Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny (64 page)

T
HE
S
EARCH

The morning was so fresh, so charged with Maytime vigour, so vibrating with the outpouring of a thousand songbirds, that Adeline could not help singing her favourite song. “‘I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,’” she sang in her clear, though not very tuneful soprano, “‘With vassals and serfs by my side.’”

She was dusting the contents of the cabinets of curios from India and was under the impression that she handled them with more delicacy and care than any maid could do. Yet when the dark figure of Titus Sharrow appeared in an open French window she was so startled that she dropped an exquisitely carved ivory monkey that fell with a small clatter to the floor. From appearing as a statuesque figure of dark foreboding, Tite instantly turned into one of lithe agility. He picked up the monkey and gazed at it with admiration before putting it into Adeline’s outstretched hand and giving her a profound bow. He said, in his best French style, “Your song was very beautiful, Madame. I am glad to have heard even a little of it.”

“You are a foolish boy,” she said, returning the monkey to the cabinet, but she was pleased by a compliment from this clever half-breed. There were not many to pay her compliments in this remote place.

She now gave him an enquiring glance, to which he gently replied: “I have been sent by my boss to enquire about your children.”

“My children?” She stared in astonishment.

“They have not come to us as usual for lessons this morning. My boss has recovered from his lumbago and is anxious to go on with the lessons. I too am anxious …” Tite spoke with such deliberation that Adeline was impatient.

“The young rascals,” she said, “they have loitered on the way. You will find them if you search.”

“I have searched, Madame. It is eleven o’clock. Even the dog Nero is anxious. He whines and rolls his eyes, as though he would tell something.”

“They are playing truant,” said Adeline.

She herself took the path to Wilmott’s cottage and was joined by Nero. With a businesslike air he led her along the path. She noticed that his curly black coat was damp. What a dog he was! In for a swim in the river at that hour — and he no longer young! But she enjoyed the walk and every now and again raised her voice and shouted the names of her children. “Gussie! Nick! Ernest!”

She found Wilmott sitting outside his door on a bench in the sun.

“Don’t get up.” She greeted him with gladness. “Oh, James, how splendid to see you well again! But you do look a bit peaky.” He was indeed a contrast to Adeline, whose health and vitality matched the spring morning. “These Canadian winters,” she said, “they leave one deflated.”

“The truth is,” said Wilmott, “that I am overfed. Since Annabelle’s coming my table has groaned beneath the richness of pastry and hot bread. I tell her she’s killing me with kindness, poor soul.”

“But you do like having her here, don’t you, James?”

“I hope I’m grateful,” he said.

“But why do you call her ‘poor soul?’”

Adeline had seated herself on the bench beside him. She had lowered her voice.

He whispered back, “I am sometimes afraid that Tite is not kind to her … I have heard her crying.”

“I will have a word with him,” said Adeline. “But now he is in search of the children. They’re playing truant.”

“Who can blame them on such a day?” sighed Wilmott.

“What are you longing to escape from?” laughed Adeline.

“Myself.”

“Ah, that’s the way people feel after lumbago. You will be quite different after another day or two.” She sprang up and went to the river’s edge. She cupped her hands about her lips and shouted, “Gussie! Nicholas! Ernest! Where are you? You’re going to catch it from your father when you come home!” Returning to Wilmott she said, “He really doesn’t know they’re playing truant.”

Strong and clear as was Adeline’s voice, no shout of hers reached the ears of the three runaways. By the time afternoon came and Philip returned from the farmlands, Adeline was very angry and not a little alarmed. Philip told her not to worry. The youngsters had gone on an exploring expedition, he said. The spring had got into their blood, he said. They would be home before dark and by Jove he would warm the boys’ seats for them. Enquiry revealed that they had been given nothing in the way of a picnic by Mrs. Coveyduck. Surely something untoward had happened.

As evening fell Philip ordered Tite Sharrow to organize a search party. Tite knew every inch of the woodland along the river and much of the forest beyond. There was a full moon and the tranquil May evening was revealed in its mystery and enticement. Every tree wore its cloak of strangeness. The moonlight did not reveal the birds’ nests hidden in their boughs.

Philip went with the search party. It was strange to see the dark forms of the men, in seemingly grotesque attitudes, brought to life by the light of the lanterns they carried. Their talk was full of foreboding — of bears that had been seen in the neighbourhood — of the howl of wolves heard in the last winter. Philip’s great fear was the river that flowed down from distant hills, past Wilmott’s cottage, to lose itself in the lake. He told Wilmott of this fear but mentioned nothing of it to Adeline. She showed her mettle by joining the men of the neighbourhood in the search. They urged her to remain at home with other women for company, but she scorned to do this. “Me stay at home,” she cried, “while my three young ones are in danger! Not while I have a leg to stand on!” And use her two lithe legs to carry her about with the men, she did, and every now and again raised her voice and shouted her children’s names. Twice during the night the search party were given refreshments at one of the farms. When the moon had sunk there still were lights stirring in the darkness, voices calling.

The nights were short. At daybreak three men were gathered in the living room of Wilmott’s cottage making plans for the further search. These were Philip, Wilmott, and Tite Sharrow. Annabelle had brought them a tray heavy with ham sandwiches, freshly baked hot bread, and a huge pot of coffee. But the hot bread was burnt and the coffee such that Wilmott apologized for it. “The poor girl,” he said, “is at her wits’ end. She’s really ill from anxiety.”

“It’s you I worry about,” said Philip. “Here you are up all the night — just getting over an attack of lumbago. As for the coffee — I’ve tasted worse.”

“Not at the table of my boss,” Tite said, rising. “I will carry it straight out to Annabelle and she shall make a fresh pot for you.” He carried the coffee pot to the kitchen.

A moment later they heard Belle crying, then Tite’s low voice. Wilmott said, “The poor girl seems to feel that she is in some way to blame for the disappearance of the children.”

Philip sprang up and went to the kitchen.

“Annabelle,” he said, “it is nonsense for you to take blame to yourself for what has happened, unless — do you know anything you haven’t told?”

She sank to her knees sobbing. “Oh, Lawd forgive me! Oh, Massa Whiteoak, forgive me!”

Philip turned to Tite. “What does she mean?”

Tite gently raised the young woman to her feet. He said, “Belle is so religious, sir, that she blames herself for everything that’s happened since the world began.”

“Have you anything to tell me, Belle?” asked Philip.

Tite was supporting her in his arms. “Speak, Belle,” he said softly. “Tell this gentleman all you know.”

“Ah knows nothin’.” She spoke with passionate insistence. “Ah knows nothin’, God help me.”

Back at the table with the re-heated coffee, Philip said to Wilmott, “That’s a strange couple you have here. One wonders what their offspring may be.”

Wilmott, after a swig of scalding coffee, said, “God forbid that there should be any.”

Philip said, “As for my poor children — as soon as daylight comes, we must drag the river for them.”

“I am convinced,” said Wilmott, “that they are not drowned. We shall find them in the forest.”

They did, however, drag the river, which was in its springtime fullness. They even searched the stream which wound its way through Jalna but found no trace of the three runaways. The work of the farms was put aside in the search. All neighbours were drawn into it.

It became known that Philip Whiteoak had offered a reward of one thousand dollars for information leading to the discovery of the whereabouts of his children.

Nobody was so tireless in the search as Titus Sharrow. Into the depths of the woods he led his search party. Following the main road from the village, searchers went as far as the lake, from which a light wind was blowing, but so rough and densely wooded was the shore that they found no hope there. Wilmott’s rowing boat was tied securely to its little wharf.

One very interested spectator of these activities was Nero. With a look of the greatest sagacity he peered into every thicket, dug a tentative grave in every hollow, barked loudly at every stranger. He came carrying the strip of red flannel from Ernest’s throat and laid it at Adeline’s feet. When she saw what it was she fell to the ground in a flood of tears.

The day passed with no word of the runaways. The night came, dark and windy. Morning came, grey and windy. The police, the militia of the province were notified. At noonday it was twilight. Out of that twilight appeared Augusta’s dove. It flew, white and ghostly, to the roof just about her bedroom window and perched there cooing mournfully. Adeline was the first to see it and to her it seemed to say, “Gussie’s gone … Gussie’s gone.…”

T
HE
R
UNAWAYS

Although the children had spent all their lives within a few miles of the lake they knew little of its moods. Twice during the summer there was a family picnic on its shore, with the added pleasure of bathing; and, when darkness came, a huge bonfire. Once, during the winter, well bundled against the cold, they were taken in a sleigh to see the great ice hummocks formed by the lashing of the waves. When a storm shocked the lake to fury the pounding of waves on the beach could be heard even at Jalna. These booming reverberations were exhilarating to the children. Sometimes the boys pretended that Jalna was a beleaguered place and that hordes of wild Indians were marching on them, with beating of tom-toms and threatening yells. But Augusta withdrew herself at these times and would hide in the summer house with her own vague imaginings. Sometimes the three would take a long walk in the woods, where the roaring of the lake became one with the soughing of the branches.

But now they were on the sunny bosom of that inland sea, heading straight south for the American shore. So favourable was the wind that any manipulation of the single sail was not needed. The little craft and its three adventurers were simply being wafted across to the beckoning States. Augusta had brought with her a map showing the very port for which they were headed. With this spread on her knees, her head bent over it, she studied the distance they must traverse and tried to reckon how long it would take them. They would have no difficulty, she thought, in selling the boat, for it was newly painted and the sail was as white as the dove. That bird seemed happy in his new situation. Now his beloved Gussie was ever close by his side, feeding him tidbits, gently cooing to him. Tethered as he was he strutted across the bottom of the boat and drank from the tin basin set there for him. Yet, Gussie asked herself, was he
really
he? She could not forget the visitor who had appeared without warning and behaved obviously as a suitor.

While Augusta had her map, her notebook, for she intended to keep a log, a complete record of the journey by water and by land, Ernest carried her spyglass and his compass. Already he had a proprietary air towards the spyglass and she almost regretted that she had let him carry it. Yet he was very careful of it. He was a gentle little boy and he had been ill. Through the spyglass he looked back at the Canadian shore, so heavily wooded that it appeared as one great forest, excepting in a spot where a cluster of houses, a church spire, marked a village. Yet nothing looked familiar. The three were explorers in a new universe.

Each time when Ernest examined the view through the spyglass, he consulted the compass and, now and again, would move the tiller. He allowed neither Augusta nor Nicholas to have any part in these activities. They were his own concern and gave him prestige in that company. As always, when he was excited, he was hungry. Even before the time came for a proper meal he begged for a sandwich, then another and still another. Then they all became hungry. Augusta laid the white cloth, with which Belle had provided them, on the lid of the hamper, and there the appetizing food was spread. They could only guess the time of day, for they had no watch.

Nicholas was happy and full of confidence. The immensity of the lake was a joyful challenge to him. He thought he knew all he needed to know to circumnavigate the world, if need be. The children finished the meal with slabs of raisin cake and cold tea. They were replete and of a sudden very drowsy. Ernest indeed fell fast asleep sitting up, with one hand on the tiller. Nicholas was the next to give in. He sat gazing at the exquisite colours of the sunset, his face tinted by its radiance, till he could no longer hold his large dark eyes open. Yet he fought against sleep.

Augusta said, “I will keep watch, Nicholas, till daybreak. Then I will call you. There must always be an officer on duty.” She helped Ernest, from his place in the stern, to stretch out on the bottom of the boat, and lashed the tiller with a rope. She took Nicholas’s place while he curled up beside Ernest. She laid a rug over them. She reassured the dove by stroking his pale plumage. She settled herself to watch through the night.

Now she was alone with her many responsibilities. Yet, in spite of them, she felt gloriously free. Straight as a die the boat seemed to speed southward towards the American shore. There were no lights of land in sight but a great moon rose and flooded the lake with its brilliance. The little waves were capped with silver. The sail was silver. The dove was a silver bird, immobile, his silver beak sunk on his silver breast.

Augusta could not allow her eyes to rest for long on the figures of her two young brothers lying in attitudes of complete abandon on the bottom of the boat. They looked so helpless and were, she felt, so dependent on her. Still she was not afraid. She set herself to counting the stars which, when the moon began to sink, showed themselves more luminous.

She saw, after a time, lights moving on the lake. They were the lights of a steamship which appeared to be bearing down on them. So close it came that Augusta could hear the engines and the churning of the great wheel. The steamship came overpoweringly near — then miraculously passed. But behind rose the waves of its wake, rocking the small boat so violently that it seemed likely to overturn. Still the two boys slept peacefully. Then by gentle degrees the rocking of the dinghy ceased. Peace and starlight enfolded the lake. Augusta’s head dropped to her knees. She slept.

The dove and the three children slept so quietly, so tranquilly, the white sail so steadily received the wind and, with tiller lashed, moved the boat that it might have been guided by some supernatural agency. It might have been thought that the four occupants were under a spell from which only the light of day would wake them.

The sun had not yet risen but there were wafted on the horizon a group of apricot and gold cloudlets which had caught the first colour from the advancing sun. Their colour was cast on the sail of the little boat and on the faces of the two boys, drawing them out of the world of fantasy. The dove woke and spread his wings, as though ready for flight. He uttered cooing sounds.

So long had Gussie slept, with her head on her knees, that when the cooing of the dove woke her she at first felt powerless to move. Slowly she raised her head and, facing the east, received the first red shaft of the rising sun. She heard Ernest’s voice.

“Gussie!”

“Yes, Ernest.”

“Have you been sleeping?”

“I dozed.”

Nicholas sat bolt upright. “You said you’d be on the watch.”

“Nothing happened.”

“I’m hungry,” said Ernest.

They all were hungry.

The boat sped forward in the rosy radiance of sunrise. The waves — for they now had risen from playful ripples — were as though touched by fire. The sail tautened as it gathered speed from the light wind. The clouds became white and, like white-robed angels, moved away from the east and cast their shadows on the lake. Then the lake looked strange and somehow forbidding.

“I’m hungry,” repeated Ernest, giving these clouds a slightly apprehensive look.

“You must not eat till you have washed,” Augusta told him, “and you too, Nicholas, must wash.”

Ernest spread out two small grimy hands. “I’m not dirty,” he said, and giggled.

“I’m not dirty either,” said Nicholas, showing his still grimier hands. His face was even dirtier.

“Wash yourselves,” ordered Augusta, throwing soap, a washcloth, and a towel in their direction.

They obeyed, leaning so far over the side that she warned, “Be careful or you’ll fall overboard!” The boys giggled, as though in rebellion. They lost the soap. They struggled over possession of the towel.

“Be careful!” she screamed and they turned on her two dripping laughing faces.

But the laughter left their faces when a gust caught the sail and the boat heeled in a frightening way. Nicholas, now sobered, took charge of the sail. Augusta was at the tiller.

“Where is your compass?” she demanded of Ernest.

Wet tags of hair stood upright on his head. “I’m hungry,” he whined. “I’ll find my compass when I’ve had breakfast.”

“You may get something out of the hamper,” she said, “but I could not let you boys eat with dirty faces.”

“Your own face is dirty,” Nicholas retorted with a jeering laugh, in which Ernest joined.

Suddenly the boys no longer were the loyal crew. Augusta felt that they were against her. She heard Ernest say, “Compass, my eye!” This crew was ready to mutiny.

She crouched at the gunwale washing her face and hands. She now saw that the boys were eating fruit cake. They were eating greedily, with swigs of cold tea.

“Have some?” Nicholas asked, offering her a slab of cake with nuts and raisins in it.

The boys grinned together like mutineers.

“Thanks,” she answered coldly, and ate a chicken sandwich.

The sun now came out gloriously. The lively breeze increased to a moderate wind. Suddenly the boys became a decent crew amenable to orders. “What shall I do?” Nicholas asked when the wind, as though to tease them, changed its course.

“Don’t you know?” asked Augusta.

“No.”

“But I thought you knew how to manage the sail.”

Ernest, peering through the spyglass, asked, “When do we reach Charleston?”

Cautiously Gussie moved to his side and laid her map in front of him. “Can’t you understand that first we must reach the American shore, then sell our boat, buy our railway tickets and take train to Charleston?”

Ernest said, “I can’t see any shore.”

“We shall reach it in time.”

“My throat’s sore,” said Ernest.

Nicholas remarked to Augusta, “We should not have brought this fellow with us. He’s always whining and complaining.”

“You shut up,” said Ernest.

Nicholas shouted back, “If I hadn’t this sail to manage, I’d make you sorry.”

Ernest began to cry a little. “Gussie,” he stammered, “Gussie …”

Augusta said, “You must not be harsh with him, Nicholas. He’s the youngest.”

Again the boys turned to her as their captain. But the lake no longer was friendly to them. Its immensity became intimidating. On the lively waves whitecaps appeared. The wind was now quite cold. Gussie wrapped the rug about Ernest’s shoulders. She pacified the dove which was getting restless, pecking at the cord which tethered it by the leg.

“I wonder what time it is,” said Nicholas. “I wish I had my watch with me.”

“I wish I had a hairbrush or comb.” Gussie sought to tidy her hair with her fingers.

“I judge,” Nicholas had the spyglass to his eye, “that it’s about noon.”

Ernest snatched the glass from him. “Who said you could have that?” He spoke with temper.

“Boys,” said their sister, “we must not quarrel. There’s a long journey ahead. There may even be some danger.” And she scanned the vast expanse of tumbling waves.

“Danger?” repeated Ernest. “Shall we ever get to Charleston, do you think?”

“If we behave ourselves and don’t quarrel,” she answered.

“I shall behave,” said Ernest. “And I shall even let Nicholas look through my spyglass.” He had the effrontery to call it
his
spyglass. He stretched out his hand that held the glass. Nicholas reached out to take it. Between them they dropped it. It struck the gunwale and bounced overboard. No one quite knew how it happened. In trying to save it, Ernest all but fell overboard. Gussie saved him by grasping his hair. He burst into tears as though a terrible disaster had happened. Then he was sick and brought up the fruit cake. He bent over the side of the boat while Gussie held him in her arms. A wave struck the dinghy and then burst over them. They were in water to their knees.

“I’m sorry,” said Nicholas. “I’m sorry, Gussie.”

Ernest peered into the tumbling greenness. “Did you see where it went?” he quavered.

“It just rolled over and sank,” said Nicholas, and repeated, “I’m sorry.”

“Never mind,” said Ernest. “I still have my compass.” He felt in his pocket for the compass. He felt in all his pockets. Raising his eyes, that were wet with tears, to Gussie’s gentle face, he quavered, “Do you know where my compass is, Gussie?”

“I’ll find it,” shouted Nicholas, and began scrabbling among their belongings.

“Mind that sail!” shouted back Augusta.

The boom was beginning to swing ominously, and the sail to flap as though it would tear itself from the mast. “I thought,” went on Augusta, “that you knew how to manage the sail.” The wind, the noise of the flapping sail, fairly tore the words from her lips, all but drowned the sound of her voice. She repeated, “I thought you understood.”

“I don’t,” he answered.

“You don’t know what to do?” she shouted.

“No!” he shouted back and began to cry.

“The sail must be lowered!” she shouted, and began to crawl on hands and knees through the water that stirred uneasily in the bottom of the boat.

The uncontrolled sail set the tiller to swinging wildly, and these appeared suddenly to have complete control of the dinghy. It turned, it wallowed in the green waves. Augusta and Nicholas somehow managed to lower the sail. She lashed the rudder so that it was stable. Now the little boat swung from the crest of one wave to another.

When Ernest saw Nicholas in tears, his own tears dried. He ceased to search for his compass. Casting his eyes over the tumbling waves he asked, “Why has the water turned from blue to green, Gussie?”

“It’s the clouds,” she answered.

“When do you think we’ll see land?” he went on.

“Pretty soon, I guess.”

“I’ll be glad, won’t you?”

“I’m not afraid,” she answered stoutly.

That cheered both the small boys. Nicholas said, “I’m hungry.”

She gave them dry biscuits, and a fig apiece.

“Lunch,” she answered, and opened her mouth wide in a yawn.

“Why are you yawning?” asked Ernest.

“I was on watch all the night.”

“Didn’t you sleep? Not one little nap?”

“I forget.” She spoke crossly.

“More tea, please,” they demanded.