lacey was well occupied in unpacking the picnic hamper and laying the table for tea. The cloth was spread on the fine clean sand and, considering the haste of the arrangements, there was a generous supply of ham sandwiches, hardboiled eggs, cucumbers in vinegar, and plain fruit cake.

James Wilmott had not brought a bathing suit but was occupied in building a fire for the boiling of a pot of water to cook corn and make the tea. He was an expert at this, choosing stones of the right shape to support the large black pot. But his chief concern was the salmon he had himself donated. As the sun sank toward the horizon the breeze fell and the air became deliciously warm. The bathers felt that they could remain in the lake all night. But Wilmott was anxious about the salmon. He had made a miniature cellar among the shrubs to keep it cool. Every so often he took it out and sniffed it. It retained the freshness of its odour. Nevertheless he was anxious.

He went to Mrs. Lacey and said, “I am of the opinion that the salmon should be eaten. It cannot stand this heat without spoiling.”

Mrs. Lacey, her face crimson, asked, “Has the pot boiled?”

“It has boiled.”

“Then I shall put in the corn.” One by one she dropped the symmetrical ears of corn into the bubbling pot. She called to her husband:

“Tell the children to come at once. They have been too long in the water as it is.” To Wilmott she remarked, “I’m surprised that Mrs. Whiteoak allows little Ernest to remain so long in the lake. He is a delicate boy and might easily get his death.”

Wilmott said gruffly, “Mrs. Whiteoak has no more sense than a child.”

Mrs. Lacey was delighted to hear him speak disparagingly of Adeline because she had been under the impression that he almost too warmly admired her. Mrs. Lacey found James Wilmott now more congenial to her than she had thought possible. Again she called out to her husband, “Order Guy to bring in his sisters at once.”

Admiral Lacey set Baby Philip on the sand, cupped his own hands about his mouth and shouted, “Ship ahoy! Ethel! Violet! Come ashore! Your mamma orders!”

“Supper,” shouted Wilmott, with a scornful look in Adeline’s direction.

The bathers now emerged dripping. They sought suitable retreats for drying and dressing themselves among the scrubby cedars. Philip and Guy together, the three young girls, each with her own towel and modesty, Nicholas only half drying himself before he pulled on his tight ankle-length trousers, his undervest, his cambric shirt, his jacket trimmed with silk braid. Already his hair was drying into charming waves about his ears and neck. “Really such hair is wasted on a boy,” Mrs. Lacey observed to Adeline, who had just appeared in a flannel wrapper, with Ernest by the hand. The little boy was delicate, and for fear he might take cold she had given him a brisk rub down and wrapped him in a plaid shawl. He was in high feather and danced along, the fringe of the shawl trailing after him.

The party seated themselves on the sand about the tea-cloth. They were hungry and could scarcely bear to wait for the first course. This was the steaming hot corn on the cob, to be eaten with salt, pepper, and plenty of butter. Wilmott carried the pot round the festive cloth and laid a glistening ear of corn, with its pearl-like kernels, on the plate of each. The only two who were left out were Baby Philip and Nero. Adeline had her little one on her lap and now and again fed him enormous spoonfuls of bread and milk with brown sugar.

“How angelic Baby has been!” said Mrs. Lacey. “He’s never cried once.”

“I’m ravenous,” declared Ernest, and at that Adeline espied the ear of corn on his plate. She nipped it up and laid it in front of Nicholas. “Ernest must not eat corn,” she said. “It gives him a terrible bellyache.”

“But I’m hungry!”

Mrs. Lacey looked offended by the word bellyache.

“What can I eat?” Ernest’s lip trembled, yet he knew his mother did right in taking the ear of corn from him.

Wilmott rose with alacrity. “You shall have the first helping of salmon,” he said, and strode to where he had buried the crock containing it. The crock felt delightfully cool when he unearthed it. The salmon looked tempting when he uncovered it. Ernest’s eyes shone when the firm pink slice of the fish was laid on his plate.

“Are you going to say thanks?” asked Adeline.

“Thank you very much, sir,” Ernest said, his hunger mounting. He was greedy for the first bite but scarcely was it in his mouth when he spat it back on to his plate.

Every eye was on him.

“Whatever is wrong?” demanded Wilmott.

He picked up the plate and sniffed the fish.

“It stinks,” said Ernest.

Philip and Adeline fixed stern glances on their son.

“How dare you spit out a special present?” she asked with severity. A kernel of corn hung on her red underlip.

“How dare you say it stank?” demanded Philip.

Ernest began to cry. “Leave the table,” ordered Philip.

“Oh, I say!” exclaimed Guy Lacey. “The poor little beggar!”

“This is none of our business,” said his father.

Mrs. Lacey said to her daughters, “Ethel — Violet — don’t stare.”

Wilmott rose with dignity. He emptied the salmon from Ernest’s plate back into the crock, rose and stalked away with it across the sand.

Nero who all this while had been gazing hungrily at the party about the table and avidly sniffing the scent of the salmon, now slunk after Wilmott with an air so patently criminal in its intent that only the picnickers’ absorption in their own doings prevented his being detected.

When Wilmott had buried the salmon deep, rinsed the crock that had contained it in the purifying water of the lake, he returned to the table. Philip at once proffered a plate heaped with ham sandwiches.

“Have some, old man,” he said. “They’re first-rate. Have some cucumber. Too bad about the salmon but those things will happen. I remember a picnic in India —”

Adeline interrupted, “Stop, Philip! You’re not to tell about that picnic. You’re worse than that little viper Ernest.”

Wilmott asked, “Is Ernest to have nothing to eat?”

“Supperless to bed. That’s his medicine,” said Philip.

Guy Lacey dropped a sandwich into his own pocket.

Meantime the outcast walked lonely along the beach. He felt ill-used, outraged. He was as furiously angry as was possible to his gentle nature. He talked to himself in a growling voice. “I was expected to swallow that stinking fish, wasn’t I? I wish every one of them had been made to swallow a big mouthful of it. ’Specially Mamma and Papa. Nobody cares if I’m sick. Nobody cares if I’m hungry. They can have their old picnic. I don’t want any of it. I’ll not eat anything for a week — I’m damned if I will.”

Now the sun was a glowing crimson ball casting its fiery causeway athwart the placid lake. A flock of gulls sailed by, close to shore. The sound of little waves lapping on the sand only made the silence more serene. Ernest ceased his dogged plodding and stared in wonder at the clouds of pink and amethyst which drifted with the sun in his setting.

Ernest began to feel more peaceful. A thrill of something — was it joy in the lonely beauty of the evening sky? — ran through his nerves. Now he heard the voice of Gussie calling him. “Ernest! Ernest! We’re going!”

He had a mind to hide among the scrubby trees that grew dense and mysterious along the shore. But they were too dense, too mysterious. He could see, out of the sides of his eyes, Gussie coming hurriedly towards him. “Ernest! Listen, dear! We’re going!”

She had called him
dear
! He would show her what they had done to him. He laid himself flat on the sand and began to cry.

Now she was bending over him. “You can’t stay here, you know. Patsy O’Flynn has the horses ready. You don’t want to be left here alone, do you?”

She assisted him to his feet. Suddenly he felt weak and wobbly. In his excitement he had eaten almost no lunch. One day, not long ago, he had heard his mother say of someone, “Poor man, he is old before his time!” Now this remark came back to him and he thought, “Old before my time. That’s what I am.”

The others of the party did not notice him when he came back with Augusta. They were occupied in collecting their belongings and clambering into the wagonette and the Laceys’ phaeton which were now waiting at the bottom of the road. Wilmott had ridden his old black mare that somehow had a funereal look. He had not yet recovered from the way his gift of salmon had turned out. Yet most of the others were in high spirits.

“Where is Nero?” shouted Philip. “Nicholas, go and find Nero and be quick about it.”

Nicholas ran along the beach calling to Nero. It was not long before he returned, dragging him by the collar. “Nero’d dug up the salmon,” he announced, “and eaten it!”

Out of his woolly black face Nero gave a roguish look.

“Merciful heaven!” cried Adeline. “It will be the death of him!”

“I’m afraid I did not bury it deep enough,” Wilmott said contritely.

“Nothing can kill that dog,” said Philip.

He gave Nero a clout, then bundled him into the wagonette beside Nicholas and Ernest.

“He ought to follow the horses,” said Adeline.

“Too much effort after that meal. It would be the death of him.” Philip was growing impatient. “Come, come, everybody. Into your seat, Adeline. Is the baby asleep? Goodbye, Wilmott — better luck next time.”

Wilmott, on his mare, was the first to leave. He called back, “I warn you not to invite me to the next picnic. I am guaranteed a spoil-sport. Happy dreams, Nero!”

Guy Lacey came to the side of the wagonette. He remembered the ham sandwich he had hidden in his pocket for Ernest. Surreptitiously he took it out. Furtively he offered it to the little boy. But before Ernest could get his hands on it, Nero had intercepted and, in one mouthful, bolted it.

Nicholas laughed. “I hope it will make his breath better,” he said, “for just now it’s disgusting.”

“Hard luck, old fellow,” said Guy, patting Ernest’s knee. “I’ll bet you’re ravenous.”

Mrs. Lacey was in a state of anxiety about her daughters.

“Hurry, Guy,” she called. “I’m so worried over the sunburn your sisters have got. It serves me right for allowing them to go into the sun without hats. These delicate complexions require constant care.”

“Thank goodness,” said Adeline, “I don’t need to trouble about Gussie’s complexion, for she’s sallow as any Spaniard.” Mrs. Lacey cast a sympathetic look at Gussie.

The pleasure vehicles moved up the road, away from the sound of the wavelets. The road lay thick in dust. Evening closed in with great suddenness. There was as yet no moon. Darkness rose from the earth to meet darkness from the sky.

T
HE
G
OLDEN
P
EN

The house was extraordinarily dim and quiet when the family entered it after the picnic. Usually, at this hour, it was the scene of bewildering activity — Lucy Sinclair dressing for the evening meal, her servants engaged in argument with the cook over the preparation of her special dishes; Jerry seated at the kitchen table devouring what pleased his palate; the two boys running up and down the stairs defying the order to go to bed; the baby Philip crying as he found himself alone in the dark; Adeline and Philip seeking, not very patiently, to create order out of chaos; Nero and Boney, the parrot, adding their voices to the confusion; people calling for hot water; people calling for oil lamps; shutters and doors banging to keep out the evening air.

But now how different!

The picnic party were met at the door by Bessie, a tidy, clean-aproned Bessie, with a smile on her face instead of a frown, who took little Philip gently in her arms.

“It’s late for his bath, ma’am,” she said to Adeline. “Do you think I might just wipe his face and hands and knees with a sponge and pop him into bed?”

“You may,” agreed Adeline. “We all are tired. What a lovely long day! What peace in the house!”

Bessie beamed. “That there Mrs. Coveyduck,” she said, “is a marvel. Everything goes as smooth as silk with us now that she’s back and them niggers is gone. She has a nice hot meal waiting for you.”

“Goodness, I’m not hungry.”

But when Adeline came to the dining room, saw the table invitingly laid beneath the light of the chandelier, she changed her mind and decided that she was very hungry. The tureen of vegetable soup sent up a delicious odour. After the soup came an omelette, light as a feather, and after the omelette an apple tart, smothered in Devonshire cream which Mrs. Coveyduck well knew how to make.

Philip and Adeline, Augusta and Nicholas, sat in comfortable relaxation about the table. Agreeable, charming as Lucy Sinclair had been, there was no doubt that her presence had been a weight. Philip never had found Curtis Sinclair congenial to him. Now he looked about the table at his family with satisfaction. However, he missed someone.

“Where is Ernest?” he asked.

Augusta spoke up, with an accusing look at him.

“Papa, you said Ernest was to go supperless to bed.”

“Ah, so I did. Now I forget why.” He took a mouthful of the crisp crust of homemade bread.

“It was because he spat out Mr. Wilmott’s fish and said it stank.”

This remark struck Nicholas as being excruciatingly funny. He bent almost double in laughter.

“Do you want to follow your brother to bed?” asked Philip.

That sobered Nicholas. The meal proceeded in serenity and good appetite. Both Philip and Adeline remarked on Guy Lacey’s charm and good sense. It was a pity, they said, that his leave was so soon to be over. Augusta said nothing but, as soon as she could, stole up to her own room. It was dark and the smell of fall came in on the dew-drenched air. She struck a match and lighted a candle on the dressing table, which had a flounce of glazed chintz round it. Her reflection showed in the mirror, so strangely intimate that it was like another girl in the room with her — a girl who, Guy Lacey had said, was like a mermaid, with her long black hair and alluring eyes. Were those his exact words? She could scarcely remember — she had been so confused. And leaping up and down with him in the lake had trebled the confusion and the delight. She looked deep into the large dark eyes of the girl in the mirror, trying to solve their mystery. Often she had heard her mother’s eyes admired, called luminous, gay. She had seen the golden lights in their brownness, seen how they could change with her mood. But these eyes of her own were always the same — sombre, like the eyes of some melancholy Spaniard, Adeline had once remarked.

Her attention was diverted from her reflection in the mirror to the hunched figure of her dove that had spent the day in his cage, alone, unnoticed. Contrite, she opened the door of the cage and spoke to him.

“Oh, my lovely dove! My little love — my dove.”

Never before had she used such endearments to him. Tonight they came naturally to her lips. Everything was different tonight. Over and over she said loving words to him. But he was feeling his neglect. His head that had been under his wing was indeed uncovered, but it was some little time before he shook himself and hopped down from his perch and then to her shoulder. There again he shook himself and made a loving noise, deep down in his burnished throat. Delicate undulating movements vibrated through his body.

“My little love — my dove,” murmured Augusta. “My love hath dove’s eyes.” She was tired after the long day and dropped to the floor and sat there.

Three leaves from the Virginia creeper had blown into the room and lay trembling a little on the floor. Augusta felt strangely happy. But her peace was broken by the sound of a sob from the room next hers. She was sure it was Ernest who was crying.

There was hazy moonlight in the boys’ room. It fell across the bed, on which she could make out the figure of Ernest, curled up in a little bundle of misery.

She came and sat on the side of the bed. His hand reached out to her groping. “Is it you, Gussie?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she answered calmly. “I heard you crying. Are you hungry?”

“Hungry? No.” His voice came thick with sobs. “I’m not the least bit hungry, but — oh, Gussie, I’ve done something bad.”

She drew the sheet down to uncover his tear-stained face. “Yes, Ernest, what is it? Tell Gussie.”

“Is that the dove?” he asked.

“Yes. He’s been alone for hours. Now he’s so happy that I am back.”

The dove cooed in his throat.

Ernest was easily diverted, even from real unhappiness. Now he sat up in bed, then knelt up to stroke the dove. “How nice he is! I’m sure he knows me and likes me better than he likes Nicholas. Do you think he likes me, Gussie?”

“Tell me what you have done,” she said.

“You won’t tell Papa?”

“Have I ever carried tales?”

“No. But this is the worst thing yet.”

“Is it about the gold pen?”

He threw himself back on the bed and pulled the bedclothes over his head. “How did you guess?” came in a strangled voice.

“I saw you go into the shrubbery. I saw you come back.”

“I couldn’t help myself, Gussie.”

“Where have you hidden the pen?”

“Oh, I have it safe enough.”

In the dim moonlight she could just see his face, a girl’s face, pink and delicate, with the forget-me-not blue eyes and the rumpled fair hair, but the mouth was the mouth of a boy, sensitive and delicately arrogant.

She said, “Do you realize, Ernest, that it was stealing?”

He wriggled beneath the bedclothes. “But the pen is really mine, Gussie,” he said.

“Then why were you crying?”

He could not answer.

She went on, “Mamma and Nicholas and I had given back our presents — the pearl necklet, the watch and chain, the ring. They weren’t ours any longer. Neither is the pen yours. It was stealing to take it.”

“I know — I know,” he moaned.

“In England, not very many years ago,” she said, “there were more than a hundred crimes a person could be hanged for —”

“Even a boy?” he faltered.

“Yes — even a boy. A boy could be hanged for stealing a sheep, and a gold pen is worth more than a sheep.”

“Did you say a hundred crimes?” he quavered.

“More than a hundred. Mr. Madigan told us.”

Ernest now tried to obliterate himself in the bedclothes. Gussie could barely make out what he said. “Then,” he said, “I could have been hanged every day in the week. Oh, Gussie, tell me what to do!”

She patted him on the back. “We must find a way,” she said comfortingly.

Now his flushed little face appeared over the edge of the sheet. “Please don’t tell Papa,” he begged. “I don’t want to be thrashed.”

“Why did you start all this tonight?” she asked.

“I was so lonely and now I’m so hungry.”

“Roll over on your face and press your fists into your tummy. That will help.”

He did. Then he said, “It seems to make me hungrier.”

“Now, listen,” said Augusta. “You must stay quietly here and I will go to the kitchen and get you something to eat.”

“Don’t leave me alone!” Ernest’s voice was no more than a wail. He tried to make himself even younger than he was.

“Come, then.” Gussie spoke in resignation.

Ernest scrambled out of bed with surprising alacrity.

“I suppose you know,” said Gussie, “that I should not be doing this. It’s breaking rules, you know.”

“How would you feel if you found me dead of starvation in the morning?”

“You would not die from missing one meal. It is not the first time this has happened to you.”

“But it’s the first time I’d such a weight on my conscience. Is your conscience in your stomach, Gussie?”

“You are always so ready to talk,” she answered wearily. “I want to get this thing over — so come along and don’t make a sound.” She returned the dove to its cage.

The sudden transition from fear and loneliness to security and the comfort of Gussie’s presence not only filled Ernest with gladness but gave him a pleasing sense of adventure. It was the first time that he had gone down to the basement at this hour. He clung tightly to Augusta’s hand and they fairly held their breaths. Philip was in the sitting room reading the weekly newspaper. They could hear the rustling of it as he turned the pages. Nero was with him and came to the door and looked out at them and whined.

“Come back here, sir.” Philip spoke with his pipe between his teeth.

The children stole silently through the hall, past the door of the bedroom inside which they could hear their mother softly and not very musically singing. Certainly she would not hear them creeping past. They descended the stairs into the basement. Here it was pleasantly warm. The moonlight lay in shining rectangles on the freshly washed brick floor and discovered a golden gleam in the copper utensils hanging on the walls. The Coveyducks and Bessie were long ago in bed, tired out after their efforts to obliterate all traces of the Negroes.

As the children crept down the basement stairs Ernest whispered, “Just like thieves in the night, aren’t we?”

Scarcely were the words past his lips when he realized how terribly well they applied to himself. It was fortunate that he was on the bottom step, otherwise in his dismay he might have lost his balance. As it was he clapped his hand over his mouth and rolled his eyes up towards Augusta’s face to see if she had noticed.

If she had, she made no comment but led the way into the larder. It was possible by the light of the moon to see the large pans of Jersey milk, the loaves of bread, and many tempting edibles, tempting especially to one as hungry as Ernest. Augusta discovered a candle and matches. She lighted the candle and held the candlestick aloft, so that it shed its light on the shelves.

“Bread and milk?” she invited.

But he had seen the slab of apple pie, the bowl of Devonshire cream. “Oh, Gussie,
please
, some of that,” he begged. Without comment she cut a large helping for him, laid it on a china plate with a chip out of it, then mounded it with cream. Like a priestess in some Gothic ceremony, she led the way back to the kitchen and set plate and candle on the clean-scrubbed table. He slid on to a chair and she put a spoon in his hand.

“If your feet are as cold as mine are,” she said, “you’d like a hot drink.”

His mouth was too full for speech but he made eyes of gratitude, and pointed with his spoon to the teapot. In this kitchen the teakettle was always on the boil. Gussie stirred the coals under it and when the exact moment of bubbling came she had the teapot ready with plenty of tea in it.

She seated herself beside Ernest and poured a cup of strong Indian tea for each. The first mouthful brought tears to his eyes it was so hot. But he was so happy — just the two of them together and he not the odd one as so often he was!

He said, “Nicholas will wonder where I am. He will wish he might be in my place, won’t he?”

“I don’t know who would choose to be in your place,” said Augusta.

That remark subdued him, though only briefly. The pleasure of the late feast, the two cups of strong tea, had an exhilarating effect. He was still hungry.

Gravely she considered his plea for a second piece of the pie. He was delicate. The second piece might be too much for his digestion. Still — he had eaten little since breakfast. She rose. “I’ll risk it,” she said.

Ernest remembered a proverb he had heard from Lucius Madigan. Now he brought it out. “Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,” he said.

Augusta looked at him in despair. “Can’t you keep your mind off bad things?”

He hung his head. He was speechless a moment, then he said, “I guess bad things come natural to me.”

“You look innocent,” said Augusta, “and that’s a danger. Anyhow, I’ll risk giving you more pie.”

She did and they both had more tea. He looked at her in love and gratitude. On their way through the hall, Ernest fairly skipped in his happiness.

“It’s been a jolly good evening, hasn’t it, Gussie? I guess it’s worth a crime or two to have such fun.”

Would he never show sense? Augusta in exasperation took him by the ear and led him to the stairs. He uttered a squeak of protest. The door of the sitting room, already ajar, was pushed open and Philip and Nero stood there.

“What’s this?” demanded Philip.

“I made Ernest some tea,” said Augusta.

“Why are you holding him by the ear?”

“To keep him quiet while we passed your door, Papa.”

“Upon my word, a strange way of keeping a boy quiet, eh, Ernest?”

In two strides Philip was beside them. He took Ernest under the arms, lifted him till their faces were on a level, then kissed him.

“Good night,” he said, “and now off you go.” He bent over Gussie and touched her forehead with his small blond moustache that ended in waxed points. One of these points pricked her on the forehead. “Good girl, Gussie,” he said. He stood with one arm upraised to the hanging oil lamp, waiting till they reached the top of the stairs before turning it out. The light fell softly on his sunburnt fair face, his blue eyes raised toward his children, his hair worn rather long and bleached to straw colour by the picnic sun. Gussie hesitated a moment, looking back at him. It was not often that she felt drawn in affection towards her sire. More often she regarded him dubiously or with a certain apprehension. But now she saw him looking young — young and fair and kindly to his children.