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Title: The Building of Jalna
Author: de la Roche, Mazo (1879-1961)
Date of first publication: 1944
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: The Book Club, 1949
Date first posted: 9 October 2016
Date last updated: 9 October 2016
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1361

This ebook was produced by Marcia Brooks, Cindy Beyer,
Mark Akrigg & the Online Distributed Proofreading
Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.
All of the author's original text has been included.






                             THE  BUILDING
                               OF  JALNA

                                   By
                          MAZO  DE  LA  ROCHE




                                   To
                      ST. JOHN AND LEONORA ERVINE
                                  and
                          RACHE LOVAT DICKSON

                             IN FRIENDSHIP

                   AND REMEMBERING THEIR INSCRIPTION
                         IN MY COPY OF "SOPHIA"




                                CONTENTS

               I. IN ENGLAND
              II. IN IRELAND
             III. THE FIRST VOYAGE
              IV. REPAIRS
               V. THE SECOND VOYAGE
              VI. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE ST. LOUIS
             VII. VAUGHANLANDS
            VIII. THE LAND
              IX. THE FOUNDATION
               X. THE WALLS
              XI. THE ROOF
             XII. HENRIETTA
            XIII. AUTUMN RAIN
             XIV. WINTER SPORT
              XV. IN WILMOTT'S HOUSE
             XVI. PROGRESS OF THE SEASON
            XVII. SPRINGTIME AT JALNA
           XVIII. VISITORS FROM IRELAND
             XIX. THE BATHING PARTY
              XX. THE GALLOP IN THE FOREST
             XXI. THE REWARD
            XXII. THE CHURCH
           XXIII. A VARIETY OF SCENES




                         The Building of Jalna




                                   I
                               IN ENGLAND


ADELINE thought that never, never in her life had she seen anything so
beautiful as _The Bohemian Girl_. The romance of it transfigured her
mind, as moonlight a stained-glass window. And the music! Words and tune
possessed her, making her feel like one in a dream. As she hung on
Philip's arm on the way out of Drury Lane the ground seemed
unsubstantial beneath her feet, the crowd about her to be floating like
herself.

She looked into his face to discover what was its expression. She had
glimpsed her own in one of the great gilt-framed mirrors, and had been
well pleased by its rapt expression. She half expected to see Philip
wearing the same look. But in truth he looked just as he had when they
had entered the opera-house, pleased to be there, well satisfied with
himself and with her, glad to be back in London once more. She pressed
his arm and his lips parted in a smile. Surely no man in all that throng
had so fine, so manly a profile as Philip! Surely there was no other man
with such well-set shoulders, such a flat back! He turned his head and
looked at her. As he looked, his bright blue eyes widened a little in
pride. He glanced about to see if others were noticing her beauty. They
were, no doubt about that. Two gentlemen on her other side were noticing
it more than was compatible with good taste. They were openly staring at
her. She was aware of this, as was shown by her heightened colour and
the daring half-glance she bestowed on them, but she continued to smile
at Philip. They were now near the outer door and it took all his skill
to pilot her successfully through it, billowing as she was in a flounced
taffeta crinoline. Small wonder those fellows stared, thought Philip. It
was not often one saw a face so arresting as Adeline's. Was there
another anywhere to equal it, he wondered. Her colouring alone made
people turn their heads to look after her; the hair thick and waving, of
the deepest auburn that could, in sunlight, flame to red; the skin of
marble and roses, the changeful brown eyes with black lashes. But, if
her colouring had been undistinguished, her proud and daring features,
her arched brows, aquiline nose and mobile, laughing mouth, would have
warranted his fine favour.

There was a clatter of horses' hooves on the cobbles. Private carriages
were drawn up in a glittering row. Adeline looked longingly at these but
she and Philip must wait for a cab. They pressed forward to the kerb,
his mind still occupied in guarding her crinoline. A street musician
rose, as out of the gutter. He was gaunt and in rags but he could play.
He humped his shoulder against the fiddle and his arm that wielded the
bow moved violently, as though in desperation. No one but Adeline
noticed him. Yet he was playing in desperation.

"Look, Philip!" she said eagerly. "The poor man!"

He looked and, frowning a little at the waste of time, resumed his
scanning of the vehicles. She stiffened herself.

"Give him something!" she demanded.

Philip had found a four-wheeler. Now he determinedly pushed Adeline
toward it. The driver scrambled down from his perch and threw open the
door. Between the pushing of the crowd and the urging of Philip's hand
she found herself forced inside. But the beggar had seen her look of
compassion and now his gaunt figure appeared at the door. His eyes were
imploring. Philip put his hand in his pocket and produced a shilling.

"God bless you, sir! God bless you, my lady!" The man kept reiterating
his thanks. His face was ghastly in the light of the gas-lamps.

The horse's hooves clattered on the wet cobbles. Philip and Adeline
turned to look triumphantly at each other. Each thought they had had
their own way.

The crowded streets, the bright lights, were intoxicating to them after
their years in India. She indeed had never known London, for County
Meath had been her home and Dublin the great city of her girlhood. She
had danced her way through several seasons there but, in spite of her
grace and beauty, she had not made the match her parents had hoped for.
Her admirers had been well-born and all too attractive, but without
sufficient means to set up an establishment. She had wasted good time in
flirtations with them. Then her sister Judith, married to an officer
stationed at Jalna, a garrison town in India, had invited Adeline to
visit her and Adeline had gladly gone. She felt cramped in Ireland and
she had quarrelled with her father who was even more high-tempered and
domineering than herself. The cause of their quarrel was a legacy left
her by a great-aunt. Her father had always been a favourite of this aunt
and he had confidently looked forward to inheriting her fortune. It was
not large but, in his present circumstances, seemed munificent. Now he
bitterly regretted that he had named a daughter after this aunt. That
had been the mischief. That, and Adeline's blandishments!

In Judith's house she met Philip Whiteoak, an officer in the Hussars. He
came of a family long established in Warwickshire. Indeed, the Whiteoaks
had lived on their estate for several centuries. They had looked up to
no man, being of the opinion that they were as good as any and of more
ancient lineage than most of the peers of the county. At one time they
had possessed considerable fortune which had been handed down intact
from father to son. They had been a family of few children but those of
fine physique. Their affairs had prospered till the time of Philip's
grandfather, who had become addicted to the vice of gambling, so
prevalent in his day. He had heavily mortgaged the family estate and had
at last been obliged to sell it. It was due to the sound sense of
Philip's father, his sober life as an unpretentious country gentleman,
that Philip had been able to enter the Army and to have sufficient means
for maintaining his position as an officer.

Philip and Adeline were fascinated by each other. After a few meetings
they were passionately in love. Yet, beyond the fire and passion of
their love, there was true metal. In the not infrequent dissensions of
their married life they always knew they were made for each other, that
no one else could possibly fill the other's place--or even approach that
place. To Philip, other women seemed simple, even shallow, as compared
with Adeline. For him there was significance in her every gesture. The
intimacy of their companionship never failed to exhilarate him. There
was excitement in the thought that he could eventually control her, no
matter what her defiance.

Adeline delighted in Philip's stalwart good looks, the clear freshness
of his complexion which years in India had not succeeded in damaging,
the ardent expression of his daring blue eyes, the boyish curve of his
lips. Was there ever a better figure than his, she often wondered, so
broad in the shoulders, yet hips narrow! She disliked hair on a man's
face and allowed him no more than a finger's breadth of golden whisker
in front of each ear. If he had more, she would refuse to kiss him. But,
far above his looks, she rejoiced in his power over her, his English
reliability, the mystery of his silences, when she in her Celtic
suppleness must reach out and draw him back to her.

Their wedding had never been equalled in the Indian military station.
She had been twenty-two, he ten years older. He got along well with his
men, who would do anything for him, but often there was a feeling of
tension between him and his colonel. Philip was not the man to knuckle
under with a good grace. He had an indestructible feeling that he was
always in the right, and the fact that he generally was only made
matters worse. When he opposed others Adeline was always on his side.
When he opposed her she could see how wrong-headed and stubborn he could
be.

Her sister Judith, two years older than herself, had advised her to
order as magnificent a trousseau as possible from Dublin because, as she
said, it would certainly be the last thing she would ever get out of her
father. So the two had spent happy days in preparing lists for the
guidance of Adeline's mother in shopping. The good-natured lady never
had been able to deny her children anything and now she, in her turn,
had spent happy weeks creating a bustle in the Dublin shops. What her
daughter had not thought of, she did, and it took a formidable array of
boxes to contain the trousseau. That trousseau created a sensation in
Jalna. Dresses, with voluminous flounced skirts and wide pagoda sleeves,
came billowing out of the boxes; a green velvet cape with bonnet and
muff to match, all embroidered with a creamy foam of lace; a Scottish
tartan cloak, lined with blue silk; ball dresses cut very low, with tiny
waists, and trains ruffling like the wake of a ship; shawls with long
golden fringe and lace mittens decorated in the same fashion. Adeline
floated to the altar in a wedding gown like a silver cloud. Tissue paper
strewed the bedrooms of Judith's bungalow when the boxes were opened and
the treasures disclosed. For the time even Philip was unimportant. The
young pair settled down to lead as glittering an existence as the
military station afforded. No entertainment was complete without them.
They were so gay: their wine was the best; their horses and their
clothes the handsomest in the station.

It had been a shock to them when they discovered that Adeline was going
to have a child. They did not want children. They were sufficient to
themselves, and not only that--children born in India were often
delicate and always had to be sent home for their education. These
partings with children were a melancholy side to Anglo-Indian life.
Adeline was horrified at what she would have to go through. The fact
that her mother had had eleven children (four of whom had died young)
meant nothing to her. She felt as though she were the first woman in the
world to face that ordeal. And it had been a great ordeal--a slow and
difficult birth and an aftermath of weakness and dejection. The infant
did not thrive and filled the house with its wailing. What a change from
their happy carefree years!

A stay in the hills had done Adeline little good. It had seemed that she
would sink into invalidism. All this anxiety affected Philip's temper.
He had a violent quarrel with his colonel. He began to feel that the
hand of Fate was against him. He began also to feel a longing for a more
open, less restricted life. His thoughts turned toward the New World. He
was finding the conventionalities of Army life irksome. If he stayed in
India he must get a transfer to another regiment, for the quarrel with
his colonel was not of the sort to be patched up. He had an uncle, an
officer stationed in Quebec, who had written him letters overflowing
with praise of the life there. Philip wondered if the Canadian climate
would suit Adeline. He asked the opinion of the doctor who declared that
nowhere on earth would she find more bracing air or a climate better
suited to her condition. When Philip spoke of this to Adeline he quite
expected her to be repelled by the thought of such a change. To leave a
life so full of colour for the simplicity of the New World would surely
be more than she could face. But Adeline surprised him by delighting in
the prospect of the adventure. She threw her bare arms above her head
(she was wearing one of the silk peignoirs she almost always wore now)
and declared there was nothing on earth she would so much love to do as
to go to Canada. She was tired of everything connected with India--tired
of the gossip of the station, tired of the heat and the dust, tired of
swarming natives and, most of all, tired of having less than her
accustomed eager strength.

Even with Adeline's consent, Philip hesitated to make the plunge. But
while he hesitated his uncle died in Quebec, leaving him a considerable
property there.

"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 she 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 a mountain of luggage they had made the long
journey by stage-coach from Liverpool to the cathedral town of
Penchester, where Philip's only sister, Augusta, was anxiously awaiting
them. For her the baby had been named. She was married to the Dean of a
cathedral in a south-western county, 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 that 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 out 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 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 Philip 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 couple had been 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! See 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 by 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 that 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 a
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 was to obliterate herself in him, wilfully 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 for ever.
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!

And the Dean's house itself! Adeline wished she owned it as she
descended from the carriage. It looked so sedate, so warm-coloured, so
welcoming. She might indeed have been the mistress, to judge by her
luggage that cumbered the hall, her husband's voice that rapped out
orders to the servants, her infant that made the echoes ring with its
crying, her parrot which rent the air with erotic endearments when it
heard her voice. Augusta and the Dean seemed mere nobodies in their own
house. Adeline flew to the parrot, chained to its perch in the
drawing-room.

"Boney, my sweet, I'm back!" she cried, advancing her lovely aquiline
face to the bird's beak.

"Ah, Pearl of the Harem!" he screamed in Hindu. "_Dilkhoosa! Nur Mahal!
Mera lal!_" He nibbled her nostril. His dark tongue quivered against her
lips.

"Where did he learn all that?" asked the Dean.

Adeline turned her bold gaze on him. "From the Rajah," she returned.
"The Rajah who gave him to me."

"It hardly seems nice," said Augusta.

"It isn't," answered Adeline. "It's beautiful, and wicked and
fascinating."

"I mean, the way the bird goes on."

"Yes. That's what I mean too."

Philip broke in. "I say, Augusta, has our infant been howling ever since
we left?"

His sister's face clouded. The Dean answered for her.

"She has indeed. As a matter of fact I could not find a single spot
where I could write my sermons in peace--between baby and parrot." Then
he added genially, "But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter."

But it did matter. Philip knew very well that a Dean requires more quiet
than does a Hussar, and he was annoyed with his daughter. She was now
almost a year old and ought surely to have a little sense. The first
time he had her to himself he took her to task. Holding her in his
strong hands, so that her sallow little face was on a level with his
fresh-coloured one, he said:

"You young minx, don't you know which side your bread is buttered on?
Here are your uncle and auntie, childless. Here are you--a baby
girl--just what they want! You could stay here with them, at any rate
till your mother and I are settled in Canada. If you behaved yourself
they'd make you their heir. Now what I mean is, I want you to stop this
howling every time your aunt looks at you. You are _not to cry_. Do you
understand?"

What Gussie understood most clearly was her discomfort. She suffered
from constant colic induced by injudicious feeding and still more
injudicious dosing with medicine when the food was not digested. Yet the
ayah thought that no one but herself was capable of caring for the
child. Certainly she poured out love and selfless devotion on her.

Gussie was precocious, partly because of remarkable intelligence, partly
because of the constant changes of scene which had been her lot. She
understood that the powerful being who held her high up between his two
hands and spoke in such a resonant voice was ordering her not to cry, to
keep her miseries of pain and shyness to herself. The next time her aunt
on a sudden impulse of affection snatched her up and dandled her, the
little creature made what was to her a stupendous effort and controlled
her desire to burst into tears. She fixed her mournful gaze on Augusta's
face, her mouth turned down at the corners; her eyes grew enormous but
she kept back the tears that welled up in them.

Augusta was really shocked to see such an expression on the little face.

"Why," she said, aghast, "Baby hates the sight of me! I can see that she
does!"

"Nonsense," said Philip. "It's just shyness. She'll get over it." He
snapped his fingers at Gussie.

"No she won't. I've tried and I've tried to make friends with her. And
just now she gave me such a _desperate_ look! As though she were
controlling herself with all her might, when what she really wanted to
do was to _scream_ at me. Here, take her, Adeline."

Adeline took her child and gave her a not very gentle pat on the back.
It was more than Gussie could bear. She stiffened herself and shrieked.
The Dean came into the hall, putting on his cloak.

"I think I shall go to the vestry," he said. "Perhaps I can have peace
there."

Then Adeline and Philip became aware that the parrot was screaming too.
It was a mercy the Dean could not understand Hindu, for the words Boney
was screaming were the worst in his vocabulary, he having picked them up
on board ship.

Adeline and Philip began to feel that the time had come for their visit
to end. He was impatient to begin the new life but she would have been
willing to linger a little longer in the quiet of Penchester, enlivened
by visits to London. She loved the sunny walled garden behind the Dean's
house where crocuses were in bloom and daffodils swelling into bud,
though it was only February.

One morning Augusta took her brother into the privacy of her own
sitting-room, and said:

"I do not think, Philip, that you have had your proper share of our
parents' belongings."

Philip's blue eyes widened in pleasurable anticipation. "Were you
thinking of giving me some things, Augusta?"

"Yes, if you feel you can safely take fine furniture with you. I should
hate to think that precious possessions which our family long cherished
might be handled roughly."

"They won't," he eagerly assured her. "They will be strongly crated and
I'll personally oversee the loading on to the ship and off it. We are
sailing by fast clipper which, I am told, is almost as quick and much
cleaner and more comfortable than by steamship."

She sighed. "Oh, I do wish you weren't going! It seems so hard to have
you return from India, only to lose you again. And I do so dread the
voyage for the dear baby."

"Augusta," he said earnestly, "if you'd like to keep the baby for a
time----"

"No, no. It would never do. Baby Augusta does not take to me. She cries
too much. It upsets Frederick. She shall come to visit me when she is
older...."

"She is a spoilt little creature," said Philip. He frowned, then
brightened. "The house Uncle Nicholas left me is well-built, in the
French style, I am told. I want to furnish it well," he said. "We
brought some things from India, as you know. Adeline has a really
picturesque bedstead and inlaid cabinets. Then we have some fine rugs.
Oh, we shall get on! Don't worry."

"But I do worry. I want you to take your place in Quebec as people of
consequence and you cannot do that in a sparsely furnished house."

"Oh, we shall get on. I fancy that there aren't many officers of Hussars
in the town and Adeline is the granddaughter of a marquis, as you know."

"Yes. She is distinguished-looking, too. Did she show you the pearl
brooch and bracelet I gave her?"

"She did indeed and I'm delighted."

"Now I am going to give you the furniture I had from our home. It is
mostly real Chippendale and would grace any drawing-room. But I do not
need it. This house was filled with furniture when Frederick brought me
to it. I have no children to save it for. Will you like to have it,
Philip dear?"

"I shall like it tremendously," Philip exclaimed. "It's very handsome of
you, Augusta."

Adeline was charmed by Augusta's generosity. Her spirits were high. Her
talk, her laughter, the sound of her eager footsteps filled the house.
Philip did not know what it was to desire peace and quiet. But how
earnestly the Dean and Augusta wished for it! By the time the visitors
had departed with their mountains of luggage (the noise of the furniture
being crated had nearly driven the Dean mad), their crying child and its
ayah who kept the kitchen in a ferment with her demands for strange
food, and their noisy and often blasphemous parrot, the sedate couple
were exhausted. Their sincerest wish was to see the last of their
relatives and never again to have a prolonged visit from them.

Philip and Adeline, on their part, had felt a cooling in the atmosphere,
and resented it. They were setting out to visit Adeline's people in
Ireland.

"There you will find," she exclaimed, throwing herself back against the
cushions of the carriage, "Irish hospitality, generous hearts, and true
affection!"




                                   II
                               IN IRELAND


NOT in all the long voyage from India had Adeline suffered as she
suffered in crossing the Irish Sea. The waves were short, choppy,
violent. Never were they satisfied to torment the ship from one quarter
alone. They raged on her from the north-east, veered and harried her
from the south-east, then with a roar sprang on her from the west.
Sometimes, it seemed to Adeline, the ship did not move at all, would
never move again but just wallow in the grey misery of those ragged
waters till the day of doom. The ayah's face was enough to frighten one,
it was so green. Gussie, who had not been sea-sick on her first voyage,
now was deadly so. It was maddening to see Philip pink and white as
ever, his firm cheeks moist from spray, actually enjoying the tumult of
the sea. Still, he was able to look after Adeline and that was a
comfort. In fact he gave a sense of support to all who were near him.

The Irish train was dirty, smoky, and its road-bed rough but it seemed
heaven after the Irish Sea. One after the other the sufferers raised
their heads and looked about them with renewed interest in life. Gussie
took a biscuit in her tiny hand and made a feeble attempt at gnawing it.
But more crumbs were strewn down the front of the ayah's robe than found
their way into Gussie's stomach.

At the railway station they were met by a carriage drawn by a fine pair
of greys and driven by Patsy O'Flynn who had been nearly all his life in
the service of the Courts. He was a great hand with the reins. A light
wind was blowing across the hills which were turning into a tender green
and the leaf-buds on the trees were opening almost as you watched them.
There was a mistiness on the scene as though a fine veil hung between it
and the sun. The cackle of geese, the bray of a donkey, the shouts of
young children at play, brought tears to Adeline's eyes. "Oh, 'tis good
to be home!" she exclaimed.

"Ay, and it's good to see your honour, Miss," said Patsy. "And it's a
quare shame to you that you should be thinkin' of lavin' us again so
soon."

"Oh, I shall make a good visit. There is so much to show my husband. And
all the family to see. I expected my father to meet me at the station.
Is he not well?"

"He's well enough and him off to lodge a complaint against Sir John
Lafferty for the overflow of wather from his land makin' a bog out of
ours and his cattle runnin' wild as wolves."

"And is my mother well?"

"She is, and at her wits' end to get the house ready for you and your
black servant and parrots and all, the poor lady!"

"Are any of my brothers at home?"

"There's the two young lads your mother sent to the English school to
get the new accent on them but they attacked one of the masters and gave
him a beatin'. So they were expelled and 'tis at home they are till
himself decides what to do with them. And, of course, there's Master
Tim. He's a grand lad, entirely."

Adeline and Patsy chattered on, to Philip's wonder and amusement. He saw
her in a new light against the advancing background of her early life.
The road was so muddy after rain and flood that the wheels were sunk
almost to their axles but Patsy did not appear to mind. He cracked his
whip about the well-groomed flanks of the horses and encouraged them
with a stream of picturesque abuse. Several times women appeared in the
doorways of low thatched cabins at the roadside and, when they saw
Adeline, held up their babies for her inspection, while fowls scratched
and pecked in and out of the cabins. There was an air of careless
well-being about the place, and the children were chubby, though far
from clean. Adeline seemed delighted to see both mothers and babies. She
called out to them and promised to come to visit them later. Apparently
Patsy did not approve of this, for he whipped up his horses and hurried
past.

The fields about were bluish-green like the sea and the grass moved
gently in the breeze. Cattle stood knee-deep in the grass. Adeline was
looking beyond the fields. The roof of her home showed above the trees
of a park where deer grazed. She cried:

"There is the house, Philip! Lord, to think it is nearly five years
since I've seen it! It's more splendid than anything I've set my eyes on
since! Look at it! Isn't it grand, Philip?"

"It's fallin' to pieces," said Patsy, over his shoulder, "and divil a
one to spend a five-pound note on it."

It was indeed a fine old house, though not so fine as Philip had
expected, judging by Adeline's description of it. Though he was no judge
of architecture he could see that several styles had, at different
periods, been added to the original. All were now blended into a
sufficiently mellow whole. But it was not the noble pile she had
described and at a glance he could see signs of dilapidation. Not even
its rich cloak of ivy concealed the crumbling stone-work.

Adeline craned her neck in delight to see every bit of it.

"Oh, Philip," she cried, "isn't it a lovely house?"

"It is indeed."

"Your sister's little house is nothing compared to it."

"Augusta's house was built in the time of Queen Anne."

"Who cares for Queen Anne!" laughed Adeline. "Queen Anne is dead and so
is that stuffy cathedral town. Oh, give me the country! Give me Ireland!
Give me my old home!" Tears rained down her cheeks.

"I'll give you a smack," said Philip, "if you don't control yourself. No
wonder you're thin."

"Oh, why did I marry a phlegmatic Englishman!" she exclaimed. "I
expected you to go into raptures over the place."

"Then you expected me to behave like a fool, which I am not."

They had now stopped before the door and a half-dozen tame deer had
sauntered up to see them alight from the carriage. Adeline declared that
she could recognise each one and that they remembered her.

The footman who opened the door was in handsome livery though it was
rather too tight for him. He greeted Adeline enthusiastically.

"Ah, God bless you, Miss Adeline! It's grand to see ye back. My, 'tis
yourself has got thin in the body! What have they been doing to you out
yonder? And is this lovely gentleman your husband? Welcome, sir, y'r
honour. Come right in. Patsy, look after the luggage o' them and be
quick about it." He turned then and shouted at three dogs which had
begun to bark.

Philip felt suddenly self-conscious. He did not quite know how to meet
his wife's family. All she had told him of them made them seem less,
rather than more, real. He was prepared not to like them, to find them
critical of him, yet the tall gentleman who now came quickly down the
stairway held out his hand with a genial smile.

"How d'ye do, Captain Whiteoak," he said, taking Philip's fingers in a
thin muscular grasp. "Welcome to Ireland. I'm very glad to see you, sir.
I apologise for not going to the station myself but I had a wearisome
business at the Courthouse that must be attended to.... And now, my
girl, let's have a look at you!"

He took Adeline in his arms and kissed her. Philip then had a good look
at him.

Adeline had spoken of her father, Renny Court, as a fine figure of a
man, but to Philip's mind his back was too thin and certainly not flat
enough at the shoulders, and his legs were not quite straight. It was
amusing to see how Adeline's lovely features had been modelled on this
man's bony aquiline face. And his hair must once have been auburn too,
for there was a rusty tinge across the grey of his head. Certainly his
eyes were hers.

Philip became conscious that others had come into the hall, a woman
somewhat beyond middle-age and three youths.

"Oh, Mother, here I am!" Adeline turned from her father and flung her
arms about her mother.

Philip was formally introduced. Lady Honoria Court still retained beauty
of a Spanish type which had been handed down in her family since the
days of the Armada when a Spanish don had remained to marry an
ancestress. Lady Honoria was a daughter of the old Marquis of
Killiekeggan who, with the famous Marquis of Waterford, had raised the
sport of steeplechasing from a not very respectable one to its present
eminence.

One of the dogs, an Irish staghound, raised itself on its hind legs
against the ayah, in order to look into Gussie's face. Both nurse and
child shrieked in terror. Renny Court ran across the hall, caught the
hound by its heavily studded collar and dragging it away, cuffed it.

"Did you ever see such a dog!" cried Lady Honoria. "He does so love
children! What a sweet baby! We have a man in the town who takes the
loveliest daguerreotypes. You must have one made of her while you are
here, Adeline."

Lady Honoria laughed a good deal. Unfortunately she had lost a front
tooth and each time she laughed she hastily put a forefinger across her
lips to hide the gap. She had beautiful hands which Adeline had
inherited, and her laughter rang out with contagious mirth. Philip,
before he had been two days in the house, decided that she feared her
husband's temper but that she circumvented and thwarted him many a time.
She had an air of triumph when she achieved this, and he a wary look, as
though waiting his turn to retaliate. Often they did not speak to each
other for days at a time but each had a keen sense of humour, each found
the other an amusing person and their sulks were often broken in upon by
sudden laughter from which they recovered themselves with chagrin. Lady
Honoria had had eleven children, four of whom had died in early infancy,
but she was still quick and graceful in her movements and looked capable
of adding to her family.

Adeline was embracing each of her three young brothers in turn. She led
them to Philip, her face flushed, her eyes brilliant in her excitement
at being home again. Her bonnet had fallen back and her auburn hair rose
in curls above her forehead.

"Here they are," she cried, "the three youngest boys! Conway, Sholto and
Timothy--come and shake hands with your new brother!"

The three offered their hands to Philip, the first two sheepishly, the
third with an air almost too bright. Philip decided that there was
something queer about him. There was a remarkable resemblance among the
three. Their hair was a pale red, their eyes greenish, their faces long
and pointed, their noses remarkably well-shaped with slender
supercilious nostrils. The eldest, Conway, tormented Philip by his
resemblance to someone he had met, till he discovered that he was the
image of the Knave of Diamonds, in his favourite pack of playing-cards.

"Look at them!" exclaimed Renny Court, with a scornful flourish of his
hand toward the two elder boys. "'Tis a shameful pair they are, I can
tell you. They've disgraced me by being sent home from their English
school for attacking one of the masters. I knocked their heads together
for it but here they are on my hands and God knows what I shall do with
them! Put them to work in the stables--or in the fields--'tis all
they're fit for! I must tell you that I have two other sons and fine
fellows, too. But my wife would have done well to halt before she had
these!"

Conway and Sholto grinned with a hangdog air but young Timothy threw his
arms about Adeline and hugged her again.

"Oh, it's grand to have you home again," he said. "I've been saving up
things to tell you but now they've gone right out of my head and I can
only be glad."

"You have nothing to tell but mischief," said his father, "and devilment
and slyness from morning to night. You have one child, Captain Whiteoak.
Stop there and have no more! For it's children that are bringing my red
hairs in sorrow to the grave."

Lady Honoria interrupted him with solicitude for the travellers. She
herself led them to the rooms which had been prepared for them. They
bathed and changed their travel-worn garments and descended to the
drawing-room.

A married son who lived at some distance arrived in time for dinner. He
was a dark, handsome young man and rode a horse he had purchased that
very day and intended entering for the Dublin Races. Everyone crowded
out to see the new horse and was delighted by its appearance. This son
was evidently Renny Court's favourite of the moment. He could not make
enough of him and praised his skill as a rider and perspicacity as a
buyer.

There was a certain grandeur in the dining-room and dinner was served by
two footmen in livery. The food and the wine were good and, as the meal
progressed, Philip felt more at ease with his new relatives. They talked
and laughed a great deal. Even the two youths forgot their position of
disgrace and raised their voices excitedly. But when their father would
cast a piercing look on them they would instantly subside and for a few
moments be silent. An old gentleman named Mr. O'Regan appeared at table,
spoke little but drank a good deal. Adeline told Philip afterward that
he was an old friend of the family who had once lent a large sum of
money to them and, as it was impossible to collect the debt, had come to
live with them. Mr. O'Regan wore a glum yet rather calculating
expression, as though he watched with morbid interest the decrease, year
by year, of Renny Court's debt to him. Renny Court, on his part, treated
his guest with a kind of grim jocularity, pressed him to eat and drink
more and enquired solicitously after his health. Mr. O'Regan seemed to
resent this and would give no more definite answer than,--"Oh, I'm well
enough. I think I'll last----" Though till what, he did not explain.

Renny Court was no absentee landlord, living in England on the rents
from a neglected tenantry. He employed no callous bailiff, but himself
attended to the business of his estate and knew every man, woman and
child on it.

The Whiteoaks' visit there passed amiably with the exception of a few
fiery encounters between Adeline and her father. In truth, they could
not be together for long without their wills opposing. She was the only
one of his children who did not fear him. Yet she loved him less than
did the others. It was to her mother she clung and from whom she dreaded
to part. Lady Honoria could not talk of the departure for Canada without
weeping. As for Renny Court, he poured out his full contempt on the
project.

"What a life for a gentleman!" he would exclaim. "What will you find out
there? Nothing but privation and discomfort! What a place for a fine
girl like Adeline!"

"I'm willing to go," she interrupted. "I think it will be glorious."

"What do you know about it?"

"More than you, I'll be bound," she retorted. "Philip has had letters
from his uncle describing the life in Quebec and he knows a Colonel
Vaughan who lives in Ontario and loves it!"

"Lives in Ontario and loves it!" repeated her father, fixing her with
his intense gaze. "And has Colonel Vaughan of Ontario told Philip what
the roads are like there? Has he told him of the snakes and mosquitoes
and the wild animals thirsting for your blood? Why, I know a man who
stopped in one of the best hotels there and there was a mud puddle in
it, and a frog croaking all the night through by a corner of his bed.
And this man's wife was so frightened that the next child she had had a
face like a frog on it! Now what do you think of that, Adeline?" He
grinned triumphantly at her.

"I think if it's Mr. McCready you're quoting," she retorted, "his wife
had no need to go all the way to Ontario to have a frog-faced child. For
Mr. McCready himself----"

"Was as fine a figure of a man as there was in all County Meath!"

"Father, I say he had the face of a frog!"

Philip put in: "Adeline and I are bound for the New World, sir, and no
argument will talk us out of it. As you know, my uncle left me a very
nice property in Quebec. I must go out there to look after it and, if
what he said was true, there is a very respectable society in the town.
And, in the country about, the finest shooting and fishing you can
imagine."

"You will be back within the year," declared Renny Court.

"We shall see," answered Philip stubbornly. His blue eyes became more
prominent as he flashed a somewhat truculent look at his father-in-law.

The two boys, Conway and Sholto, were fired by a desire to accompany the
Whiteoaks to Canada. The thought of a wild life in a new country, far
from parental authority, elated them. They could talk of little else.
They would cling to Adeline on her either side and beg her to let them
throw in their lot with hers. On her part, she liked the idea. Canada
would not seem so remote if she had two of her brothers with her. Their
mother surprisingly did not oppose the idea. She had borne so much
dissension because of these two that the thought of parting with them
did not distress her greatly. They promised to return home within the
year. Renny Court was willing enough to be rid of the nuisance of them.
Philip did not relish the idea of such a responsibility but to please
Adeline he agreed. He felt himself capable of controlling Conway and
Sholto much more efficiently than their parents could. He thought, with
a certain grim pleasure, of the discipline that would make men of them.

Even little Timothy talked of emigrating to the New World but this could
not be considered. Timothy spoke with a strong Irish accent, from being
so much with his old nurse who had brought him up from delicate
babyhood. He had a beautiful yet strange face and was demonstratively
affectionate to an extent that embarrassed Philip. A stern word from his
father would apparently terrify him, yet the very next moment he would
be laughing. His hair was sandy--he was freckled and had beautiful hands
which Philip discovered were decidedly light-fingered. He missed his
gold studs, he missed his best silk cravats, his pistols inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, his gold penknife. Each of these articles was in turn
retrieved from Timothy's bedroom by Adeline. She made light of it. She
declared that Tim could not help it but it made Philip angry and
uncomfortable.

In truth, the longer he stayed with Adeline's family the less congenial
they were to him, with the one exception of Lady Honoria. He felt that
Renny Court, for all his devotion to his land and his tenantry,
mismanaged them both. Far too much money and time were spent on
steeplechasing. As for politics, they hardly dare broach the subject, so
violently were their views opposed. But Renny Court would encourage Mr.
O'Regan to hold forth on the theme of British injustice to Ireland.
Philip was unable to defend his country because the old gentleman was
too arrogant and also too deaf to listen to any views but his own. He
would sit close to the blazing fire, his florid face rising above his
high black stock like an angry sun above a thunder-cloud, while words
poured forth in a torrent.

What with one thing and another the atmosphere became too tense to be
borne. Philip and Adeline accepted an invitation to pay a short visit to
Corrigan Court, a cousin who lived ten miles away. They rode over there
one fine spring morning, leaving Augusta, her ayah and Bonaparte in the
care of Lady Honoria. Renny Court accompanied them on a skittish grey
mare who danced her way over the muddy roads and did her best to induce
misbehaviour in the other horses.

A long driveway flanked by a double row of linden trees led to the
cousins' house, rather an imposing place with an ivy-covered turret at
either end. Its many windows glittered in the spring sunshine. Corrigan
Court and his wife were waiting on the terrace to greet them. The pair
were cousins but bore no resemblance to each other, he being dark with
arched brows and a languid supercilious air; she ruddy, fair and full of
energy. They had been married some years but still were childless. They
hoped for a son. Bridget Court embraced Adeline warmly when she alighted
from her horse.

"Bless you, dear Adeline, how glad I am to see you!" she exclaimed. "And
your husband! What a perfectly matched pair you are! Welcome--many times
welcome."

"Ah, Biddy Court, 'tis good to see you." Adeline warmly returned the
embrace, but Philip had a feeling that no love was lost between them.

A thousand questions were asked about their voyage and their plans for
going to Canada. Renny Court took the opportunity to disparage the
enterprise.

At dinner that night another guest appeared--old Lord Killiekeggan,
Adeline's grandfather. He was a handsome old man and it amused Philip to
see Adeline standing between him and her father, bearing a likeness to
each. But she had chosen all their best points. How lovely she was,
Philip thought, in her yellow satin dinner gown! No other woman could
compare with her.

The conversation hinged on steeplechasing, on which subject the old
Marquis and his son-in-law were in perfect accord. Neither of them took
any interest in the Army nor did Corrigan Court who held himself
somewhat aloof, as though he existed on a more intellectual plane. The
gentlemen remained in the dining-room and drank a good deal, for the
port was excellent. On the way to the drawing-room with her hostess,
Adeline stopped in amazement before a picture that hung against the dark
panelling of the hall. The other paintings were of men in hunting
clothes, velvet court dress or in armour. But this portrait was of a
little girl of eight, her flower-like face set off by a wreath of auburn
hair. Adeline exclaimed, in a loud voice:

"Why, it's me! And what am I doing here, I should like to know, Biddy
Court!"

Biddy Court hesitated, looking uncomfortable. Then she said:

"It's Corry's. Your father owed him money and he gave him the portrait
in payment. Not that it covered the debt--far from it! Come along,
Adeline, do! It's dreadfully draughty here."

But Adeline stood transfixed. She snatched up a lighted candle that
stood on the top of a chest and held it so that its beams lighted the
little face.

"How beautiful I was!" she cried. "Oh, the beautiful face of me! Oh, the
shame to my father that he should have given such a treasure to Corry
Court! It's enough to make me cry my eyes out!" She turned furiously to
her cousin. "What was the debt?"

"I don't know," returned Bridget, "except that it was double what the
portrait is worth."

"Then it must be a fortune indeed, for the portrait was painted by one
of the greatest artists living!"

"You are welcome to the picture," said Bridget, "if only you will pay
the debt."

"I'll pay no debts but my own! But, oh, I do so want this picture!
'Twill be a lovely thing to take out to Canada and hang beside my new
portrait--the one I've told you of."

"I suppose you'll go on having portraits of yourself painted till you're
a hundred! Ah, I wish I could see that _last_ one! It's a raving beauty
you'll be _then_, Adeline."

"I shall be on the face of the earth, which is more than you will be!"

Still carrying the lighted candle she flew back along the hall and flung
open the door of the dining-room. The four men were talking in quiet
tones, the firelight throwing a peaceful glow about them, the candles
burning low. The decanter of port in the hand of Lord Killiekeggan
trembled a little as he replenished his glass.

"Oh, but it's a queer father you are!" cried Adeline, fixing her eyes on
Renny Court. "To give away the portrait of your own child for a paltry
debt, not worth the gilt frame on it! There I was, walking down the hall
in my innocence, when suddenly I spied it hanging on the wall and it all
but cried out in its shame at being there. The candle all but fell out
of my hand in my shame. Oh, well do I remember when my mother took me to
Dublin to have it painted and the way the great artist gave me flowers
and sweets to amuse me and the sweet little coral necklace that my
grandmother gave me! Oh, Grandpapa, did you know that my father had done
such a thing?"

"Is the girl mad?" asked Killiekeggan, turning to his son-in-law.

"No, no--just in a temper." He spoke sternly to Adeline. "Come
now--enough of this! The picture is not worth this to-do."

"Not worth it!" she cried. "'Tis little you know of its value! Why, when
I told the London artist the name of the great man who had painted me in
childhood, he said he would gladly journey all the way to County Meath
to gaze on the portrait!"

Corrigan Court asked abruptly, "And what was the name of the great
artist, Adeline?"

Her lips fell apart. She stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment. She
pressed her fingers to her brows and thought and then said sadly,
"You've knocked it right out of my head, Corry. It was there just a
moment ago." Her face lighted and she turned to Philip. "I've said his
name to you many a time, haven't I, Philip?"

"You have," said Philip stoutly. "Many a time."

"And you've forgotten it too?" said Corrigan.

"Yes. It has just slipped my memory." He had been drinking a good deal.
His fair face was flushed.

"One glance at the portrait," said Adeline, "even from a distance, and
the name will come to me." She turned back into the hall. The four men
rose and followed her, the old Marquis carrying his glass in his hand.
At about ten paces from the picture she halted and strained her eyes
toward its lower corner. She had wonderful eyesight. "I could not
possibly read the name from here, could I?" she asked.

"No," returned Corrigan. "And if you put your very nose against the
picture you won't see any signature, for either the artist did not
consider it worth the trouble of signing or he was ashamed of his name."

She all but threw the candlestick at his head. "You've painted the name
out yourself, Corry Court," she cried, "you've painted it out so as to
conceal its great worth! You knew that if some connoisseur saw it he
would tell my father of the evil bargain you made!"

Renny Court threw a suspicious look at his cousin Corrigan. He then took
the candle from Adeline's hand and holding it close to the portrait,
scrutinised the two lower corners. "It's a queer little blob there is
here," he said.

"Yes," cried Adeline, "that's just where the signature was! It was
signed with a sweet little flourish. Oh, the name will come back to me
in a moment!"

"It was never signed," said Corry Court. "And you know it was never
signed. It's a pretty picture and I've always liked it and, when your
father offered it to me, I took it. I well knew it was all I was likely
to get for the debt."

"Oh, Father, how could you?" said Adeline, tears shining in her eyes.
"There's nothing I want so much as this picture. And I was going to beg
it from you as another wee wedding present, for you acknowledged
yourself, in a letter you wrote me to India, that it was not much you'd
been able to give me in the way of a present."

"Not much!" cried Renny Court. "Why, I'm still in debt for your
trousseau! If you want this picture so badly--you have the money your
great-aunt left you--buy it!"

"I'll not part with it," said Corry.

Adeline turned to him with a charming smile.

"You still love me, Corry dear, don't you?"

They exchanged a look. Corrigan flushed red. Adeline gazed at him with
affectionate pity.

"You may keep the picture, Corry dear," she said. "I shall love to think
of it here--reminding you and Biddy of me."

"I am not likely to forget you," said Bridget grimly. "Wherever you are,
you make trouble."

"Tut, tut, girls," put in Lord Killiekeggan. "Don't quarrel. Don't spoil
your pretty faces with frowns."

Bridget knew she was not pretty but his words pleased her. She arched
her neck and looked challengingly at Adeline. "Well," she said, "shall
we go into the drawing-room?"

Adeline caught her grandfather by the arm.

"Don't leave me alone with Bridget!" she implored. "I'm afraid of her."

"Behave yourself," he said, and gave her hand a little slap, but he
allowed himself to be led into the drawing-room.

Corry was not loath to save his old port, of which quite enough had been
already drunk. He was a little downcast at the prospect of the quarrel
which he knew he would have later with his wife.

Philip was in a state of bland serenity. He seated himself in a
comfortable chair and accepted a pinch of snuff from the jewelled box
the old Marquis proffered him. Adeline spread out the glimmering
flounces of her crinoline and eyed her grandfather beguilingly.

"What a sweet box!" she said.

Well, she was his loveliest granddaughter and she was going far away. He
put the snuff-box into her hand.

"Take it," he said, "and when an Indian chief offers you the pipe of
peace you can give him a pinch of snuff in exchange."

No one could have been more charming and self-forgetful than Adeline
during the rest of the visit. But there was tension between her and
Bridget. They were quite ready to part when the last morning came. The
wagonette waited at the door for Adeline's trunks, for she went nowhere
without a quantity of luggage. She stood in the hall, tall and slender,
in a dark-green riding-habit, her hair plaited neatly beneath the small
hat from which a dark feather drooped against the creamy whiteness of
her cheek. Her red lips were parted in a blandishing smile.

"Ah, what a beautiful visit I've had!" she cried, embracing Bridget.
"Ah, thank you, dear cousin, for all you've done! When Philip and I are
settled in our new home you and Corry must come and spend a year with
us, for indeed 'twould take a year to repay you for all you've done for
us!"

Bridget was shorter than Adeline. Her eyes could barely look over the
top of Adeline's shoulder as they embraced. Her eyes, protruding a
little because of the fervent embrace she was receiving, stared at the
panelling on which a vacant space by degrees claimed her attention. Her
eyes widened still more as her brain took in the fact that the childish
portrait of Adeline was missing from the wall. It seemed too bad to be
true! With a cry that was almost a scream, Bridget struggled in that
strong embrace. Adeline held her close. In fact, feeling the tempest
that was surging through Bridget, Adeline held her closer.

"Let me go," screamed Bridget in a fury. "Let me go!"

The men stared at the two in consternation. With Bridget's great
crinoline vibrating about them, their bosoms pressed together, their
arms clutching each other, they were a troubling sight.

"What in God's name is the matter?" demanded Renny Court.

"He has given her the picture!"

"What picture?"

"The portrait of Adeline! Corry has given it her. It's gone!"

Everyone now looked at the wall. Corrigan turned pale. "I have done no
such thing," he declared. "If it's gone, she took it."

Adeline was driven to release Bridget who now faced her in fierce
accusation.

"You have taken it!" she said. "It is in one of your boxes. Peter!" she
called out to a man-servant, "unload the boxes from the wagonette."

"Let them be," said Adeline. She turned calmly to her cousins. "I did
take the picture," she said, "but I only took what was my own, so let's
have no more fuss about it."

Peter stood, holding a trunk in his arms, not knowing whether to put it
down or put it up. His sandy side-whiskers bristled in excitement.

"Now, look here," said Philip, "I'm willing to buy the picture if
Adeline wants it so badly."

"And I'm willing to sell," said Corrigan.

"But I am not!" cried his wife. "I demand to have those boxes unpacked
and the picture back on the wall!" She ran down the steps and took one
end of the trunk which Peter was still holding, and tugged at the strap
that bound it.

Adeline flew after her. They struggled over the trunk. Adeline was the
stronger but Bridget was in an abandon of rage. She stretched out her
hand and taking hold of one of Adeline's smooth plaits, pulled it loose.

"Now, now, don't do that!" exclaimed Philip, in his turn running down
the steps. "I won't have it." Never in his life had he been involved in
such a scene as this. He caught Bridget's wrist and held it while with
the other hand he tried to make Adeline let go of the trunk.

Renny Court looked on, laughing.

"Kindly restrain your wife," said Philip to Corrigan.

"Don't you lay a finger on me, Corry Court!" cried Bridget. He moved
warily between her and Adeline.

Philip spoke sternly to Adeline. "We'll have no more of this. Tell me
which box the picture is in."

With a trembling finger she pointed to the box which Peter held.

"Put it down," said Philip to the man. He did so. Philip opened it and
there on the top lay the picture! He took it out and handed it to
Corrigan. The child face looked out of the frame in innocent surprise.
Corrigan looked from it to Adeline and back again. His expression was
one of profound gloom.

Renny Court directed a piercing glance into the trunk.

"Did you ever see such extravagance!" he exclaimed. "Is it any wonder
she left me bankrupt? Look at the gold toilet articles--the sable cloak!
And there is my father-in-law's snuff-box! By the Lord Harry, she's got
that too!"

"He gave it her," said Philip tersely. With a set face he put down the
lid of the trunk and buckled the strap. He turned to Adeline who stood
like a statue looking on, one hand grasping her riding-crop.

"Come," he said. "Make your good-byes. You did wrong to take the picture
but I must say that I think Mrs. Court has treated you very badly."

"Good-bye, Corry," said Adeline, tears running out of her eyes, "and God
comfort you in your marriage, for your wife is a vixen--if ever there
was one!" With a graceful movement she turned to her horse. Philip
lifted her to her saddle. Her father sprang to his. Embarrassed
good-byes were exchanged. Then Adeline turned for a last look at
Bridget.

"Good-bye, Biddy Court!" she called out. "And may you live to be sorry
for the way you've used me! Bad luck to you, Biddy! May the north wind
blow you south, and the east wind blow you west till you come at last to
the place where you belong!" She gave a flourish of her crop and
galloped off, one long auburn plait flying over her shoulder.

Old Peter, rattling behind with the luggage, exclaimed:

"Ah, 'twas a quare dirty trick to do to her, and she as innocent as she
was the day the pictur was painted!"

That was not the last of their visits. They went to the house of
Adeline's married brother. They stayed with the old Marquis himself but
nothing they saw or did weakened their desire for the New World. There
was in them both an adventurous pioneer spirit that laughed at
discouragement, that reached out toward a freer life.

The day came when all preparations were complete for their sailing
westward.

Philip had taken passage on a sailing vessel because he believed it
would be quicker and cleaner than the steamship. Adeline's parents and
little Timothy were to come to the port to see them off.

Patsy O'Flynn, the coachman, had made up his mind to accompany Adeline
to Canada. He was unmarried. He had spent his life in one small spot.
Now he was out for adventure. Also something chivalrous in him urged him
to add another protector to her train, for he scarcely looked on her two
young brothers as protectors. But he was convinced that they were going
to an uncivilised country where wild animals and Indians prowled close
to every settlement.

Patsy made an extraordinary figure as he stood waiting on the dock.
Though the morning was mild and fair he wore a heavy top-coat, for he
thought that was the best way to carry it. Other bundles, from a huge
one sewn up in canvas to a small one tied in a red handkerchief, were
mounded upon his shoulders. His small humorous face peered out with a
pleased and knowing expression, as though he alone, of all the
passengers, knew just what difficulties lay ahead and how to deal with
them.

In one hand he carried a heavy blackthorn stick, polished and
formidable-looking. From the other hung the parrot's cage, in which the
bright-coloured occupant disported himself from perch to perch, or hung
head downward from the ceiling and flapped his wings in a transport of
excitement. Boney had not forgotten the voyage from India. The sight of
the sea and the ship exhilarated him almost beyond bearing. At times he
poured forth a stream of Hindu. At others he uttered a succession of
piercing cries. Never was he still. He attracted a crowd of ragged,
dirty children who screamed when he screamed, and jumped up and down in
their excitement. When these pressed too close, Patsy would flourish his
blackthorn at them and drive them off, shouting at them in Gaelic.

The ayah had taken a fancy to Patsy. To her he seemed a macabre being
but somewhat benevolent. She stood close beside him, her draperies
blowing gracefully in the breeze, her infant charge in her arms. The
stay in Ireland had done little Augusta good. Her cheeks had filled out
and she was less pale. Her hair had grown long enough to make a silky
black curl on her forehead beneath the brim of her lace bonnet. She sat
on the ayah's arm, gazing in wonder at the scene but, when her eyes
rested on Patsy, she would show her white teeth in a smile of delight.
She had had the milk from one goat during her stay in Ireland and the
goat had been given her to take to Canada, so that no change of milk
might upset her digestion. The goat, held on a halter by a shock-headed
boy, stood immobile, regarding with equanimity, even with cynicism, what
was going on. It had been named Maggie. Lady Honoria had tied a small
bell to its neck and the vicissitudes of the voyage were accented by its
silvery tinkle.

Augusta's young uncles had been carefully outfitted for the new life by
their mother. But to Philip's mind their clothes looked too picturesque,
their hair too long, their hands too white. Conway especially--he was
the one who reminded Philip of the Knave of Diamonds--looked too
exquisite. They were here, there and everywhere, giving facetious orders
to the sailors who were carrying aboard the crates of hens, geese and
ducks, prodding forward the pigs, dragging the sheep and the cows.

A group of poor emigrants were guarding their luggage, clinging
tearfully to those last moments with their kinsfolk who had come to see
them off. A priest was among them, doing his best to keep up their
spirits, sweeping the heavens with his large grey eyes and prophesying a
fair voyage. He was there to put two young nieces aboard who were going
out to a brother, and he could not look at them without his eyes running
over.

Adeline wore a long green cloak with wide sleeves edged with fur. She
stood facing the sea, drinking in the joyful breeze that struck the
white sails of the ship as a dancer might strike a tambourine. The
shimmering sea lay before her and beyond--that young continent where she
and Philip were to make their home. She wished they two were going on
the ship alone. She drew away from the weeping people about her and,
slipping her hand into Philip's, pressed his fingers. He looked into her
eyes.

"Sure you haven't left anything behind?" he asked.

"Nothing. Not even my heart!"

"Well, that's sensible of you. For, if you had, I should have been
forced to go back for it."

The priest shortly came up to her.

"Pardon me, my lady," he said. He had heard Adeline's mother so
addressed and thought it proper to use the title to her.

"Yes?" she answered, not ill-pleased.

"I am going to ask you a favour," he said. "I have two young nieces
sailing on the ship, and a terrible long and risky voyage it is for
thim. Would you be so kind as to give thim a word of encouragement if
they are ill or in throuble? If I could carry such a message to their
poor mother, sure, 'twould dry the sorrowing eyes of her! D'ye think you
could?"

"Indeed I will," said Adeline. "And, if you will give me your address,
I'll write and tell you about the voyage and how your nieces fare."

The priest wrote his address on a somewhat crumpled bit of paper and,
full of gratitude, returned to the admonishing of the two rosy-cheeked,
black-haired girls whose young bosoms seemed swelling with exuberance.

The confusion was apparently hopeless. The cries of the animals and
fowls, the shoutings, bangings and thumpings as the sailors carried the
luggage aboard, the orders of their officers which no one seemed to
obey, the wailing and circling of sea-gulls, the screams of excited
urchins, the flutterings and flappings of the great sails of the ship,
were woven into a fantastic tapestry of farewell which would hang for
ever on the walls of memory.

The moment came. Adeline had dreaded it but now that it had arrived she
was almost past feeling. She wished her mother's face was not wet with
tears. It was a pity to remember her that way. "Oh, Mother dear, I'll be
back! So shall we all! I'll take good care of the boys. Good-bye!
Good-bye, Father! Be sure to write. Good-bye.... Good-bye...." She
was enfolded in their embraces. Her body pressed against the body that
had carried her before birth, against the body that had made that birth
possible. She felt as though she were being physically torn; then Philip
put his arm about her and led her weeping to the ship.




                                  III
                            THE FIRST VOYAGE


THE barque _Alanna_ had formerly been an East Indiaman. She was bound
for Quebec and would return laden with white pine. The Captain was a
thick-set Yorkshireman, named Bradley; the first officer a tall lean
Scot, with an enormous mouth, named Grigg. There were few cabin
passengers and the Whiteoaks held themselves a little aloof, for the
voyage would be long and there was the possibility of being thrown too
intimately into uncongenial company. Indeed, Philip and Adeline had been
so surrounded by relatives since their arrival from India that they
longed to be alone together. They made themselves as comfortable as
possible in the cramped space of their cabin. Philip arranged their
possessions in the most shipshape order. Adeline, wrapped in rugs,
settled herself in a sheltered corner on deck to read the much discussed
_Pendennis_. Augusta and her ayah were established near by, the tiny
girl clasping her first doll, an elegantly dressed wax creature,
extremely corseted and wearing a dress and bonnet of plaid taffeta.
Conway and Sholto were exploring the ship, and Patsy and the goat making
themselves as comfortable as they could in their far-from-comfortable
quarters. Ireland lay, a hazy blue hump, on the pale horizon. There was
a head wind and the ship made but slow progress, though her great sails
strained at the masts and a living soul seemed demonstrating its will to
move westward. The gulls followed the ship a long way out from Ireland.
They lingered with her, as though waiting for messages to carry home.

Besides the Whiteoaks' party there were fewer than a dozen passengers in
the Cabin Class. Of these they became friendly with only five. There
were two Irish gentlemen, well educated but with a rich brogue, named
D'Arcy and Brent. They were travelling for pleasure and were to make an
extensive tour of the United States. There was a Mrs. Cameron from
Montreal who had with her a delicate daughter of fifteen. The two had
journeyed all the way to China to join the child's father who had
previously been sent there to take an important post concerned with the
trade between the two countries. But when they had arrived they had
found that a plague of cholera had carried him off. Now they were
retracing the long weary way to Montreal. Mrs. Cameron and little Mary
would sit huddled together wrapped in one shawl, gazing into the distant
horizon, as though in their hearts they held no hope that their
journeyings would ever end but that they would go on from ship to ship,
from sea to sea, till the Day of Judgment. The young girl had indeed
acquired a strange sea-born look, as Adeline described it. Her cloak and
hat were faded to the greyness of winter waves; her hair hung like lank
yellowish seaweed about her shoulders; her wide-open light eyes had an
unseeing look; her face and hands were deeply tanned. Only her mouth had
colour and between her lips which were always parted her small
pearl-like teeth showed. Her mother had degenerated, by sorrow and
exhaustion, into little more than an element for the protection of Mary.

"Why doesn't she do something to make the child happy, instead of
brooding over her like a distracted hen!" exclaimed Adeline, on the
second day out. "Really, Philip, I am excessively annoyed at that woman!
I shall tell my brothers to make friends with Mary. It's unnatural for a
young girl to look like that!"

She did so. However, days passed before the boys were able to persuade
Mary to leave her mother's side. Mrs. Cameron, indeed, was unwilling to
let her child out of her sight. She looked worried rather than pleased
when finally Mary went for a promenade along the sloping deck, supported
on either side by Conway and Sholto. They made an extraordinary trio,
the boys in their elegant new clothes, the girl travel-stained; the boys
bright-eyed, alert to everything that passed about them, the girl
seeming in a kind of dream; the boys continually chaffing, she looking
from one face to the other, scarcely seeming to take in what they said.

The remaining passenger with whom the Whiteoaks became friendly was an
Englishman, a Mr. Wilmott who like themselves was going out to settle in
Canada. He was a tall thin man with sharp but well-cut features and
short brown whiskers. He was reserved concerning himself but a fluent
talker when politics were under discussion. He and the two Irishmen soon
provided entertainment for the rest, for they argued without open
rancour. Mr. Wilmott was ironic, with flashes of wit, the Irishmen
humorous and ever ready with the most violent exaggerations. Philip had
been so long out of England that he felt unequal to political
discussion. Also, in any such argument concerning their two countries,
he would have had Adeline as his opponent, and the thought of this was
distasteful to him.

Adeline's mind was occupied by her desire to bring Mr. Wilmott and Mrs.
Cameron together. Here they were, two lonely people (Mr. Wilmott
certainly wore a sombre look at times) who would do well to link their
lives together. And what a protector, what a father he would make for
little Mary! She felt that Mrs. Cameron was melancholy, rather than
heart-broken, over the loss of her husband. She was wrapped up in her
child. How could a woman be mother before mate, Adeline wondered, as her
eyes drank in Philip's strength and beauty. Not she--not she! Her man
would always come first. She despised the too maternal woman.

So a new world was created on board the _Alanna_, very different from
the world on board the ship that had brought them from India. This was a
much smaller, closer world, more cut off from the old life. The last
voyage had been a voyage homeward. This was one into what was new and
unknown. The last had been a linking-up; this was a cutting-off. Adeline
was conscious of an odd detachment, an exhilaration, as though she were
adventuring into a spiritual as well as a material distance.

For a week they pressed forward in fair weather. Then the head wind
increased in strength and the ship struggled on against it and against
the rising green waves that crashed on her bow, enveloping her in spray.
It was no longer possible to stay on deck. They must spend the long
hours below where there was not only the close air but the smells and
noises from the steerage to be endured. The ayah became sea-sick and
Adeline had the care of the baby on her hands. Mrs. Cameron and Mary
adored little Augusta and took a large share of her care. But at night
she was restless and Adeline and Philip did not get their proper sleep.

They were going to their berths early one stormy night when there was a
thumping on the door and Conway's voice called out:

"Philip! There's a leak sprung!"

"What?" shouted Philip, staying the unbuttoning of his waistcoat.

"She has sprung a plank! She's leaking!"

Then there came the heavy tramping of feet overhead and the shouts of
officers.

Adeline turned pale. She had the quietly whimpering baby in her arms.

"Will the ship sink?" she asked.

"Certainly not! Don't be alarmed," said Philip. He threw open the door.

Conway stood there supporting himself by the brass railing which ran
along the passage. He wore a bright-coloured dressing-gown and, even in
the excitement of the moment, Philip noticed how it heightened his
resemblance to the Knave of Diamonds. With the door open, the noise of
tramping feet and vehement shoutings, the roar of the steadily rising
squall, the thunder and rattle of canvas and tackle, were increased. The
sails were being lowered.

"They're lowering the sails!" shouted Conway, but his voice came as no
more than a whisper. "It's blowing a terrible gale."

His brother stood close behind him, clinging to the railing. He looked
green with sea-sickness. Adeline said to him:

"Come in and lie down in my berth, Sholto. You must keep the baby while
we go to see the Captain."

The boy obediently stumbled into the cabin and threw himself on to the
berth.

"Oh, I'm so ill!" he moaned.

Adeline placed the baby beside him.

"You are not to come, Adeline," Philip shouted.

Her eyes flashed rebellion. She gripped his arm in her hands. "I will
come!" she shouted back.

The vessel gave a heave that sent them all staggering into one corner of
the cabin. Mrs. Cameron now appeared in the doorway. She had a shawl
wrapped about her head and she was holding Mary closely to her, as
though determined not to be parted from her at the moment of sinking.
But she spoke calmly.

"What is wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing but a leak, ma'am. We are going to see the Captain." Philip's
tone, his very presence, were reassuring.

"We will go, too." They saw the words on her lips though they could not
hear them.

Clinging to the rail and to each other, Philip and Adeline gained the
companion-way. They found the Captain and the first officer supervising
the lowering of the sails. The great canvas thundered deckward as if in
terrifying capitulation. The stark masts looked suddenly fragile and the
ship vulnerable. The wind blew with terrific force and green walls of
water reared themselves, then came crashing against the side of the
rolling ship. The heaving mass of the waters was palely illumined by a
cloud-bound moon that only now and again really showed herself. Adeline
had seen storms at sea before this and they were tropical storms, but
the ship had been larger, the company more numerous. There was a
loneliness about this storm. The little group of people seemed helpless,
the wind was piercingly cold. However, the Captain spoke with
equanimity.

"It's nothing but a squall," he said in his hearty Yorkshire accent.
"I've been round the Cape many times myself and this is naught but a
puff of wind. So you'd best go back to your berths, ladies, and not
worry."

Above the noise of the storm came confused shoutings and tramping from
the companion-way. The steerage passengers were pouring up from below.
They looked wild-eyed, rough and terrified.

Captain Bradley strode over to them.

"What does this mean?" he demanded.

The second mate shouted back, "I couldn't keep them down there, sir! The
water's pouring in below."

The Captain looked grim. He pressed his way through the crowd, ordering
them to descend with him, which they did in great confusion.

Adeline heard him shout, "All hands to the pumps!"

Philip was patting her on the back. He was smiling at her. She smiled
bravely back. He raised his voice and said, "The squall is passing.
Everything will be all right."

"Take Mrs. Cameron's arm," she said. "She looks ready to drop."

Mary Cameron had left her mother's side. Conway Court had his arms about
her. Neither of them looked frightened but wore expressions of pale
hilarity. Philip helped Mrs. Cameron back to her cabin. The wind was
falling. Yet the sea was still heavy with great thundering waves and the
wind still fierce enough to fill the storm-sails, to which the ship had
been stripped, to bursting point. In the welter of the waves the
_Alanna_ lay almost on her beam-ends. Now a rainstorm advanced like a
wall, seeming to join with the waves in the effort to drown those
aboard.

But Captain Bradley was not downcast. He went about, ruddy-faced and
cheerfully shouting his orders. The swinging lanterns illumined but
little of the wild scene. Sailors were thrumming sails together and
drawing them under the ship's bow in what seemed a hopeless effort to
stop the leak. Adeline felt that, if she went below, she would be
desperate with fear. Here in the midst of the activity she felt herself
equal to Philip in courage. She drew Mary Cameron and Conway to her side
and the three linked themselves, awaiting Philip's return.

"I gave her some brandy," he said as he came up. "She needed it, poor
lady, for she is half-dead with cold." He turned to the girl. "Shall I
take you down to your mother, Mary?"

"Did she ask for me?" Mary's voice was slightly sulky.

"No. I think she'll sleep. Perhaps you are better with us."

Conway Court gave a shout of laughter. "Mary, Mary, quite contrary----"
he sang. "Sailed away to the Port of Canary!"

Philip frowned at him but Adeline laughed too and Mary gave him an
adoring look. He was a wild figure in his bright-hued dressing-gown,
with his tawny hair blowing in the wind.

Mr. Wilmott came up to them.

"The officers are not alarmed," he said, "but the leak appears to be a
bad one. The four pumps are working like the devil. Mr. D'Arcy and Mr.
Brent are helping to man them and I'm ready to give a hand when I'm
needed."

When morning came there were five feet of water in the hold. The pumps
were working hard and the Captain said he had the situation under
control. A stewardess brought breakfast to Adeline in her cabin. She had
changed into dry things but had not slept. The tiny room was in a state
of disorder, her wet clothing, the belongings of Philip and the baby
scattered promiscuously and depressingly. She felt herself being sucked
down into a vortex of confusion, rather than of fear. But the hot tea,
the bread and bacon, put life into her. She sat on the edge of the berth
and combed out her hair. A pale sunlight filtered in at the porthole.
She noticed the lively beauty of her hair. "It would look like this even
if I were drowning," she thought, half resentfully.

In the silver mirror of her dressing-case she saw how pale her face was.
She bit her lips to bring some colour into them.

"When do you think we shall get to Newfoundland?" she asked the Scotch
stewardess.

"Oh, we'll get there right enough."

"How far are we from Ireland?"

"Perhaps six hundred miles."

"How is Mrs. Cameron this morning?"

"Ah, she's fell waur o' the wear."

"And her daughter?"

"Fast asleep. Like your own bairn, poor wee lamb!" She cast an accusing
look at Adeline.

"My brother looked after my baby very well last night," said Adeline,
haughtily, for little Augusta had not been in her thoughts all night.
"You say she is fast asleep? Is she with her ayah?"

"Aye. She's with what's left of the ayah--for the woman is more dead
than alive." The stewardess stood balancing the tray against the reeling
of the ship.

"Merciful heaven," cried Adeline, "what a miserable company we are!"

She crossed the passage to the ayah's cabin and looked in. In the pale
sunlight, nurse and infant looked equally fragile and remote. But they
were sleeping peacefully. Adeline summoned the stewardess.

"Take that basin away," she said in a low but furious tone. "Make the
place decent with as little noise as you can."

Adeline went to Mrs. Cameron's cabin. All was neat there but the poor
woman lay on her berth exhausted after her last bout of sea-sickness.
The air was heavy with the scent of eau-de-Cologne. It was as though
someone had emptied a bottle of it there. Mary was seated in front of
the tiny dressing-table gazing at herself in the glass with a fascinated
look. She was unaware of the opening of the door but continued to give
her large-eyed reflection stare for stare, while the ship heaved and a
cupboard door flew open, then banged shut, with each roll. Adeline
laughed.

"Well, what do you think of yourself?" she asked.

"Oh, Mrs. Whiteoak," answered Mary. "I'm pretty--pretty! I have
travelled right round the world and never found it out till now."

"Well," said Adeline, "it is a queer time to have discovered it. But if
it's a comfort to you, I'm glad you think so."

Still gazing at her reflection the girl answered, "Don't you?"

Adeline laughed again. "I'm in no state to judge but I shall take a good
look at you later on. Can I do anything for your mother?"

"She feels a little better, she says. She just wants to be quiet."

"Have you had any sleep?"

"A little. I'm not tired."

"You're a better traveller than I am. Have they brought your breakfast?"

"Oh, yes. The stewardess is very kind. So is your brother. He's so brave
too."

"Well, I'm glad of that. I'm going now to see how the boys are getting
on."

"May I come with you?"

"No. Stay with your mother."

Adeline found Sholto recovering from his sea-sickness. He was sipping
coffee and eating a hard biscuit but he was very pale. Conway was
changing into dry clothes. Adeline noticed the milky whiteness of his
skin and how his chest and neck were fuller than one would judge from
his face.

"Oh, Adeline," exclaimed Sholto, "I wish I'd never come on this voyage!
We shall quite likely go down. Oh, I do wish I were back in Ireland with
Mama and Papa and Timothy and all!"

"Nonsense," said Adeline, sitting down on the side of the berth. "In a
few days you'll be laughing at this. Here, eat your biscuit."

She took it from his hand and broke off a morsel of it and put it in his
mouth. He relaxed and she fed him the rest of the biscuit in this way as
though he were a baby.

She turned to Conway. "Go and find Philip and tell him I want him. Just
say I must see him and that it is important."

"What do you want him for?"

She flashed a look of command at him. "Do as I say, Con."

"Very well. But he probably won't come." He tied his cravat with as much
care as though he were about to make a call.

"Oh, what a little fop you are!" she cried. "To think of you fiddling
with your tie and soon we may all be at the bottom!"

Sholto hurled himself back on the pillow.

"You said everything was all right. You said we'd be laughing about
this!" he sobbed.

"Now you've done it!" exclaimed Conway. He opened the door and went into
the passage but it was a struggle to close the door after him against
the rolling of the ship. Adeline had to go and put her weight against
it.

She returned to Sholto. "You know I was only joking," she comforted him.
"If I thought we were going to the bottom should I be looking so
pleasant?"

"You're not looking pleasant! You're looking queer and wild."

She laid her head beside his on the pillow.

"I am looking queer," she said, "because I suspect Con of making up to
that little Cameron girl. That's why I sent him away--so I could ask
you. Sholto, tell me, has he been telling her she's pretty? Has he been
making up to her?"

Sholto's green eyes were bright. "Indeed he has! We are never alone but
he is up to his tricks. 'Oh, but you're the pretty thing!' he says. 'Oh,
the lovely little neck on you!' he says. 'Oh, the long fair eyelashes!
Come close and touch my cheek with them!'"

"And did she?"

"She did. And he laid his hand on her breast."

"And did she mind?"

"Not she. She arched her neck like a filly you are stroking. And she
made her eyes large at him like a filly. But she's innocent and Conway
is not. He could tell those boys at the English school a thing or two."

Adeline bent her brows into a sombre line. "I shall tell Mary's mother,"
she said, "to keep her away from that rascal."

"Well, if the ship is going down, Adeline, they might as well be
enjoying themselves."

"The ship is not going down!"

The door opened and Conway, clinging to it, looked in. He said:

"Philip has gone to your cabin. He's as wet as a rat."

"Con--come in and shut that door!" He did and stood pale and smiling
before her.

"Now," she said, "no more hanky-panky with Mary Cameron! If I hear of it
I shall tell Philip and he'll give you a shaking to make your teeth
rattle. Oh, you ought to be ashamed of yourself--making love to a
child!"

"What has that little twister been telling you?" he demanded, his cold
eyes on his brother.

Sholto began to shiver as fear produced a fresh wave of sea-sickness.

"I did not need to hear it from him," said Adeline. "She told me herself
that she'd just discovered she was pretty and I've been watching you.
Now, I say, no more of it!"

He tried to open the door and bow her out with a grand supercilious air,
but a sudden roll of the ship flung them staggering together. They clung
so a moment and then she said, holding him close:

"You will be good, won't you, Con, dear?"

"Yes--I promise you."

He saw her out, then, bending over his brother, he gave him half a dozen
thumps, each one harder than the one before. Miraculously those, instead
of bringing his sickness back, seemed to do him good, for in half an
hour they were back on deck, watching the sailors raising what canvas
they dared, and feeling new hope as the sun came out bright and the
foam-crowned waves harassed the ship less cruelly. When they saw Mary
they looked the other way. She, on her part, seemed occupied by her own
thoughts. Her mother kept her at her side. Mrs. Cameron's intense spirit
went out in a fierce strengthening of the ship so that, made inviolate
by her spiritual aid, it might reach land and set Mary's feet in safety
there.

Adeline found Philip standing in the middle of their cabin waiting for
her. His clothes were wet and crumpled, his fair hair plastered in a
fringe on his forehead. He looked so ridiculous that she would have
laughed but she saw the frown on his face. He asked curtly:

"Why did you send for me?"

"I was anxious about you."

"I've been standing here waiting for you."

"Only a few moments! I have been with Sholto. He's sick."

"So is everyone. I brought up my own breakfast. What do you want of me?"

"I want you to change into dry things."

He turned toward the door. "If that's all----"

She caught his arm. "Philip, you are not to go! You'll get your death!"

"I should make a poor soldier if this would kill me."

"But what can you do?"

"For one thing, I can put some courage and order into the steerage
passengers. They are on the verge of panic. As for you, you might tidy
up this cabin. It's vile!"

"What do you expect!" she cried. "I have a sick baby! I have an ayah who
is half dead! I have Mrs. Cameron to visit! I have my young brother to
look after! I worry myself ill about you. The stewardess is useless
except to gossip. The ship is leaking! And you ask me to tidy up the
cabin!"

In a fury she began to snatch up garments and to thrust them into boxes
or on pegs.

"I didn't ask you to get in a temper," he said.

"Oh, no, I'm not to get in a temper! I'm to keep perfectly calm. And as
neat as a pin!"

"Then why don't you?"

Before she could answer, the parrot, which had been sitting muffled on
the top of his swaying cage, uttered a scream of the purest excitement
as he became conscious of Adeline's agitation, and flew violently about
the cabin. The disturbance caused by his wings was startling to nerves
already tense. He came to rest on a brass bracket, turned himself over
so that he hung head down and, in that posture, sent out a torrent of
curses in Hindu:

"_Haramzada!_" he screamed. "_Haramzada! Chore! Iflatoon! Iflatoon!_"

"I sometimes wish," said Philip, "that we had never brought that bird."

"I dare say you do," retorted Adeline. "I dare say you wish you had
never brought me. Then you might have had your old shipwreck in the most
perfect order! You might----"

Philip's face relaxed. "Adeline," he said, "you make any situation
ridiculous. Come, my pet, don't let us quarrel." He put his arms about
her and his lips to her hair. "Do find me a pair of gloves, for I've
blistered my palms at the pump."

She was instantly solicitous for him. First she kissed the blistered
palms, then she bathed them, applied a soothing ointment, a bandage, and
found a pair of loose gloves for him. So administered to he became quite
meek and changed into dry clothes and brushed his hair. All this while
Boney regarded them quizzically, hanging for the greater part of the
time head down.

"Philip," she asked as she coiled her hair, "is everything as simple as
the Captain says? Are we in danger? Will the ship carry us safely to
Newfoundland? He says he will stop there for repairs, doesn't he?"

"We can cope with the leak," he answered gravely. "And if only this
damned head wind would fall and a favourable wind spring up we should do
very well."

They did keep the leak under control, the sun came out fitfully; a kind
of order was created on the ship, the wind promised to fall. Regular
shifts at the pumps were arranged and, when the time of changing came,
the cry of "Spell ho!" rang out from Grigg's enormous mouth. The Captain
looked determinedly cheerful. The _Alanna_ pushed on through the
buffeting of the waves. She seemed running straight into the ruddy
sunset. A sailor came bounding up to the Captain who was talking with
Philip and Mr. Wilmott.

"The cargo has shifted!" he said, out of breath.

Philip went to where Adeline and her brothers had found a sheltered
corner on the deck. The boys were tired and had stretched themselves in
complete abandon on either side of her. Conway's head lay against her
shoulder, Sholto's on her lap. Upon my word, thought Philip, they look
no better than the emigrants. Adeline raised her eyes from the pages of
_Pendennis_. His stern expression startled her.

She sat upright. "What is it now?" she demanded.

Conway woke and sprang to his feet. He looked dazed. He stammered:

"Why--Philip--why--Adeline--the deck! Look at the deck!"

"Yes," said Philip. "The ballast has shifted. She's listing badly. The
Captain says there's nothing for it but to go back to Galway for
repairs."

"Back to Galway for repairs!" repeated Adeline and Conway in one voice.
Then he laughed. "What a joke on us!" He shook his brother by the
shoulder. "Wake up, Sholto! You're going to see dear old Ireland again!"

"How long will it take?" asked Adeline.

"With this wind behind us we'll do it in a few days."

"We must not let my mother know we are there. It would upset her. She'd
be bound to come all the way to Galway to see us, and the good-byes to
say all over again!"

"I quite agree," said Philip. He felt that he could very well do without
seeing his parents-in-law again.

Sholto wore a strange look of joy.

The next morning the wind had fallen enough to allow the first officer
to be lowered over the side in the Captain's cutter to examine the leak.
The sea was a bright hard blue and the waves were crinkling under the
wild west wind. His movements were watched with fascination by those on
deck. He opened his mouth and shouted cryptic remarks to the Captain
leaning over the side. He put out his hand and felt the injured part
like a surgeon concentrating on an operation. Then he was hauled up
again. Everyone crowded round him. He was loath to relieve their anxiety
and only the presence of the cheerful Captain made him say:

"Ah, I dare say she'll do. That is, if there are no squalls. The leak
will be four feet out of the water if the sea gets no worse. She may
do--but we'll hae to keep at the pumps."

The _Alanna_ had turned back with the sound of thunder in her sails as
she veered. Now, to the wind she had struggled against for so many days,
she surrendered herself, let it drive her back toward Ireland and
strained every inch of canvas to be there with the least loss of time.
But the shifting of the ballast made her awkward. No one could forget
the way she listed. It was as though everyone on board had suddenly
become lame, leaning to one side when they walked.

And there were the pumps always to be kept going, forcing out the briny
water that stretched in monstrous fathoms waiting to force its way in
again. Aching backs, hands blistered, then calloused, monotonous hours
that wove the day and night into one chain of weariness and boredom.
Every now and again the boredom changing to apprehension at the sight of
a ragged cloud that looked like the possible mother of a squall. Of all
those on board Adeline was the most buoyant. In her handsome clothes
that were so unsuitable to the situation she carried assurance and
gaiety wherever she went. She would, for all Philip's remonstrances,
take her turn at the pumps. She learned sea chanties from the sailors,
though she never could keep on the tune.

A strange intimacy sprang up among the passengers. They seemed to have
known each other for years. Their faces, their gestures, their
peculiarities were etched on each other's minds. Then, on the eighth
day, the dim shape of Ireland became visible on the horizon.




                                   IV
                                 REPAIRS


GALWAY BAY lay blue and tranquil, church bells were ringing as the
barque, at a melancholy angle, moved slowly into the port. Then, for the
first time in ten days, the pound of the pumps ceased. The ear-drums of
those on board were freed to take in the sound of the bells and the
singing of birds.

Adeline stood in the bow facing the light breeze that carried warm
scents of the land. Her nostrils quivered and she gave a little laugh.
Mr. Wilmott came up just in time to hear it.

"You are fortunate to be able to laugh, Mrs. Whiteoak," he said. "To me
this is a most depressing return."

She looked at him over her shoulder, her white teeth gleaming between
her parted lips.

"Why," she exclaimed, "aren't you glad to smell the land again--and hear
the bells?"

"Not the Old Land," he answered bitterly. "Not these bells. I never
expected to be here again. I want the New World."

"Well, you'll get it, if only you have patience. You might be at the
bottom of the sea. I'm thankful to be alive!"

"You are different. You are young and full of hope."

"But you aren't old! And you have told me of interesting plans you have.
This is just a mood. It will pass."

He smiled too. "Of course it will. I certainly cannot feel downcast when
I am near you."

The ayah stood near by with the baby in her arms, her pale-coloured robe
fluttering about her emaciated figure. It was the first time she had
been on deck since her bout of sea-sickness and she looked scarcely able
to stand, let alone carry the child. But her heavy-lidded eyes shone
with joy at the sight of the green land and little Augusta held out her
hands toward the gulls that came circling about the ship.

Philip strode down the deck.

"I have the luggage ready!" he exclaimed. "I'm not leaving any of our
valuables on board."

"The Captain says they will be safe."

"Humph! Anyhow, we shall need our things. This leak isn't to be mended
in a jiffy."

"Have you seen my brothers?" she asked. "Have they got their things
together?"

"Here is Sholto to answer for himself." Philip eyed the boy sternly. He
was laden with his belongings, gathered together in promiscuous fashion.
His pale face was alight with exhilaration.

"I can scarcely wait," he exclaimed in an exaggerated brogue, "to plant
me feet on the ould sod! Praise be to God, I shall sleep in a dacent bed
and put me teeth in some dacent food before long!"

As he advanced he let fall one article after another on the deck but he
appeared unconscious of this.

"Where is Conway?" demanded Adeline.

"I can't make him stir. He's still in bed. Mary Cameron is with him."

"Merciful heavens!" cried Adeline.

Philip threw them both a warning look. Mr. Wilmott considerately moved
away, out of hearing.

"She is packing his things for him," went on Sholto. "He says he is too
tired and the silly girl believes him! She believes whatever he says and
does everything he tells her."

"I shall attend to him," said Adeline.

With her eager step she went swiftly along the slanting deck. She
hastened down the companion-way and through the narrow passage where
most of the cabins were separated from public view by only a curtain.
The smell of this passage she felt she would never forget. All the
smells of the ship below deck seemed concentrated here--the smell of
stale cooking, the smell rising from the livestock, the smell of the
lavatory! What discomfort she had endured! The sweet land breeze made it
suddenly almost tangible--discomfort and fear.

She stood outside Conway's door listening but there was so much noise of
movement and shouting she could hear nothing. She opened the door.

Conway lay stretched on the berth, a happy smile on his face, his pale
hair falling about his cheeks. His long greenish eyes followed every
movement of Mary Cameron who was bent over a portmanteau carefully
packing his toilet articles, under his direction.

"Well, this is a pretty sight!" cried Adeline. "Oh, you lazy pig, Con!
Get up out of that and do your own work! Mary, you ought to be ashamed
of yourself. Why aren't you helping your mother?"

Mary raised a flushed face. She said, with a touch of defiance:

"Everything is done for my mother. She is resting till we disembark."

"Then go and sit by her. Don't you know better than to be alone with a
young man in his cabin? Have you travelled half-way round the world and
learnt nothing?"

"My mama has told me," answered Mary, "to be afraid of Indians and to be
afraid of Chinamen and Frenchmen, but she has not told me to be afraid
of Irishmen."

Adeline found it hard not to laugh but she said sternly: "Then she did
wrong, for they are the worst of all. Now run off. If Con needs help
I'll give it to him." She pushed Mary out of the room.

She came to her brother and took him by the ear. She bent down and put
her face close to his.

"Con," she said, "have you ever laid a bad hand on that girl?"

With the shamelessness of a child he distorted his face against the pain
of his ear.

"Let me be!" he said. "I shan't tell you."

"You will or I'll tell Philip to question you. You'll not like that."

He twisted his head so he could kiss her forearm.

"Sweet Sis," he said.

"Answer me, Con!"

"I swear I've said nothing to Mary you might not have heard--or her
mother."

She let him go. "Thank God for that! Now get up and pack your bags."

But she was soft enough to help him. The beautiful harbour lay spread
before them, the grey stone town rising beyond it, and beyond that the
dark mountains of Clare. An ancient feudal castle stood on one of the
hills. The townsfolk were gathering to see the ship, for it was rarely
that one of her size entered the harbour.

Now there came all the confusion of disembarking--they who had thought
not to leave the ship till they landed at Quebec! Off they came carrying
their belongings, looking paler than when they had set out, some
excited, some forlorn, a few in tears. The poor livestock were led or
harried off--some so weak in the leg they could hardly walk. They were
dirty, they were dazed, though the poultry bore the adventure best.
Maggie, the little goat which had been sent for Augusta's nourishment,
was the one exception. She seemed not to have suffered at all from the
experience but trotted off on her little hooves, her bell tinkling. One
of the sailors had taken a fancy to her and had combed her long silvery
hair. As she was led from the pier she saw a small patch of green and
hastened to tear off a mouthful and munch it.

Boney, too, had borne the voyage well. The rolling of the ship had been
but a pleasure to him. To hang head downward was one of his diversions.
He left the ship, sitting on Adeline's shoulder. His beak was parted in
what looked like a smile of triumph. His dark tongue was a wonder to the
crowd who soon collected about her.

"You had better have carried him in his cage," said Philip.

"Indeed I had," she agreed, "and I'd put him in it now but it's far
behind with the stewardess, and it's a heavy thing to carry."

The truth was she enjoyed the sensation they were making. She smiled and
nodded at the crowd in a way that delighted them.

"Och, see the fine lady with the bird!" someone cried. "Come quick! 'Tis
a sight to beat all!"

Others came running. "Bad cess to ye," cried one, giving his fellow a
clout, "'tis yourself that do be hidin' the view of her. Sure, I can't
see her at all."

The crowd increased. If the sight of Adeline with the parrot was
enthralling, the sight of the ayah in her robes with the white-clad
child in her arms and, in the child's arms, the beautiful wax doll,
increased the excitement to screaming point. The two Irishmen, D'Arcy
and Brent, shouldered the crowd aside. Patsy had heard of a carriage
that could be hired and presently it came rattling over the cobbles,
drawn by a decrepit-looking horse who still could move with a strange
devil-may-care alacrity.

Adeline found the priest's young nieces and asked them where they would
stay while repairs were being made. They were weighed down by bundles
and looked scarcely so bright and rosy as when they had set out. They
had a friend in the town with whom they would leave their possessions.
Then they would walk the ten miles to their uncle's house, spend the
night with him, then go home for a sight of their parents. They looked
more troubled than happy at the prospect.

"Faith, the last good-bye near killed our mother," said the older girl,
"and the next one will be worse, but she'd think it quare and cruel of
us if we didn't go back to see her."

"I can hardly wait," said the other, "to see her and my da and all the
young ones agin. Sure, we'll have things to tell thim to frighten the
life out of thim."

"Don't you do it," said Adeline. "Tell her the sea was as smooth as a
pewter plate and the wind no more than a baby's breath. Tell her that
only a wee board came loose on the ship but the Captain was so
particular he brought us all the way back to Galway to have it set
right. Tell her that I have my eye on you and mean to keep it there till
we land in Canada."

"Yes, my lady," they agreed, showing their fine teeth, "we'll tell her
what you say. We'll niver say a word to scare her."

Adeline watched them trudge off with their bundles. She could see the
snowy whiteness of their napes beneath their curling dark hair. Now she
thought of Mrs. Cameron and Mary. She gave a sigh, feeling suddenly the
weight of responsibility for all these weaker creatures.

She saw Philip putting mother and daughter into the carriage. The ayah
and Gussie were already in. He called out:

"Make haste, my dear! Let's get away from here." An impatient frown
dented his fair forehead.

Up the cobbled street the carriage rattled, followed by part of the
crowd. Many of them were boys and girls who jumped up and down screaming
in their excitement. Philip and the young Courts walked. Philip disliked
being a part of such a procession but his brothers-in-law played up to
it with gestures and chaff.

Later, looking down from her bedroom window, Adeline saw that a fight
had started in the street. Errand-boys, butchers, beggars, anyone and
everyone were shouting and fighting with fists and clubs. Dogs were
barking and howling. Then suddenly a squad of "peelers" appeared. The
fighting ceased. The crowd melted into lanes and cellar-ways. A Sabbath
calm soothed the street.

Philip had watched the scene over Adeline's shoulder with an amused
smile.

"A funny lot, your people are!" he said, when it was over.

"They are as God made them," she replied, a little defensively.

"And are you sure it was God, my darling?"

"Well, He may have had a little help from outside."

He kissed her. "I scarcely have seen you alone," he said, "since we
sailed. There was always the baby or your brothers or Mary. Egad, I
shall be thankful when all this is over and we are established in
Quebec."

"So shall I. You would never guess what Mr. Wilmott said when we stepped
off the ship."

"What?"

"He said, 'Do you know I never expected to set foot on these islands
again? I hoped never to set foot on them again.' 'Never come home to
visit again!' I exclaimed. 'Never,' he answered. And he looked
sombre--like the hero of a romantic novel. I've done my best to
encourage an attachment between him and Mrs. Cameron, but it seems
hopeless."

"A sea-sick widow is not alluring," said Philip. "And, to judge by the
looks he gives, he is more likely to form an attachment to you. He'd
better be careful."

"That old sobersides!" laughed Adeline. "He's not at all my sort. But I
do like him as an acquaintance and I hope he'll settle in Quebec near
us."

"I think we ought to let your parents know we are here," said Philip,
abruptly changing the subject. "It will take quite a week for repairs
and, if they find out from other sources, it might give them a bit of a
shock."

"No, no," cried Adeline. "I can't bear another good-bye! It would be
unlucky."

"We could tell them not to come."

"Nothing would keep my mother away. And my father too--he'd come and
create some sort of disturbance. He'd probably abuse the Captain for not
having a stauncher ship."

"They may see it in a newspaper."

"I'm willing to risk that. Next week they go on a visit to my
grandfather. They'll have no time for newspapers."

So she had her way and they settled down to the strange interlude in
their voyage. They explored the streets of the grey old town. Philip and
Mr. Wilmott went on fishing excursions. Adeline wandered with her
brothers and Mary Cameron along the mountain paths of Clare or on the
shore of the bay and brought home pockets full of shells for little
Augusta. Every day there was the visit to the ship to watch the
carpenters at work. Every day people thronged from the country about to
see the wonders of the ship. It was grand to see them dancing on the
deck in the spring evenings--their lithe bodies bounding and leaping to
the whistled tune, clear as a pipe. They snapped their fingers and
whirled and bounded in the dance. They had shapely limbs and Spanish
faces and there had never been so much merriment on that ship before.

One evening they were dancing by moonlight and the moon went under a
cloud so that no one could say who was who. But a handsome fellow in a
blue coat had had his eye on Adeline. He pushed his partner from him
and, dancing past Adeline, touched her with his hand. She was standing
between her brothers with Mary Cameron hanging as usual on Conway's arm.
Adeline gave a little laugh as the man's hand touched her shoulder and
he could see the white flash of her teeth in the dimness. He danced
round the deck and in a moment was at her side again. His arm slid about
her. She sprang into the dance. Wildly they danced to the sound of the
whistling and the pair of them moved in such beautiful accord that it
was a pity the whole world could not see--but it was well for her that
Philip did not. She was transported by the joy of movement but she kept
her eyes on the cloud that hid the moon and, when its edge was silvered,
she struck her partner on the breast and whispered, "Let me go, ye
divil!"

As the moon cast its radiance on the deck she stood tall and slim by
Sholto's side. She saw then that Conway and Mary had been dancing.

He grinned and said, "Now I've something to hold over your head, Sis.
Don't you go telling tales of me."

A bell sounded and all had to leave the ship.

The next day a period of fog and drizzle set in. There was no more
dancing on the deck. The days moved heavily. The Captain had promised
that repairs should be complete in ten days but it was two weeks before
they were ready to sail. There was a strange and rather sombre
excitement in this second setting forth. The passengers were now so well
aware of the evils which might befall them. Their faith in the
worthiness of the ship had been shaken. Of course any ship might spring
a leak, and Captain Bradley declared that the _Alanna_ was now as sound
as a nut.

They went to church on the Sunday before sailing. Adeline, Philip, Mr.
Wilmott and Mrs. Cameron to the Gothic Abbey Church where the beautiful
groined arches of the roof, the sculptured bosses, were obliterated
under coat after coat of whitewash, and where the congregation was
scattered. The Irishmen, D'Arcy and Brent, returned from the Catholic
Chapel and told how they were not able to get inside the building for
the Mass but had to kneel in the churchyard with the overflowing crowd.
Conway, Sholto and Mary wandered along the shore. They had begged to be
excused from church and Mrs. Cameron would deny her daughter nothing.
Also, she had heard of an epidemic of fever going about in the town and
surely Mary would be safer on the shore with the two boys to look after
her.

The hour of sailing came and down the cobbled street moved all the
conglomeration of objects that had been removed from the ship--the
luggage came bumping and rattling over the stones. The livestock was
harried, driven and prodded towards its quarters--all but the little
goat, Maggie, who trotted on as gaily as she had trotted off. The ayah
looked less fragile after her weeks on land but she wore an expression
of foreboding as she glided on to the ship, holding the baby closely to
her. Gussie, in her turn, clutched her wax doll in its silk crinoline
and bonnet. The doll was large, a load for Gussie's tiny arms, and so,
as the ayah stood with her in the stern and gazed at the churning of the
water as the ship moved away from the pier, Gussie leaned forward and
let the doll fall overboard. She looked round slyly into the ayah's
face. "Gone," she remarked, and it was the first word she had spoken.

For an instant the pink face smirked up at them out of the foam, the
crinoline was inflated, then there was nothing. The ayah broke into a
storm of Hindu reproaches. She hissed these at Gussie in a terrifying
way and shook her, but Gussie knew the ayah was her slave.

The sun came out brilliantly, gilding these last moments of departure.
The hurry and scurry were over. All was neat and shining. The decks were
clean. The brass of the railings and the officers' buttons gleamed. The
sails took in a little of the breeze as though testing its quality, then
received it in its fullness and spread themselves white and rounded
before the masts. Now there was no dreadful listing of the deck, only a
tremulous, happy quiver ran across it as the _Alanna_ rose and dipped on
the small waves.

Philip and Adeline stood with fingers locked looking back at the land.
The town, the mountains of Clare, the movement of figures in the
foreground, were still so clear--like a painted picture before them.
They could see a tall dark woman driving a pig into the sea. She had
tied a string to its hind leg. She had tucked up her skirts and waded in
after it. She began to scrub it with all her might while it squealed in
a manner to split the heavens. Then they saw her drive it out, white as
a pearl, all its filth left behind it, a very angel of a pig to look at.

"Oh, the lovely pig!" cried Adeline, laughing in delight. "I do wish my
brothers had been here to see that! Why don't they come up from below?
Do you know, Philip, that little Mary is wonderfully improved. You
should have seen her settling her mother in and fetching her a cup of
tea to drink. Why--look! The post-chaise and horses! Merciful heaven,
Philip, 'tis my father and mother and the wee Timothy with them and the
four horses all in a lather!" Her voice broke into a scream. "Philip,
stop the ship!"

For a moment he stood stock-still in consternation. He saw his
father-in-law leap from the box, throw the reins to the coachman and
assist his wife to alight. He saw him take off his hat and wave it,
motioning the ship to stop. The space between them was steadily
widening. Philip ran along the deck for a few strides, then halted.

"The Captain will never do it," he said.

"He must," she declared, and flew toward the wheel-house where the first
mate had the wheel in his hands.

"Oh, Mr. Grigg!" she cried. "You must turn back! There are my father and
my mother on the pier--come to get just one more glimpse of me! I can't
leave them like this."

"It's impossible," he declared. "I wouldna turn back for the Queen of
England. It's against all rules."

"I'll take the responsibility."

"I canna let ye!"

"I'll take the wheel from you!"

"I canna let ye do that."

She put her hands on the wheel and strove to turn it. She was strong and
she actually was changing the course of the ship. He cried in a panic:

"How daur ye? Ye'll have us on the rocks, wumman! Let the helm loose!"

The passengers were crowding about.

Philip came and took her by the wrists.

"Come away," he said. "I've spoken to the Captain. He cannot turn back.
Come and wave to your parents or it will be too late."

She burst into tears and, breaking away from him, ran weeping down the
deck. The tears blinded her and at first she saw only a distorted image
of her parents on the pier. As their figures became clearer she was
horrified to see how they had lessened. Why, they looked no more than
dolls! There was her formidable father looking no more than a doll--a
doll that shook its fist at the receding ship. Or perhaps at her! She
might never know which. Her last earthly vision of him might be of him
shaking his fist at her and the ship. She put her palms to her quivering
mouth and threw kisses to the fast diminishing figures of her parents
and her young brother.

She saw James Wilmott standing at her side. There was a strange
expression on his sombre face. He spoke in a new voice:

"Darling girl," he said. "Don't cry. I can't bear it. Please don't cry."

At that moment Philip reached her other side. To take her mind off her
disappointment, he said:

"Where are Conway and Sholto? They should come and wave good-bye."

"It is too late! Too late!"

"Shall I bring them?"

"If you like."

He strode off.

On the dock near her people she could see a little group of the
relatives of the steerage passengers. They were huddled mournfully
together as though for comfort.

The ship was now caught by a fresh wind. She mounted an on-rushing green
billow. There was a straining of cordage, a great bulging of white
sails. She leant, as though joyfully, she came about, the land was
hidden and, when once more it was visible, it was far away and no more
had any relation to the ship.

Mr. Wilmott offered his arm to Adeline.

"May I take you to your cabin?" he asked.

"Thank you." She leant on him gratefully.

"I hope you will forgive and forget the way I spoke a moment ago," he
said. "I am a lonely man and your friendship is very precious to me. I
was moved by your tears. But--I had no right to say--what I did."

"You are kind," she said. "You are a friend. That is all that matters."
From beneath her wet lashes her eyes looked gently into his.

With Adeline still leaning on his arm they went slowly down the deck.
Sea-gulls swung and circled above them. One even alighted on the top of
a mast and sat tranquil as a ship's figurehead.




                                   V
                            THE SECOND VOYAGE


WHEN Adeline entered her cabin and saw her hand luggage heaped there and
realised that another voyage in this cubby-hole lay before her, she had
a moment's feeling of desperation. What experiences might she and Philip
have to face! They were leaving behind all they knew and loved, setting
out for the unknown. She realised this much more than on the first
voyage. The thought of her mother standing weeping on the dock came back
to torment her. Even her father seemed pathetic for the moment.

She could not bear to begin unpacking yet. She would first see how the
ayah and Gussie were faring. She crossed the passage and looked in on
them. The ayah was stretched on the berth. Her wrist, on which she wore
a number of silver bangles, lay across her forehead. From this shelter
her languid dark eyes looked up at Adeline.

Adeline was fluent in the dialect used by the ayah. She asked:

"Are you feeling ill already?"

"No, Memsahib--but I rest a little. The beloved child is very well and
quite happy."

"Yes, I see. Still, I think you would be better on deck. Baby could play
with her shells there."

At the word, Gussie held up one in each hand, then laughed aloud and put
them to her ears. Her face became rapt as she listened to their murmur.

"I shall take her to the deck at once, Memsahib," said the ayah, raising
herself on her elbow with a look of patient resignation; then she sank
back on the pillow.

"The smells down here are bad for both of you," said Adeline firmly. She
looked about the cabin.

"Where is the doll?" she asked. "I don't see it."

The bangles rattled on the ayah's forehead.

"I put the doll away for safety, Memsahib."

"Where?"

"In the box with Baby's diapers, Memsahib."

"That was well done. She is too young to appreciate it now. We'll keep
it for her."

"Gone," said Gussie.

"Did she say something?" asked Adeline.

"No, Memsahib. She cannot yet say one word."

As Adeline went back along the passage she met Mrs. Cameron. Still
wearing her dolman and bonnet she turned a face heavy with mingled
self-pity and reproach toward Adeline.

"I suppose Mary is off somewhere with those brothers of yours," she
said. "I've never seen such a change come over a girl. I used to know
exactly where she was. She almost never left my side. But now, half the
time, I have no notion of her whereabouts."

Adeline's sympathy, which had been focused on the mother, now veered
suddenly to the daughter.

"Well, after all," she said, "Mary is very young. She must have a little
fun."

"Fun!" repeated Mrs. Cameron bitterly. "Fun! If she can bear to have
fun--after what we've been through!"

"You cannot expect a child to go on mourning for ever." Adeline spoke
rather curtly. She was tired and Mrs. Cameron was altogether too
mournful an object, planted there in her black bonnet and dolman. No
wonder the girl wanted to be off with other young people.

"She is nearly sixteen. She'll soon be a woman. She doesn't seem to
realise it. That's what I tell her. She's a regular feather-brain."

"I saw her carrying a cup of tea very nicely to you not so long, ago."

Mrs. Cameron flared up. "I hope you are not insinuating that I do not
appreciate my own child, Mrs. Whiteoak! She is all I have in the world!
My mind is always on her! I'd die a thousand deaths rather than a hair
of her head should be harmed!"

"You'd do well to get your mind off her for a bit," returned Adeline.
She was growing tired of Mrs. Cameron.

The vessel gave a sudden heave. She seemed to have glided down a steep
slope and to be now laboriously mounting another. Adeline's stomach felt
suddenly squeamish. Was she going to be sick? She must lie down in her
berth for a little.

Mrs. Cameron had burst into tears.

Adeline exclaimed--"Oh, I didn't mean that you are not a perfect mother!
I'll go and find Mary for you this minute. I'll tell my young brothers
to keep away from her. Pray go and lie you down and I'll send her to you
in a jiffy."

Mrs. Cameron stumbled back to her cabin. Adeline listened outside the
one occupied by Conway and Sholto. There was silence within. She
entered.

There were two portmanteaux standing in the middle of the tiny room.
There were odds and ends of things thrown on the lower berth. But what
was that on the pillow? She leant over it to see. For some reason her
heart quickened its beat.

It was an envelope pinned to the pillow and addressed to her in Sholto's
best schoolboy handwriting. She was trembling as she opened it, though
she did not know what she expected to read. She tore it open. She read:

    MY OWN DEAREST SIS--

    Conway is making me write this as he says he is the man of
    action and I am the man of letters. Be that as it may, I feel
    pretty sick at what I have to disclose. I am writing this in the
    hotel the night before the ship sails. We shall go on with our
    luggage on board and then, while everything is confused, we
    shall return to the dock and conceal ourselves in the town till
    you are gone. Dear Adeline, forgive us for not going with you to
    Quebec. During the voyage we wished ourselves back in Ireland a
    thousand times. It seemed too good to be true when the ship
    turned her bow homeward again, we were that homesick.

    Now this is the part Conway himself should have written but you
    know what a lazy dog he is. Mary has decided not to go to Canada
    either. She has decided to remain in Ireland and marry Con. I
    should hate to be in his shoes when he faces Father with Mary on
    his arm. Mary tried to write but she cried and messed up the
    paper outrageously. So, dearest Sis, will you please break the
    news with great tact and sympathy to Mrs. Cameron. Mary says
    this will be quite a blow to her but, as Mary's happiness was
    always her first consideration, she will be reconciled to it
    once she thinks it over.

    When you arrive in Quebec will you please put _all_ our
    belongings (that is, of course, including Mary's) on the next
    east-bound ship and address them very clearly. We don't want to
    lose anything, especially as after all the outlay for Con and
    me, Dad will be an old skinflint for years to come.

    Mary will write a long letter to her mother and send it by the
    next ship. Conway also will write.

    We all three join in wishing you _bon voyage_--no storms--no
    leaks--and a glorious time in Quebec.

                                        Ever your loving brother,
                                                            Sholto.

Adeline stood transfixed when she had finished reading the letter. She
had a sense of panic. She felt that she wanted to run to her own berth,
get under the covers, draw them over her head and remain so till Quebec
was reached. Then disbelief and relief swept over her. It was all a
joke! Her brothers were always up to pranks. It could not be true. She
would find Patsy O'Flynn and perhaps he would know all about it, know
where the three were hiding.

She sped along the passage and down the steep stairs that led to the
steerage. Here in the common-room people were settling themselves for
the voyage, untying canvas-covered bundles, opening packets of food,
drinking out of tin cups which a couple of barefooted cabin-boys were
filling with tea. In one corner a decent-looking Scotswoman had gathered
her brood of children about her and was putting large buns into their
hands. A nursing babe still clung to her breast as she moved among the
others.

Adeline asked her, "Do you know the whereabouts of my man, Patsy
O'Flynn, the one with all the clothes on him and eyebrows that stick
out?"

The woman pointed with the bun she held. "Ay, he's yonder, whaur the
hens are. Shall I fetch him to you, Ma'am?"

"No, no, thank you. I'll go to him."

She found Patsy stretched at ease on his great-coat which he had spread
out on the poultry coops. To the accompaniment of crowings and cacklings
he munched a slab of bread and cheese. "Heave-ho, the winds do blow," he
was singing like a seasoned tar, between mouthfuls, for he wanted to
make his bread and cheese last as long as possible. Maggie, the little
goat, had somehow loosed her tether and stood at his feet nibbling one
of his dangling bootlaces. The pair were a picture of devil-may-care
contentment.

"Oh, Patsy-Joe!" cried Adeline. "Do you know where my brothers are? I
can't find them anywhere on the ship."

He leapt to his feet and bolted a large mouthful of bread and cheese.

"I do not thin, your honour, Miss," he answered, jerking his head
forward, for the cheese was still in his throat. "But I'll set out to
look for them this instant moment."

"Patsy-Joe, I've had a letter from Master Sholto and he says they've
gone back to the town and little Miss Cameron with them. Oh, I dare not
let myself think it's so, for it would kill her poor mother and my
brothers would be to blame. Have they said aught to you about running
away home?"

"Ay, many was the time they said the divil take the ship and they hoped
they never set eyes on her again."

"But you should have told me what they were saying."

"Ah, wisha, I thought it was just their way o' spakin'. And did ye say
the young geerl was off with them?"

"Yes."

His little eyes twinkled. "Sure, I'm not at all surprised, for I saw her
with thim on the shore last Sunday marnin', and I said to mesilf she was
too free with Mr. Conway and himself with time heavy on his hands. And
did ye say they've left the ship entirely?"

She was only wasting her time talking to Patsy. She hurried back up the
stairway and at the top met Philip. Each saw the concern on the face of
the other.

"What have you heard?" she demanded.

"A sailor tells me that he saw your brothers and Mary Cameron walking
separately back to the town just before we left."

"My God, why didn't he tell us?"

"He thought we knew. When he saw the carriage drive up he thought it had
come to meet them. How did you hear?"

"I had this letter." She took it from her pocket and put it in his hand.

"Those boys ought to be flogged," he said, when he had read the letter.

"Oh, if only they hadn't taken Mary! Oh, how can we break the news to
her mother?"

"You did wrong, Adeline, to encourage that friendship. It's led to a
pretty kettle of fish."

She took hold of the railing and two tears rolled down her cheeks.

"I know--now that it's too late," she said, in a trembling voice. Then,
after a moment, she broke out, "We must go back for them! I'll pay the
cost from my own pocket!"

"We cannot. It's impossible."

"What do a few hours more matter--in such a case?"

"Listen to reason, Adeline. If those three scallywags were waiting on
the dock eager to be picked up we might do it--at a pretty cost to you.
But they don't want to come back to the ship. Doubtless, by this time,
they are well on their way in quite another direction."

"Oh, whatever shall I do?" she groaned.

"You'll just have to go and tell Mrs. Cameron what her daughter has
done. After all--it's her fault. If the girl had been properly brought
up she'd not have dreamed of doing such a thing."

"Philip, darling, would you go and break the news to the mother?"

He looked aghast at the idea.

"I couldn't possibly," he said. "You'll have to do that."

"Well, will you stand beside me, in case----" She hesitated.

"In case what?" he asked distantly.

"She will be terribly upset. She will probably faint."

"I will stand at a little distance--within reach but out of sight."

"That will do.... Do you think I might write her a letter, as Sholto
did me?"

"By gad, if I had my hand on those boys! Yes--write her a letter, if you
prefer that way."

"Perhaps you would write the letter. I believe she would take it better
from you."

"I am no letter-writer," he answered testily. "Your family excels at
that." He took her by the arm. "Come into the salon and I'll get a glass
of sherry for you. That will put heart into you."

In the little room, graced by so high-flown a name, Adeline sipped the
sherry and thought miserably of what she had to do. At one moment she
would ejaculate, "Oh, the young villains!" And at the next, "Oh, the
poor mother!"--or--"It were better the ship had gone down with all of
us!" But the sherry did her good and finally she sprang up exclaiming,
"I'll do it now and have it over."

"That's a good girl," he said.

She scowled. "Don't you 'good girl' me! After all, _you_ should be
breaking the news to her. You're a man and 'tis your own brother-in-law
has done the mischief!"

"Adeline, I cannot."

He followed her down to the door of Mrs. Cameron's cabin. She rapped,
trembling in every limb.

"Yes?" came the voice from within.

"Mrs. Cameron, I have something to tell you."

"Come in."

She found Mrs. Cameron putting things in order and still wearing a hurt
air. But there was something touching about her. She was small and neat
and you could see she had been through a great deal. Adeline spoke
gently.

"A while ago you said you supposed Mary was off somewhere with those
brothers of mine. You were right. She is."

Mary's mother only stared.

"She is off with them," went on Adeline. "Right off the ship and away
home!"

"Are you mad?" said Mrs. Cameron. "What nonsense are you telling me?"

"It is the truth. They left the ship--Mary and my two little
brothers--but they've gone home. She'll be quite safe."

Mrs. Cameron had turned ghastly pale. She put her hand to her throat and
demanded:

"Who told you this?"

"I had a letter from Sholto. And my husband was told by one of the
sailors who saw them."

Mrs. Cameron spoke in a hoarse whisper.

"Show me the letter."

Adeline handed it to her. She riveted her eyes on it as though she would
tear the written words from the page. At the end she reeled across the
cabin but she recovered herself. She faced Adeline in a fury, her hands
clenched at her sides.

"It's your fault!" she cried. "It's all your fault! You encouraged them.
You begged me to allow Mary to go about with that wicked boy. Oh"--as
she was struck by the possibilities of the situation her voice rose to a
scream--"Oh, what has he done to her! My little ewe lamb! She was as
pure as the driven snow till we came on board this accursed ship! Oh,
can't something be done? Where is the Captain?"

She pushed her way past Adeline, thrust aside Philip's restraining hand
and bounded up the companion-way. So flimsy were the partitions that a
general consternation was caused by her outbreak. People came running
from all directions (some thought a fresh disaster had befallen the
ship) while Adeline and Philip followed after, miserably conscious of
what had really happened.

"What's this--what's this, Madam?" asked Captain Bradley, coming to meet
Mrs. Cameron.

She flung herself against his shoulder.

"Oh, save her! Save my little girl!" she cried hysterically.

"Where is she?" he asked, in his resonant voice.

"There!" She pointed landward. "She left the ship with those horrible
Irish boys! I call everyone to witness that she was as pure as the
driven snow! Oh, what shall I do?"

"What's all this about?" Captain Bradley demanded of Philip.

"The girl has eloped with my young brother-in-law, a lad of eighteen,"
he replied gruffly. "But from what was said in the letter they've gone
straight to his father's house."

"If you'd like to go back for them, Captain dear," put in Adeline, "I'll
pay for the cost of it."

It was to the Captain's shame that he looked more tenderly on Adeline
than on Mrs. Cameron, whom he regarded as a complaining woman of
depressing appearance.

"Do you think the young gentleman will marry her?" he asked Philip, in a
low voice.

"I'm sure he intends to," said Philip, with rather more certainty than
he felt.

"Come, come, it may not be so bad as you think," the Captain comforted
Mrs. Cameron. To Adeline he said, "Look backward, Mrs. Whiteoak! The
ship's been flying away like a bird. You must understand that it's
impossible for us to return for a young runaway couple."

"It's all _her_ fault!" shrieked Mrs. Cameron. "She's as wicked as her
brothers. We don't want their kind in our beautiful young country!
They're evil!"

Mrs. Cameron became hysterical and it was with difficulty that the
Captain and the steward got her back to her cabin. For the remainder of
the voyage she never left it. Fortunately there had joined the ship at
Galway two new passengers with whom she made friends. They were a
married couple from Newfoundland. The husband was in the fisheries
business; the wife, deeply religious, was a great comfort to Mrs.
Cameron.

The other passengers, and particularly those in the steerage, chose to
regard the elopement as a youthful romance and poor Mrs. Cameron as a
tyrannical parent. Conway Court had been a favourite on board and it was
the general opinion that the plain young girl had done extremely well
for herself--for it was taken for granted that he would marry her.

The winds were fair and the ship sped on. The livestock became fewer. A
poor woman from Liverpool, under a terrible lack of privacy, gave birth
to a child. In the salon Captain Whiteoak, Messrs. D'Arcy, Brent and
Wilmott played at bezique each evening, while they sipped French brandy
out of small green glasses that were filled from a wicker-clad bottle.
Adeline would sit watching them, her wide skirts spread gracefully about
her, her chin in her palm while her eyes moved contemplatively from one
face to the other of the players.

Then one night a frightening thing happened. James Wilmott had just
carried a small glass of the liquor to Adeline's side, for she looked
pale and rather languid. There came a shuffling sound on the
companion-way, a growling sound of voices. Adeline half rose in her
chair. The four men turned their heads toward the door. Crowding into it
they saw a mob of rough, fierce-looking men. They were carrying clubs,
sticks, any weapon they could lay their hands on. The whites of their
eyes glistened in the light of the swaying hanging-lamp. One of them
raised a hairy arm and pointed to Wilmott.

"Yon's him!" he exclaimed.

With a threatening growl the others moved in a body toward Wilmott, who
faced them coolly.

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

"You are Thomas D'Arcy, Esquire, ain't ye?"

"No, my name is Wilmott."

D'Arcy rose to his feet. "I am Thomas D'Arcy," he said, smiling a
little.

"Yes--that's him--the blackguard! The bloody villain! The cold-hearted
brute!"

They came forward with cursings, most of them unintelligible from the
brogue.

"What's all this about?" shouted Philip, putting his stalwart figure in
opposition to the mob.

Their spokesman shouted, "Get out o' the way, yer honour! That villain,
D'Arcy, is the man we want. We're not going to leave two whole bones in
his body, and may hell-fire blast it when we're done with it!"

"I've done no harm to any of you," said D'Arcy, pale but contemptuous.

"Haven't ye, thin? And didn't ye evict Tom Mulligan's ould parents into
the winter night, and the rint for the tumble-down hovel that was their
home only three months behind? And didn't his poor ould father die of
the cold and wet and his poor ould mother of a broken heart? And here's
Tom to give ye the first blow himsilf!"

A thick-set man, waving long arms and a club, detached himself from the
rest and, with a black scowl, shrieked:

"Take that, ye black-sowled murderer!" D'Arcy's skull would have been
opened by the blow if he had not snatched up his chair and defended
himself with it.

In an instant Adeline found herself the spectator of a terrifying scene.
Philip, Brent and Wilmott also snatched up their chairs and met the
attackers shoulder to shoulder with D'Arcy.

Philip shouted to her, "Run, Adeline! Out through the other door!"

Instead she ran forward and flung herself on the raised arm of the
spokesman, who brandished a hammer. She uttered a shriek that was heard
even above the tumult. And at the same instant Captain Bradley and the
mate appeared from the companion-way carrying pistols.

"Now, men, do ye want a bullet in you?" shouted Captain Bradley. "Lay
down those cudgels!"

Like a sudden squall, the fury of the peasants passed. They stood quiet,
relaxed, like the sails from which the gale has receded. They stared in
silence at the Captain.

"These men," explained D'Arcy, "seem to think I evicted the parents of
one of them and caused their death, but I did nothing of the sort."

"It was yer agent done it!" retorted the spokesman. "It was that
twister, McClarty--the murderer--and yoursilf off to the races at Dublin
or Liverpool and niver knowing how yer tenantry is trated! Ye didn't
care, if you could lay hands on the rints."

"Ay, that's true," added Mulligan. "And my poor ould parents getting
their death out of it!"

"It's a shame to him!" cried Adeline. "And if I had known it I should
have been fighting on your side, Mulligan, instead of against you!" She
was beside herself with excitement and exhilaration. She could hear the
whistle of the wind, the clash of the waves. The wild scene had stirred
something savage in her. The peasants crowded about her.

"Thank you, me lady! God save you."

"May the Saints bless you! May yer children grow up to comfort you."

D'Arcy spoke calmly to the men. "Why did you attack me," he asked,
"after all these weeks?"

"Sure, we'd just found out who you are, divil take you!"

A movement passed through them and it seemed for a moment that Adeline
might be put to the test. But Captain Bradley's authoritative voice
ordered them below and like a troubled wave they receded, though with
mutterings.

Philip had been embarrassed by Adeline's outbreak against D'Arcy. He
foresaw that their relations would not be so pleasant for the rest of
the voyage. D'Arcy was watching her sulkily as she paced up and down the
salon declaiming against the cruelties of absentee landlords, telling of
how her own father never left his estate and knew the personal history
of every man, woman and child on it.

"Your father may be a paragon, in all truth, Mrs. Whiteoak," returned
D'Arcy, "but you cannot blame me for all the wrongs of Ireland."

"You've no love for the people nor for the land," she answered. "Your
heart is not there! So what can you bring to the place but misfortune?"

"Well," put in Brent, "I've sold every acre I owned in Ireland, and I'm
glad of it!"

"I'd be better off if I had done the same," declared D'Arcy.

Adeline flashed a look of scorn on them both. "And have ye no pity in
your hearts," she cried, "for the suffering of those poor people?"

"Come, come, Adeline," interrupted Philip. "It's late. You should go to
your bed." He turned to D'Arcy. "She is overwrought and tired."

"I'll lay my head on no pillow tonight. I've seen too much. I'll stay
here with Mr. D'Arcy and Mr. Brent and argue the matter out with them
till sunrise."

"I'm sorry," said D'Arcy, "but I think I shall have to rest for a bit."
He put his hand to his forehead and she saw a discoloured swelling near
his temple.

She went close to look at it. "Ah, well, and did a blow really land on
you!" she exclaimed. "Ah, I am sorry for that!"

Her anger was gone. She had a basin of hot water brought and herself
bathed his head. Their friendship was restored.

But the next day she was not well. She could not leave her cabin. The
weather became stormy. She suffered from nausea. Philip coming into the
cabin, found her sitting on the side of her berth, very pale, her eyes
wet with tears. But there was nothing tearful in her voice as she turned
its vibrant tones on him.

"Well," she demanded, "and what do ye think has happened to me?"

"Are you worse?"

"Ay, I'm worse." She stared moodily for a space at the heaving floor of
the cabin then raised her eyes accusingly to his. She said:

"Ay, I'm worse and shall be worse still before I'm finished with it. I'm
going to have a baby!"

"My God!" The glass of sherry he had brought her dropped from his hand.

"Well," she cried, "you are a ninny! To think that you'd let fall a
glass at the news, when it's I who ought to be throwing things about."

"I didn't throw it! I dropped it."

"'Tis one and the same--at a moment like this--and I needing the
sherry!"

"Are you positive?" he asked.

"That I need the sherry?"

"That you are going to have a baby?"

"I wish I were as positive that this ship would arrive in port."

He could not help exclaiming, "I wish to God you'd waited till we were
settled in Quebec!"

She retorted, the colour returning to her cheeks, "And I wish _you_ had
waited. But no--would such a thought ever enter your head? No, my lord,
you must have your pleasure, let come what may! And now you say you wish
_I_ had waited! Oh, it's well that the good Lord made women patient and
mild--with all they have to go through from the unreasonableness and
selfishness of men! Yes--I wish we'd both waited before ever we took the
way to the altar."

"You took good care not to let me see you in one of your tempers before
I married you."

She looked him in the eyes. "And did you ever give me such cause for
temper before you married me?" she demanded.

He burst out laughing. "Now you are just ridiculous," he said.

He brought her another glass of sherry.

As he saw her sitting on the side of the berth wrapped in a great shawl
with red stripes on it, and her fingers playing with the fringe of the
shawl, a pang of pity went through him. For all her fine proportions she
looked like a forlorn child. He sat down beside her and held the glass
to her lips.

"My only reason," he said, "for wishing this had not happened till later
is because of the discomfort of travelling when you're _enceinte_."

She gripped his fingers and managed to smile a little.

"Oh, I shall be all right," she said.

He gave her another sip of the sherry. Then he exclaimed, "If it's a boy
we'll call him Nicholas, after my uncle!"

"I'd have liked Philip."

"No. I don't want any Philip but myself in your life."

"Very well. He shall be Nicholas. But never Nick or Nicky for short."

"Never."

A knock came on the door. It was the overworked stewardess to tell them
that the ayah was once more very sea-sick and quite unable to look after
the baby. The ship was now wallowing in a trough of the waves. She
herself seemed to be suffering also, for her timbers gave forth the most
melancholy creakings and groanings. Those on board could not help
remembering her former betrayal of them and were prepared at any moment
to hear that she had sprung another leak.

"Bring the child here," said Philip.

The stewardess brought Augusta who came smiling, a shell held to each
ear.

"Would it be possible for you to look after her?" Philip asked the
woman. "My wife is not well. I shall make it worth your while."

"I'll do what I can for the poor bairn but I'm nearly run off my feet as
it is. Half the passengers are sick again."

When she had gone Adeline exclaimed:

"I do dislike that woman! She never speaks of Gussie without calling her
'the poor bairn'--as though we neglected or ill-treated her!"

Philip set his daughter on his knee. "If only she had taken to my
sister," he said, "as she should have done, she might be enjoying
herself in England now, instead of adding to our problems here!"

Gussie threw her shells to the floor and reached out for his
watch-chain. He took out his large gold watch and allowed her to listen
to its tick which enraptured her so that she bounced on his knee.

The weather grew stormier. There was no forgetting it. Day and night the
struggle between it and the ship went on. Wind, waves and teeming rain
hammered, tossed and drenched the ship. Sailors scrambled to the most
precarious and dizzy heights up the masts as she struggled on, hour by
hour making the way a little shorter. Oh, that the land would appear!
Adeline had never felt so ill in her life. She could scarcely stand, yet
she had to drag herself into the ayah's cabin and do what she could for
her, which was little enough. She had to tend her child, who still cried
a great deal, and when the child was quiet and Adeline might have slept
a little, Boney would take it into his head to shout of his pleasure
which seemed unbounded.

Suddenly the condition of the ayah became alarming. Her small form grew
shrunken, her face almost green. Only her great burning eyes, with the
dark shadows under them, looked alive. Her fevered mouth babbled of
far-off days in India. Adeline was distraught to see her so. She
gathered together all her own strength to care for her. She supported
her in her arms and every few moments wiped the sweat from her sunken
face with a handkerchief.

The silver bangles on the small brown wrists tinkled ceaselessly as the
restless hands moved upon her breast. Then suddenly her eyes opened
wide. It was on the third day of her terrible illness. She looked up
mournfully into Adeline's face as though in question.

"What do you want, Huneefa?" Adeline asked.

She seemed not to hear but began to arrange her heavy dark hair on her
forehead. She took it lock by lock in her thin fingers and arranged it
as though for a festival.

Adeline laid her back on the pillow. She tottered out into the passage
and called hoarsely for Philip. He was not near but James Wilmott heard
her and came, his face full of anxiety.

"Come quick," she said. "Huneefa is dying!"

He came into the dark, sour-smelling cabin.

"I must fetch the doctor," he said.

As though to add to their miseries the doctor had, two days before,
slipped on the deck and injured his hip. He could scarcely move for the
pain but he came, supported on Wilmott's shoulder. He was a young man of
little experience but one glance at the ayah told him that her hour had
come. He told Wilmott to take Adeline back to her cabin but she refused
to leave. In a short while Huneefa died.

Her death came as a shock to Adeline and, in a lesser degree, to Philip.
All their married life she had been an intimate shadow, first as a maid
to Adeline, later as ayah to Augusta. They had taken her devotion for
granted. As she was never really well, her illnesses caused them no
alarm. Even the jaundice which had complicated her sea-sickness had not
brought real apprehension. Now it seemed that she had wilfully deserted
them--Huneefa, who had been so unquestioningly faithful! They discovered
what a strong prop her frail body had been in the edifice of their life.

Even the ayah's death did not cause Mrs. Cameron to relent. She remained
remote in her cabin, her new friend at her side.

Adeline herself prepared Huneefa for burial, arranging her best robe
about her, crossing her hands on her breast. For the last time the
silver bangles tinkled on the thin wrists. Then Adeline carried Augusta
to her side, for a last look. Augusta was pleased and leant down from
Adeline's arms with a little laugh.

"Kiss her then," said Adeline. "Kiss her good-bye."

Gussie planted a moist kiss on the bronze cheek and held the shell she
carried to Huneefa's ear.

"Oh, dear--oh, dear--why did she go!" groaned Adeline. She would have
given anything she owned to have brought back life to Huneefa. She drew
the veil over the still face and turned away.

Gussie did not give another glance at the one who had been her slave.
She held the shell to her mother's ear and, clutching her neck, leant
down to peer into her face. She was surprised to find that Adeline was
not laughing but that tears were on her cheeks.

It was a cold grey day when they gathered on deck to commit the ayah's
body to the sea. The sea was not so rough as it had been but the waves
still surged in sullen aimlessness about the ship. The deck had been
cleaned. The sailors were drawn up in order, looking neat and clean,
their bare feet planted on the moist deck. The steerage passengers were
also collected, their children grouped about them. The women wore shawls
over their heads. Those among them who were Irish, and they were by far
the greater part, had the keening ready on their lips but held it back.

Patsy O'Flynn was there, wearing his great-coat and a strange woolly cap
that came down to his shaggy eyebrows. He had brought with him a bundle
containing his most cherished possessions, from which he would not be
parted for an instant, and this lay on the deck beside him. He had asked
to be allowed to hold Augusta in his arms during the ceremony. She had
on her white coat and little lace bonnet. Patsy was so proud of her and
of the importance of his position in carrying her that he could not keep
his mind on the ceremony but cast self-conscious looks at his fellow
passengers to make sure that they were noticing him.

It was strange to see D'Arcy, who not many days before had been the
object of these men's fury, standing face to face with them with
apparent forgetfulness, on both sides, of what had passed.

Adeline stood between Philip and Wilmott. The nervous tension seemed to
have given her strength for the occasion but the flush on her cheeks
looked fevered to Philip and he frequently turned anxious eyes on her.
Wilmott stood austere and motionless as a statue.

At the Captain's feet lay the body of Huneefa, sewn securely in canvas.
He read the Burial Service in a clear, resonant voice. It was odd to see
him on deck not wearing his gold-braided cap. He was getting a little
bald and the lock of fair brown hair on the top of his head continually
rose and fell in the gusty wind. Adeline noticed the uncovered heads of
all the men and that Patsy alone wore his cap. She motioned him to take
it off but it was some time before he could understand what she meant.
He made a number of comical attempts at obeying the message he did not
grasp, shifting the baby from one arm to another, hiding his bundle
behind his feet, assuming a more funereal expression. Then suddenly he
discovered what she wanted him to do and, with a happy smile, pulled off
his cap and stood with his unkempt thatch uncovered.

Deliberately Captain Bradley read the service for the dead, ending with
the appropriate words: "'We therefore commit her body to the deep, to be
turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body (when
the sea shall give up her dead) and the life of the world to come,
through our Lord Jesus Christ; who at His coming shall change our vile
body that it may be like His glorious body, according to the mighty
working, whereby He is able to subdue all things to Himself.'"

There was a movement among the sailors. The ropes that controlled the
body tautened. It was raised above the deck over the railing, then
slowly, gently, with a kind of meek majesty, lowered into the sea. It
seemed to Adeline, looking over the side, that the waves parted to
receive it, then without a sound slid across it, enfolded it, and so it
was lost to view. A fresh gust of wind caught the sails. A lively
thunder passed through them and the ship moved forward as though eager
to be at her journey's end and have done with these delays.

Gussie, from the security of Patsy's arms, watched the body of Huneefa
sink out of sight. She turned to look into Patsy's eyes.

"Gone," she said.

"God bless the child!" he exclaimed to those about him, "she understands
everything. Och, the cliver brain she has and a way of talkin' to beat
all!"

A hymn now rose from the throats of those assembled. "'Eternal Father,
strong to save, Whose arm doth bind the restless wave,'" they sang, and
the sound of their own voices, the act of singing which expanded their
breasts, the confidence in the words they uttered, made them happier.
The meek figure that had been lowered into the waves became less
dominating, was at last left far behind. The steerage passengers
returned to the accustomed evil smells of their quarters; Gussie was
once more in her mother's arms.

Adeline, feeling suddenly exhausted, carried her to a sheltered corner
on the deck and gave her the bag containing her sea-shells, and a
biscuit to eat. Wilmott sat down with his pipe and a copy of the
_Quarterly Review_, beside Augusta. They were strange companions but
there was a kind of understanding between them. Adeline then went to lie
down in her berth.

The days that followed were afterward looked back on by Philip as a kind
of nightmare. Adeline developed a fever which, before many hours, threw
her into delirium. She talked wildly and incoherently, now fancying
herself back in India, now a young girl in County Meath, now in terror
of Red Indians in Canada. Sometimes it took all Philip's strength to
keep her from springing out of the berth. The young doctor, still
suffering cruelly from his injured hip, scarcely left her side. Boney
perched at the head of the berth and it was a curious thing that, when
her delirium was at its height, his cries had a soothing effect on her.
He would listen to her babblings, his head on one side, then as her
voice rose louder and louder he would raise his own in shrill shouts, as
though to show how he could outdo her.

The dreadful lack of privacy was abhorrent to Philip. The partitions
were so thin that all their miseries were audible. It was said that Mrs.
Cameron was ill too. Certainly she made neither sign nor offer of help.
She and the Newfoundlanders kept quite to themselves. The stewardess
kept Augusta with her as much as she could but there was much sickness
on board to claim her. Wilmott would carry Gussie up and down the deck
by the hour, singing to her. But often she was on Philip's hands and he
was at his wits' end to know how to cope with the intricacies of her
diet and her toilet. She was left for a good deal of time alone in the
cabin where the ayah had died. The stewardess provided her with a tin
plate and a large spoon with which she enlivened what might have been
many dreary hours. She was pinned to the bedding of the berth with large
safety-pins so that the rolling of the ship might not hurl her to the
floor. Her attitude toward Philip was one of curiosity mixed with
suspicion. When he did things for her she looked on patronisingly as
though she was thinking how much better Huneefa would have done them.

On the third day Adeline's delirium left her. She had been babbling and
Boney had startled, then silenced her by his cries. She lay quite still,
looking about her with large mournful eyes, then she spoke in a natural
voice.

"I am tired of listening to that bird," she said.

Philip bent over her, his face solicitous.

"Shall I take him away?"

"No, no. But give him a fig. That will quiet him. They are in the tin
box in the cupboard." She stared at him as he obeyed her. Then she
laughed weakly. "How funny you look! As though you hadn't shaved for
days!"

"Neither I have."

"Have I been very ill?"

"Pretty bad."

"I'm better now."

"Thank God for that!"

The parrot sidled along the perch to meet the fig. He accepted it with a
humorous expression, then began tearing small pieces from it and
spitting them out. But it kept him quiet.

Philip sat down on the edge of the berth and Adeline took one of his
strong brown hands in her thin white hands and stroked it. She pressed
her teeth against her quivering under-lip.

"I was just remembering Huneefa," she said.

He kissed her. "You must not think of anything unhappy," he said. "Just
think of getting well."

"We shouldn't have brought her from India."

"She wanted to come. She would have been broken-hearted if we'd left
her."

"I know."

She was undoubtedly better. She drank some broth and would have slept
but Augusta was beating on her tin plate. The noise excited Boney. He
began to scream. Adeline tossed on her lumpy pillow and filled her hands
with her long hair.

"Is there no peace on this ship?" she cried. "Whatever is that noise?"

Philip went to Gussie and took the plate and spoon from her and gave her
the bag of shells in their stead, but she threw these to the floor one
by one and then set up a lugubrious crying.

Philip decided he would take her to Wilmott and ask him to amuse her for
an hour. He strode back to where she sat with streaming eyes tight shut,
mouth square and everything within reach hurled as far as her tiny
strength would allow. He picked her up not very gently. He discovered by
the dampness of her under-things that a change was imperative. He rang
the bell furiously for the stewardess. There was no answer. From the
confused heap that now constituted her wardrobe he extricated two
garments. Laying her across his knees he managed to put the diaper on
her but the white flannel petticoat which had been washed by the
stewardess, and extraordinarily shrunken, baffled him. Tired of lying
with her head hanging downward, Gussie had begun to squirm. She had
ceased to cry on being taken up but now she began again. Sooner would he
have set out to subdue a rebellious hill tribe than this squalling
little creature. He saw that her legs were red and chafed and he swore.

At the next instant he pricked her with the safety-pin--why the devil
had it been named _safety_-pin!--and at the sight of blood trickling
from the tiny wound, sweat started on his forehead.

"I didn't mean to! Upon my soul I didn't mean to!" he stammered but she
didn't believe him. As he set her upright on his knee she drew back her
chin and looked at him with apprehension, wondering what he would next
do to her. What he did was to carry her through the passages and down
the companion-way to where the emigrants were sitting in their
common-room. Here he almost threw her on to the lap of the respectable
Scotswoman, mother of five, and commanded her to care for his daughter
as best she could. It turned out that she cared for Gussie very capably,
neglecting her own hardy bairns to do it, and he paid her well for her
trouble.

****

As though the _Alanna_ had not had enough to contend with she next had a
narrow escape from collision with an iceberg. As it was early for these,
there was perhaps not such a strict watch kept as should have been.
Terrifyingly, at dawn the monstrous pale cathedral-like form gathered
itself together out of the mists. Some unusually hot weather had freed
it from the mass. It loomed, rising out of the Gulf Stream, like cold
malice made palpable. Yet it was shaped as a sacred edifice.

Shouts, warnings filled the air. Grigg was at the helm and doubled
himself over it to force the ship from calamity. She just escaped but
the chill air from the iceberg plunged those on board into sudden
winter. Philip ran down to the cabin. Now Adeline had been convalescent
for five days. She was beginning to draw on her clothes, frightened by
the running footsteps, the shouts. She had not heard Philip leave her
side.

"Are we taking to the boats?" she asked, in agitation.

"No. Nothing to worry about. But you must come on deck and see the
iceberg. It's stupendous, Adeline! You have your shoes and stockings on.
Just put your cloak over your nightdress. You must not miss this sight."

He half carried her to the deck. Now the iceberg was farther off. It had
lost its terror and gained in beauty, for the sun just showing a rim
above the horizon had touched a thousand facets into fire. It rose out
of the green waves in majesty, ethereal as a dream, unsubstantial as
hope. Yet deep down in the sea its icy foundation was greater than its
visible part.

After the Gulf Stream there was cold again and tall green seas arose. As
the _Alanna_ dived into them a snowstorm whistled out on the wind from
land, obscuring all but the nearest waves from sight. If more icebergs
were around, the ship was at their mercy. The look-outs posted high in
the shrouds could see nothing but the myriad white flakes that swarmed
over them, turning them into figures of snow, whipping their skin to
rawness, blinding their eyes. It became so cold that the spray froze on
the bulwarks, forming long sharp icicles like teeth shown in a grin.

The cabin passengers with the exception of Mrs. Cameron and her friends
gathered in the salon, a little sad, yet resigned that their long
intimacy was drawing to a close. But they would write to each other.
They would not forget. They sat wrapped in their travelling-rugs trying
to keep warm. Philip had got a large soapstone heated and this was at
Adeline's feet. The men sipped rum and water but she had a glass of
port. Wrapped in her fur cloak as well as her travelling-rug, she was
quite comfortable. She felt that she had returned from an individual
voyage that had carried her near to death. When she thought of Huneefa
it was as of someone lost long ago.

D'Arcy and Brent brought out their guide-books and maps and talked
eagerly of their prospective travels in Canada and, more especially, in
the States. The portholes were as though covered by cotton-wool. All
sounds on the ship were muffled, except that the cordage rang with the
onslaught of the wind.

Out of all this they came at sundown into a navy-blue sea and a red sun
glowing on its rim. The waves were streaked by foam, the icicles were
diamond bright, and then, wonder of wonders, they heard the whimpering
of a gull and its shadow sped across the deck!

It was the first but others followed, circling and crying out to the
ship, as though they carried a new message to her from a new world. A
tall spout of water from a whale's mouth rose bright out of the sea. He
swam close to the ship, amazed at the size of this great bird, then
leapt clear of the water and, with a glorious violent movement,
disported himself in the air, smooth as silk, dripping and muscular. All
from the cabins were now on deck and the monster seemingly was trying to
show them his strength.

Captain Bradley was beaming his satisfaction. He said, his brown hands
resting on the rail:

"We shall land in Quebec before many days! I never arrive after a voyage
like this without being struck afresh by God's mercy in bringing us
safely through. When you think of all that has passed since we first
left Ireland, and here we are with land nearly in sight!"

"You might add that a large part of the credit is due to your own good
seamanship," said Philip.

"But God's mercy is at the bottom of it," said the Captain.

The next morning land was in sight. The weary travellers in the steerage
crowded together to peer out at it. The air was crisp but kindly. Little
crinkles ran across the surface of the long waves. The icicles dripped,
then dropped into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The _Alanna_ entered the
mighty river. Green banks rose above the river and unfolded into dark
forests. Tiny white villages came into view mothered by white churches
with bright crosses on their steeples. Long narrow farms stretched close
for comfort. Cattle stood near the river's edge and the sweet smells of
the land came out to meet them. Was it possible that only a few days
before they had been in a snowstorm--that icicles had been hanging from
the ship?

It was Sunday morning and Captain Bradley read the church service with
the note of satisfaction and the thanksgiving still in his voice. There
was a tiny organ in the salon on which Wilmott played the accompaniment
to the hymn. The voices rose robustly, as though fear never had been
their companion. The words were enunciated with satisfaction.

                    "Fierce was the wild billow,
                      Dark was the night;
                    Oars laboured heavily,
                      Foam glimmered white.
                    Trembled the mariners;
                      Peril was nigh:
                    Then said the God of God,
                      'Peace: It is I.'

                    "Ridge of the mountain wave,
                      Lower thy crest;
                    Wail of the tempest wind,
                      Be thou at rest.
                    Sorrow can never be,
                      Darkness must fly,
                    Where saith the Light of Light,
                      'Peace: It is I.'"

Now Philip and Adeline were packing their belongings. Though some
articles had been lost or worn out during the voyage, they found the
greatest difficulty in squeezing the remainder into their portmanteaux.
Some fresh article always was turning up. Philip was irritated by the
fact that he still had to be very careful of Adeline's feelings. He
would have liked to blame her for some of the disorder. Surely she was
to blame for heaping travelling-rugs and her own shoes and a
dressing-case on top of his best coat. When at last the packing was
done, though badly enough, they suddenly remembered the ayah's cabin and
all that lay heaped and strewn in it. Boney was furious at being put
into his cage. He screamed and fretted there, flapping his green wings
and throwing about seeds and gravel. Adeline's voice came back to her,
loud and strong in the stress of the moment.

"I can't do any more!" she cried.

"Nobody's asking you to," snapped Philip, and he added as he went out,
"You've done too much already in the way of disorder."

"What's that you say?" she cried.

He did not answer.

She was weak but there was no need for her to totter as she entered the
ayah's cabin, or for her to sink panting on the side of the berth with
her hand to her side. Her voice was now a fierce whisper.

"What was it you said?" she asked.

"I said, God damme, I never saw such a mess! I should have brought a
valet from England."

"What you really said was that all this disorder was my fault."

"You're talking nonsense." He grasped a handful of Gussie's small
garments. "What about these? Hadn't we better leave them on board and
buy her new things?"

"Leave them!" she almost screamed. "And they of the finest Irish linen
and hand-embroidered! I will not leave one of them! Open that black box.
There will be room in it."

With flushed face he opened the box. She peered into it. "Where is the
doll?" she asked.

"What doll?"

"The beautiful doll your sister gave to Gussie. Huneefa kept it in that
box."

"It isn't here."

"It must be. You must find it."

He sat back on his heels and glared at her out of angry blue eyes. He
exclaimed:

"Have I come to this--that I must search for a _doll_ at the moment of
landing? It's not enough that I should pack diapers but I must crawl
about on my hands and knees searching for a _doll_! Egad, Adeline----"

"Never mind," she interrupted, frightened by the sight of his face.
"Don't search for it. It must be in the other cabin."

Somehow they got their things together. Somehow a couple of stewards
carried them toward the gangway, to the accompaniment of Boney's
screams. Philip carried his cage and kept his other arm firmly about
Adeline. He said:

"I sometimes wish we had never brought this bird."

"Leave him behind," she cried, "if he's a trouble! Leave him behind, and
me too! You can get another woman and another bird in Quebec."

He pinched her arm. "Behave yourself. People will hear you."

"I don't care! You were hurting me."

"Well, I care, and I _wasn't_ hurting you."

Wilmott came to meet them. "What a pity you have not been on deck! We
have had a grand view of Quebec. You should have done your packing
earlier. Can I help in any way?"

Philip put the bird-cage into his hand.

There was a great bustle and confusion. The air was full of shouts and
the whimpering of gulls. The great white sails of the ship were drooping
like weary wings. Barefoot sailors clung in the shrouds gazing down on
the crowded pier. Adeline turned a smiling face on Wilmott. "What should
we do without you?" she said.

"You know it is my pleasure to be of service to you," he replied,
somewhat stiffly, but a flush had risen in his sallow cheek. "You are
feeling much better, aren't you?" he added.

"I should be dead if I weren't."

"It is a good thing you found someone who could look after your child."

"Merciful heaven!" cried Adeline. "Where is Gussie? Oh, Philip, where is
Gussie? That terrible Scotch woman has probably landed and gone off with
her!"

"The ship has not docked yet," said Philip calmly. "The Scotswoman is an
excellent creature and has no need of another child. I have arranged
everything with her and paid her as well. Here comes Patsy now with
Augusta."

He watched his approaching daughter a little grimly. She was perched on
Patsy's shoulder, grasping him round the head. Her clothes were crumpled
and stained, her face and hands had a strange greyish cleanliness. The
cloth that had washed them had seen so much service! However, she looked
distinctly less ailing than when Philip had transferred her to the
steerage, and she greeted her mother with a faint smile of recognition.

"Oh, the darling!" cried Adeline, and kissed her. "Oh, Gussie, you do
smell sour," she added under her breath.

Boney decided to leave the ship head downward as he had come aboard.
Clinging by his dark claws to the ceiling of his cage, he saw
recognisable bodies moving about him. He felt the crisp May breeze in
his face--a breeze that had a very different flavour from the air below
decks to which he had become accustomed. He turned it over on his
tongue, not quite sure whether or no he liked it. Over the shoulders of
those about he glimpsed the dark fortress with white clouds banked
behind it--for Wilmott was a tall man and held his cage high.

Adeline felt strangely weak as she moved toward the gangway. Suddenly
D'Arcy and Brent presented themselves and, gripping each other by the
wrists, made a chair for her on which they implored her to seat herself.
She looked questioningly at Philip. Would he allow it?

"A good idea," he declared. "Thank you very much. Adeline will be
delighted."

So Boney saw his mistress carried off and screamed his approval. He
heard the shouts of French porters, saw the carrioles drawn by their
horses, in line by the side of the pier. Some passengers were met by
friends or relatives. Others had no one to meet them but stood
disconsolate and confused beside their little mounds of luggage. The two
young Irish girls were there, looking much less buxom than when they had
first sailed. Adeline gave them her address and told them to come and
see her the next day. Before D'Arcy and Brent set her on her feet, she
gave each a kiss on his cheek.

Brent exclaimed, "Is there anywhere else we can carry you?"

"Faith," added D'Arcy, "it would be no trouble at all to carry you to
the top of the Citadel!"

The Scotswoman darted from her brood to plant a last kiss on Gussie's
little mouth.

"Eh, the poor wee bairn!" she cried.

Her own children, thinking she had deserted them, came howling after
her. She turned to them and was lost to view.

How many priests there were about, thought Adeline, and how foreign
everything looked! She felt better now, really exhilarated and eager to
see her new home. Philip had got a carriage for her. Their three friends
were going to an hotel. She had a fleeting glimpse of Mrs. Cameron being
met by relatives. Fascinated, she saw their astonished questionings,
Mrs. Cameron's tragic gestures. She saw her raise a black-gloved hand
and point to Philip and herself. She stood motionless a moment, then
threw the group a smile. "I may as well let them think I don't care,"
she said to herself, "for they hate me and my brothers and nothing can
change that!"

Philip lifted her into the carriage and took Gussie on his own knee. The
wheels rattled over the cobbles and up the steep narrow streets.

Adeline began to laugh rather hysterically. Philip turned his head to
look at her.

"I was just thinking of the way Mrs. Cameron looked at me," she said.
"You'd think an elopement was a monstrous thing and that I had
engineered it. For my part, I think that little Mary did extremely well
for herself."




                                   VI
                     THE HOUSE IN THE RUE ST. LOUIS


IT stood before them, tall, and a little severe, with a many-windowed
faade. The knocker on the heavy door was a frowning gargoyle head.
Philip's firm knock echoed through the house. Adeline stood gazing at
the small-paned windows, the frames of which were painted black, with a
narrow gilt rim. She exclaimed:

"I can picture the old days here--satin breeches, powdered heads and all
that!"

"Nice to think it is ours," said Philip.

"Isn't it!"

Gussie, from her father's arm, reached out and thrust her tiny fingers
into the gargoyle's mouth.

"The street looks quare and foreign," put in Patsy, waiting on the
pavement with the bird-cage and his bundles. "Haven't we any land with
it at all?"

Philip could not get used to Patsy's way of joining in their
conversation. He frowned a little and knocked again. The door opened. A
short stout woman in a black dress stood before them. Obviously she was
French but mercifully spoke English. She explained that she had been
engaged as cook for them by the solicitor who had charge of Colonel
Nicholas Whiteoak's affairs. Doubtless Captain Whiteoak had communicated
with him. For herself she was eager to serve them. Her name was Marie.

Her appearance was reassuring. Philip ordered tea for Adeline. He looked
about the large drawing-room with satisfaction. Marie gave a cry of
delight and pounced on Gussie.

"_Ah, la pauvre petite!_" she cried.

Patsy had been standing in the dimness of the hall with the tiny silent
girl on his shoulder. He showed his large teeth between his straggling
whiskers in an ingratiating grin at Marie who now took possession of
Gussie.

"Ah, Madame, may I have the pleasure of feeding her? She looks so
fatigued, so pale."

Adeline thankfully agreed.

When they were alone Philip said again:

"It's nice to think this is ours. It looks like a well-built house and
there will be plenty of room for the things we brought."

Adeline flung open the solid dark-red shutters and the May sunshine
flooded the room which obviously had been but casually cleaned and
dusted for their reception. Adeline's bright gaze flashed about it. She
saw the black and gilt furniture, the ornate chandelier with its four
cylindrical red glass shades hung by crimson velvet cords. She cried:

"It's hideous!"

"Do you think so?"

"Don't you?"

"Well, I don't like everything in it. But it has possibilities."

"Was this your uncle's taste?"

"He bought it furnished--just as it stands."

She came and threw her arms about him.

"Oh, Philip, I shall have great fun doing it over! I declare I've never
so looked forward to anything. Let's explore the whole house."

"Not till you have had some refreshment. Remember your condition."

"Merciful heavens," she cried, "why are you always throwing that up to
me! I can't wink an eyelid but you say, 'Remember your condition!'"

Marie came in with a tray on which there were a pot of tea and some
small iced cakes. She gave them a beaming smile.

"_La pauvre petite_ is ravenous!" she exclaimed. "She has already eaten
three cakes and drunk a small cup of _caf au lait_. It is much, much
better for her than tea. Ah, her intelligence--her _savoir-faire_--her
beauty! That person who carried her tells me she has made the journey
from India and that the native nurse died. But never fear, I will, of a
certainty, guard her--better than she has ever been guarded before!"

Marie's devotion to little Augusta was not passing. Indeed it grew day
by day. She had the child continually with her. The suggestion that a
nurse should be engaged filled her with horror. There were no good
nurses in Quebec. She herself was the only person capable of giving
Gussie the proper care. All she needed was a young boy to do the rough
work and she knew the very boy--a nephew in fact of her own, and a
capable girl to act as housemaid--a niece of hers would exactly fill the
requirements. Much could be found for Patsy to do in a house of this
size. For example, the goat had to be cared for, the steps cleaned, and
the garden kept in order. The goat was free to graze in a small near-by
orchard, which property also belonged to Philip.

He spent happy days becoming acquainted with the details of his
inheritance. He had long talks with his uncle's solicitor, Mr. Prime.
The deeds were in perfect order. There was nothing to worry about. He
and the two Irishmen, D'Arcy and Brent, who were staying at a near-by
hotel, accompanied by Wilmott who had less expensive accommodation in a
_pension_ just down the Street, explored the old town, climbed the hill
to the Citadel, dined with the officers at the Fort. Every fine
afternoon Philip hired a carriage and took Adeline and one of the
gentlemen for a drive into the country. The scenery was delightful, the
late Canadian spring flowering into a plenitude of spreading leaf and
bloom. They looked down at the majestic river and talked of their past
voyage which was beginning to seem like a troubled dream. The
invigorating air, Marie's good cooking, soon brought colour to Adeline's
cheeks and strength to take the place of weakness.

Their furniture arrived in excellent condition. The uglier of the pieces
belonging to Uncle Nicholas were banished and the elegances of
Chippendale took their place. The rugs they had brought from India were
laid with fine effect on the polished floors. The red-shaded chandelier
was replaced by one of crystal. In truth Uncle Nicholas would have found
it difficult to recognise his house.

They speculated a good deal about him but could find little in the house
by which they could reconstruct his life there. There was not a single
picture of him, but a portrait of the Duke of Kent, under whose command
he had come to Quebec, hung in the drawing-room. Mr. Prime, the
solicitor, described Colonel Whiteoak as fine in appearance, a little
hasty in temper, hospitable in habit, a connoisseur of good wine. But
though Philip searched every inch of the cellar he did not find a single
bottle to reward him. It was strange, for his uncle must have had a good
supply at the time of his death. Among his papers there was little to
reveal him. He had kept no journal as a receptacle for his thoughts.
There were, however, a few letters of an amorous nature from a French
lady in Montreal. These were tied together with a piece of tape and on
the last one was written, in the Colonel's small legible
hand,--"Marguerite died January 30th, 1840."

As it was difficult for either Philip or Adeline to read French
handwriting, they made out little from the letters except that
Marguerite had a husband whom she detested, and that she adored Nicholas
Whiteoak. What a blessing it was that she had not been free to marry
him! So simply might this pleasant property have been lost!

Letters from Philip's sister and the Dean had been preserved also.
Philip and Adeline read these with interest and sometimes chagrin, for
there were several references to the extravagances of their life in
India.

Within two months Philip and Adeline had become happily domiciled in the
French-Canadian town and knew everyone who was worth knowing. Her health
was vastly improved and her condition hampered her activities but
little. She was hospitable and liked to entertain her friends and be
entertained by them. She found more interesting people here than she had
dared hope for. She wrote long letters home enlarging on the elegance
and liveliness of the soires given by the socially distinguished. She
wanted her father to know that she was not living in the barbarously
primitive community he had pictured. She had had, as a girl, a French
governess and, though she could read little French, she could speak it
after a fashion and now set to work to improve herself in the language.
By her vivacity and gaiety she drew to herself the French as well as the
English society of Quebec. She became intimate with the next-door
neighbours on either side of her.

The Balestriers, on the left, were a lively married pair with a
half-dozen children. Madame Balestrier was congenial to Adeline and the
two spent many hours together, she imparting to Adeline the intimate
gossip of the place. They drove together; shopped together; the two
families had picnics on the banks of the river, the scenery now in its
summertime glory. The one disadvantage in the society of the Balestriers
was the behaviour of their children. Adeline's own young brothers had
been spoilt by their mother and Adeline had always vowed she would never
spoil a child of her own. But it was not that the young Balestriers were
so greatly humoured as that they were always in evidence. Life was one
prolonged struggle between them and their parents. They did everything
under protest. Their manners were exemplary toward the Whiteoaks but
they never addressed their parents except in a high complaining voice.
Even the eldest boy, who was fourteen, used this same voice when talking
to his mother and father.

Their neighbours on the other side were the de Granvilles who were
natives of France. They were an elderly brother and sister whose parents
had been executed by the Revolutionists, and who had been brought out to
Canada by distant relations. Mademoiselle de Granville was in the middle
sixties, a clever talker, kind-hearted, full of vitality. Her life was
given to the care of her brother's comfort. She had been little more
than a baby at the time of the Revolution but Monsieur de Granville had
seen horrors which had made an impression on him never to be erased. He
was subject to spells of melancholy which came upon him at the most
unexpected times, perhaps in the middle of a dinner-party. Then he would
sit staring straight ahead of him with a dazed expression, hearing
nothing, seeing nothing, frozen in some terrible, though dimly
remembered, happening of childhood. At those times his sister would take
a masterly lead in the conversation, holding the attention of all till
Monsieur de Granville had regained possession of himself. Then he would
be quick of wit, gay and charming. He had a beautiful and distinguished
face, in contrast to his sister's plainness of feature.

Adeline felt a relief which she never acknowledged to Philip, in the
fact that her brothers had returned to Ireland. Conway and Sholto might
well have been a handful in Quebec. What might not their pastimes have
been, with endless time on their hands! Certainly they would have had
clashes with Philip. Her mother wrote telling of their return home with
Mary Cameron and of the scene that ensued. She covered a dozen pages
describing the tirade of mingled anger and derision which Renny Court
had poured out on the three. She said she had never seen a girl so
completely absorbed by love as the fifteen-year-old Mary. It made her
impervious to all else. It was in truth rather disgraceful at her age,
especially as Conway was little more than a schoolboy. The only thing to
do was to keep a strict watch on the pair, though to guard them now,
after all the freedom they had been allowed on board ship and in Galway,
was little more than a farce and it did seem rather hard that, just when
she had looked forward to a period of peace, this should have happened;
and her husband as usual blaming her for everything. She also had had a
long letter from Mrs. Cameron who declared that Adeline had been aware
of all that went on and who demanded that Mary should be put on the next
ship bound for Montreal, under suitable chaperonage, as though the girl
needed a chaperon now!

Renny Court wrote briefly to Adeline saying what a pity it was that she
should have travelled all the way from India to bring such trouble on
the family. It would be well, he wrote, if, instead of returning the
luggage the two boys had left on the ship, she would send him a cheque
for it as the contents would be of no use to them in Ireland and would
doubtless be of great value in the wilds.

"Oh, the meanness of him!" Adeline cried. "Oh, he'd take the coppers
from a dead man's eyes! He'd skin a flea for its hide and tallow! Of
what use are my brothers' things to me or to anyone here? I'll not send
him a copper for them! Oh, I don't forget the time when I broke off my
engagement to Edward O'Donnel! Edward refused to take back his ring. He
said I was to do as I liked with it. My father said it would be a
disgrace for me to wear the ring and he gave me twenty pounds for it.
Later I found that he had sold it for four times as much and, when I
upbraided him for it, he said he had needed the money to pay off a debt
of my brother Esmond's. He's my favourite brother so what could I do?
But, oh, what a bold brazen face my father has! He can look you in the
eye and say anything."

"He can," agreed Philip. "Just the same I think I shall send him the
cheque for your brother's things. The trunks and portmanteaux are better
than one can buy here. The guns and fishing tackle can always be used.
As for the clothes, I dare say we can find someone who will be glad of
them."

The next letter Adeline had from Lady Honoria told of the marriage of
the youthful pair in the Chapel at Killiekeggan Castle. After careful
consideration, she wrote, they had decided that Conway must make
honourable amends to the girl he had wronged. Mary herself had declared
that she was the possessor of a tidy fortune and investigation had
proved this was true. Therefore honour and foresight would each be
satisfied. Mary was a sweet, gentle girl and already the family were
becoming attached to her. It would look well on the part of Philip and
Adeline if they would send a handsome wedding present.

Between one thing and another the summer passed. It rolled past swiftly
and pleasantly like the St. Lawrence in its summer mood. Sometimes the
heat was great but the house in the Rue St. Louis was comparatively
cool. How lovely the walks on the terrace in the evening, when one
gossiped with one's friends, while far below the lamps of the Lower Town
twinkled and the lights of ships came out like jewels on the breast of
the river. Sometimes Adeline gave a mourning thought to the ayah whose
slender bones must by this time be bare of her dusky flesh. The mystery
of Gussie's doll was never cleared. Gussie herself did not repeat the
word "gone." Now she was learning to chatter in French and when she was
addressed in English she would turn away her little head with an
offended air. She could toddle, holding fast to Marie's hand, and she
had an enchanting way of lifting her feet high as though she were
mounting a flight of stairs. Patsy O'Flynn was her slave. She loved the
smell of his strong pipe and the feel of his coarse grizzled hair in her
hands. Pull as she would she could not pull it out.

James Wilmott came to the house every day. Philip supplied him with the
London papers which came regularly. They talked politics by the hour,
disagreeing just enough to make the discussions stimulating. If they
grew a little heated, Wilmott invariably made his departure, as though
he could not trust himself to quarrel.

"He's a gloomy dog!" Philip would exclaim. "And I sometimes wonder why I
like him about, but I do."

"You like him because he has brains," returned Adeline. "He has a very
good mind. I wonder that he hasn't done more with his life."

"He tells me he is hard up. He can't go on living here. He is going to
take up land and farm."

"Heaven help him!"

"It's what I should like to do."

"Aren't you happy here, Philip?"

"Yes, but it is more Frenchified than I had expected and there is so
much in the way of parties and gossip that we might almost as well have
stayed in India. There's something in me that isn't satisfied." He
thrust his hands into his pockets and strode up and down the room.

"Still, you have a very good time with the officers in the Fort. You
have had some splendid fishing. You are going duck shooting and deer
shooting in the autumn."

Philip frowned and pushed out his lips.

"Deer _shooting_!" he exclaimed. "_Shooting_ deer! For a man who has
chased the stag on horseback! It's barbarous!"

"Then don't do it."

He glared at her. "Well, I've got to do _something_, haven't I? A chap
can't sit twiddling his thumbs all day."

Adeline suspended her needle and glared back at him. She was making a
petticoat for the coming baby. It was of fine white flannel with a
design of grapes and their leaves embroidered above its scalloped hem.
She was an accomplished needlewoman and nothing in the way of ornament
was too much trouble for her. Indeed a simple garment did not seem to
her worth the making and it was a blessing her eyes were strong, for she
bent over the finest stitching by the hour in candlelight. Now she
suspended her needle and remarked:

"The trouble with you is you're too well. If you were miserable and ill,
as I am, you would be glad to sit still."

"You are not miserable and ill," he returned, "or you wouldn't be, if
you did not lace yourself so disgracefully."

"Then you'd like to take me out looking like a bale of hay?"

"I'll wager your mother never laced so, when she was in the family way."

"She did! No one ever knew when she was going to have a baby."

"No wonder she buried four!"

Adeline hurled the infant's petticoat to the floor and sprang up. She
looked magnificent.

At that moment Marie ushered Wilmott into the room. He threw Adeline an
admiring look, took her hand, bent over it and kissed it.

"Upon my word," exclaimed Philip, "you are getting Frenchified!"

"The fashion becomes this room and becomes Mrs. Whiteoak," Wilmott
returned, without embarrassment.

"It's namby-pamby," answered Philip.

"Namby-pamby!" repeated Wilmott, flushing.

"Yes," said Philip sulkily.

Wilmott gave a short laugh. He looked at Adeline.

"I like it," she declared. "Manners can't be too elegant for me."

"Each country has its own," said Philip. "I am satisfied to leave it at
that."

"It is much pleasanter," she said, "to have your hand kissed than to be
given a handshake that presses your rings into your fingers till you
feel like screaming, as Mr. Brent does."

She picked up her sewing and again seated herself. Wilmott took a
stiff-backed chair in a corner. Philip opened the red shutters and put
up the window. He looked into the street. The milk-cart, drawn by a
donkey, appeared. The brass can flashed in the hot sunshine. Six nuns
passed close to the window, their black robes billowing, their grave
faces as though carved from wax.

Philip went for his duck shooting and returned in high spirits. The
sport had been excellent, the weather perfect. The St. Lawrence, now of
a hyacinth blue, swept between its gorgeous banks that were tapestried
in brilliant hues by the sharp night frosts of October. Adeline felt
extraordinarily well as compared with the period before Augusta's birth.
She walked, she drove, she went to parties and gave parties. The
friendship between her and Wilmott strengthened. He had a fine baritone
voice and could accompany himself on the piano. Sometimes they sang
together and, with him for support, Adeline managed to keep the tune.
They would sing the songs she loved, from _The Bohemian Girl_. She would
lean against the piano, looking down into his face while they sang "I
dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls" or "Then you'll remember me," and
wonder what his past had been. He was always reticent concerning it. He
often spoke of the necessity of his finding congenial work but made no
move to do so. He left the lodgings he had taken and moved to still
cheaper ones. Philip and Adeline had a suspicion that his meals were all
too slight, yet he preserved his almost disdainful attitude toward food
at their abundant board. He talked of purchasing land.

The sudden sharp cold, the squalls of snow that came in November, were a
surprise. If November were like this, what would winter be! Philip
bought Adeline a handsome sealskin sacque, richly shaded from golden
brown to darkest, and of a rare fineness. A great muff accompanied it
and, at the French milliner's, she had a little toque made of the same
fur. Philip declared he had never seen her handsomer. Against the
background of the sealskin, the colour of her hair and eyes was brightly
accented, the scarlet of her lips declared.

For himself, Philip ordered to be made a great-coat lined with mink, and
with a collar of mink. A wedge-shaped cap of the same fur was worn at a
jaunty angle on his fair head. Adeline could not behold him, thus
clothed, without delighted laughter.

"Philip, you do look sweet!" she would exclaim and kiss him on both
cheeks in the French manner she had acquired.

They both were proud of Gussie's appearance. She stepped forth firmly in
fur-trimmed boots of diminutive size, a white lamb coat and muff and a
bonnet of royal-blue velvet. Marie then would place her in a snow-white
sleigh with upward-sweeping runners and push her triumphantly along the
steep and slippery streets. They chattered in French when Marie paused
to rest.

Wilmott provided himself with no adequate protection against the cold.
He must save his capital, he declared. He said he never felt the cold,
though he looked half frozen when he appeared at the Whiteoaks' door,
and always went straight to the fire. Sometimes he would bring a
newspaper printed in Ontario and read aloud advertisements of land for
sale in that province, or accounts of its social and political life.

Philip had engaged the best English doctor in town for Adeline's
confinement, but wilfully, it seemed to him, she was confined a
fortnight before the expected time. The doctor had driven in his sleigh
to a village twenty miles down the river to attend another accouchement
when Adeline's pains came on. She was sitting with Philip in the
drawing-room playing a game of backgammon. It was late afternoon, the
curtains were drawn and a fire blazed on the hearth. Boney, on his
perch, was conducting a low-toned conversation with himself in Hindu.
His breast was pouted, his neck sunk into his shoulders, he kept opening
and closing one claw on the perch like sensitive fingers. Adeline gave a
cry and put her hand to her side.

"A pain!" she cried. "A terrible pain!"

She doubled herself over the backgammon board, sending the men in all
directions. Philip sprang up.

"I'll fetch you some brandy," he said.

He strode to the dining-room and returned with a small glass of brandy.
She still had her hand to her side but she was calm.

"Are you better?" he asked.

"Yes. But give me the brandy." She sipped a little.

"It must be something you ate," he said, eyeing her anxiously.

"Yes... those nuts... I shouldn't touch Brazil nuts." She took
another sip.

"Come to the sofa and lie down."

He raised her to her feet. She took a step, then gave another cry. Boney
echoed it and peered inquisitively into her face.

"My God!" said Philip.

"Send for the doctor! Quick! Quick! Quick!" she cried. "The child's
coming!"

"It can't! The doctor's out of town."

"Then fetch another!" She tore herself from him, ran to the sofa and lay
down, gripping her body in her hands. "Get Berthe Balestrier's doctor!
Call Marie!"

In half an hour a short, burly French doctor with a pointed black
moustache stepped out of the December dark into the brightly lighted
bedroom to which Marie had supported Adeline. Philip walked the floor
below, filled with apprehension and distrust.

Inside of another hour a son was born to the Whiteoaks.

The celerity of this birth as compared with Gussie's, and Adeline's
speedy recovery from it, were a miracle to her. She gave all the credit
to Dr. St. Charles. She sang his praises to everyone who came to see
her. She even gave him credit for the vigour of the lusty babe. Though
Philip did not much like the idea, she added St. Charles to the chosen
name, and, though Christmas was three weeks off, the name Noel. She was
truly happy. Adeline was able to nurse Nicholas, which she had not been
fitted to do for Gussie. She found an English nurse who, with the
arrogance of her class, took almost complete possession of the babe.
Marie, however, would not give up Gussie. She and the nurse established
two hostile camps in the domestic quarters. The nurse had the advantage
of knowing she was almost indispensable to Adeline. Marie knew that
Philip revelled in her _souffls_ and meringues. When it came to having
words she had all the advantage of being able to pour forth a flood of
mingled English and French, unintelligible as she grew angrier,
unanswerable except by glares and head-tossings. The nurse extolled her
charge's beauty. He was the handsomest infant in Quebec. He looked like
the Christ-child. Marie could see no such resemblance and she, being a
good Catholic, ought at least to know something of the appearance of the
Blessed Infant. She told how people stopped her in the street to admire
_la petite_ Augusta, in her white lamb coat and blue velvet bonnet.

There was no disagreement between the parents as to the relative beauty
of their children. Nicholas was indeed a fine child and, in the months
that followed, he grew more attractive each week. His skin was like a
milk-white flower-petal. His brown eyes had golden lights in them and
early sparkled with mischief and vitality. He was not bald at his birth
but had a pretty coating of brown down which grew so fast that, by the
time he was five months old, his nurse could coax it into a fine Thames
tunnel, the very pride of her life. Adeline could see in him a strong
resemblance to her mother but there was a promise of Whiteoak
stalwartness in his infant frame. Philip said he was the image of
Adeline without the red hair. Adeline thanked God he had not inherited
that. She hoped none of her children would, for she looked on red hair
as a blemish. She had her wish. Not one of her four children had an
auburn hair in its head. It remained for her eldest grandson to inherit,
even in a more pronounced degree, her colouring.

The christening was an event in Quebec. The robe worn by Adeline and her
brothers, somewhat the worse for wear, was sent out from Ireland to
adorn him. The ceremony was at the Garrison Church, the guests being
entertained afterwards at the Whiteoaks' house where short but effective
speeches were made and much champagne was drunk to the health and future
happiness of Nicholas Noel St. Charles.

The Whiteoaks gave a still larger party at mid-Lent. The guests were
asked to wear the costume of the reign of Louis XVI. How they were
transformed by powdered hair and patches, by the elegance of their
costumes! Philip and Adeline were charming hosts. They were in their
element. The house in the Rue St. Louis echoed laughter and the music of
the dance, as it had not since the days of the Duke of Kent. During the
supper a cage full of artificial singing birds, which Adeline had been
given by Philip as a Christmas present, broke into song to the delight
of the company. Monsieur Balestrier drank a little too much champagne.
Adeline danced rather too often with Wilmott, though it was small
wonder, for he danced perfectly and his satin breeches and silk
stockings displayed the shapeliest of legs. He was wrong in having spent
so much money on a costume whose usefulness was for no more than a
night, but such was Adeline's ill influence on him, he told her, smiling
somewhat grimly down into her eyes.

The elderly brother and sister, Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Granville,
wore authentic costumes of the period, brought from France in the early
days. He wore the costume with melancholy distinction which, as the
night wore on, changed to a strange gaiety. He was Adeline's partner in
a quadrille when suddenly he stopped dancing, fixing his eyes on her
with a look of terror.

"What is the matter?" she asked anxiously.

"_Maman!_" he said, in a choking voice. "_Maman!_ Don't leave me!"

He stood transfixed, his fine face frozen into a mask of fear. His
sister came hurriedly and led him away. Those who noticed the incident
remarked only that poor Monsieur de Granville had had another of his
attacks of nerves but his sister perceived something more serious and
early next morning sent for Dr. St. Charles. He could do little to stem
the violence of the fever and delirium that followed. All the haunting
horror which had darkened Monsieur de Granville's life burst upon him
like an electric storm that throws a livid light into the darkest
shadow. He recalled everything. The dimly remembered horrors of his
childhood were as though they had happened yesterday.

For almost a week he was in this state, then the fever left him. He
became calm. He had no recollection of what had happened. He spoke
regretfully of his having to leave the charming party of the Whiteoaks
and begged his sister to see to it that his costume was carefully folded
and laid away. That night he died in his sleep.

The death of Monsieur de Granville was a shock to Adeline. Birth and
death had visited the adjacent houses in so short a time! If only she
had not given the fancy-dress party, poor Mademoiselle de Granville
would not now be going to Mass weighed down by black, with black rings
under her eyes! A bronchial cough kept Adeline indoors. The weather was
bitterly cold. It had been a severe winter and surely it was time for
spring. But day by day it grew colder. Great snowfalls made the streets
impassable, weighed upon the roofs till, having formed a mass too great
for the slope, it slid off with a crash into the street. All day long
men in mufflers and ear-muffs shovelled the snow, building high walls of
it on either side of the roads so that to see anyone on the opposite
side was impossible. Milk was delivered in frozen blocks. Meat was
frozen. One morning Patsy O'Flynn found a dog frozen stiff on the
doorstep. Philip had his ears frozen when returning from dinner at the
Fort. The thermometer sank to thirty degrees below zero. The lights of
the Lower Town twinkled palely at night like little cold stars. The sun,
aloof all day, blazed at its setting into crimson grandeur across the
ice-bound St. Lawrence. Like ice made manifest the metallic clangour of
church bells sounded in early morning across the town. Adeline could
hear the closing of the door and Marie's footsteps crunching on the snow
as she hastened to Mass. Gussie made herself a little shrine in a corner
of the kitchen out of a white table-napkin laid over a box on which
stood a picture of the Sacred Heart and, in front of it, a candle in a
tin candlestick. She genuflected when she passed this. She knelt before
it, crossing herself and moving her lips as in prayer. And she scarcely
two! Marie's eyes filled with tears as she watched her. Was the little
one perhaps too good to live? Nicholas' nurse exclaimed to Adeline:

"The child is turning into a papist, Ma'am. Right here, under our eyes."

"She might do worse, Matilda. If it pleases her to make a little shrine,
I shan't interfere."

A new member of the household and one who took up a good deal of room
was Nero, a huge black Newfoundland dog. Though he was young he was
burly and possessive. He behaved as though he were master of the house
and his coat was so thick that he was puzzled to know whether a beating
was in correction or play. He usually rolled in the snow before coming
into the house. Once inside he gave himself a tremendous shake, creating
a fair snowstorm, then took his place on the best rug, at Philip's feet,
and set about licking his great snowy paws.

He was the centre of the Whiteoaks' first "family group." The
photographer arranged Adeline on a Louis-Quinze chair which her
billowing garments quite concealed, with Nicholas on her lap. She wore
her sealskin sacque and little cap beneath which her hair escaped in
thick curls. The infant on her lap was clothed in white rabbit-skin with
the exception of his dimpled feet which were bare. Gussie stood at her
mother's knee, looking almost as broad as long in her white lamb coat
and velvet bonnet. Philip, in his fur-lined coat, stood proudly beside
his family and at their feet lay Nero, also manifestly impervious to
twenty below zero weather. Behind the group was a somewhat Grecian
landscape but this was offset by the impressive snowstorm that enveloped
all.

The Whiteoaks and their friends gazed long at this picture. Philip
bought a magnifying-glass, the better to discover its details. Two dozen
photographs were ordered, twenty-three of which were carefully wrapped
by him and posted to friends and relations in England, Ireland and
India, from which countries came in return letters admiring, jocular and
commiserating as regards the climate of Quebec. The twenty-fourth
picture was framed in maroon velvet and stood on a marble-topped table
in the drawing-room, along with an alabaster casket and ivory and jade
figures from the East.

The cold was indeed trying. It was still winter when April came. Wilmott
had definitely made up his mind to go to Ontario. He did his best to
persuade the Whiteoaks to do the same. Philip already had a friend, a
retired Anglo-Indian Colonel, who had settled on the fertile shore of
Lake Ontario. Colonel Vaughan was an older man than Philip. The Colonel
had known him in India, and his attitude toward him in this new land was
almost fatherly. He urged him to remove to Ontario where they might be
neighbours. "Here," he wrote, "the winters are mild. We have little
snow, and in the long fruitful summer the land yields grain and fruit in
abundance. An agreeable little settlement of _respectable_ families is
being formed. You and your talented lady, my dear Whiteoak, would
receive the welcome here that people of your consequence _merit_. If you
come, our home shall be yours till you have built a suitable residence.
My wife joins me in this offer in the most whole-hearted manner. Our
house is comparatively large and, though we live simply, I think we
could make you comfortable."

The transplanting to Canada had stimulated Adeline's venturous nature.
She was ready to move on, from province to province if need be, till the
ideal situation was found. She had made friends in Quebec but she could
go back to visit them. Her health had not been what she had hoped for
there. She dreaded another winter in that cold draughty house. The death
of Monsieur de Granville had affected her deeply. She felt in a small
degree responsible for it. And the crpe-clad figure of Mademoiselle de
Granville was a sad reminder. More than any of these, her desire to
retain Wilmott as a friend influenced her. His friendship meant more to
her than that of anyone in Quebec. If he went to Ontario this would be
lost to her. She consented to the migration.

Once that Philip and Wilmott had won Adeline over, they threw themselves
heart and soul into the preparation for the journey. The property in
Quebec was disposed of, though for a lesser sum than Philip had hoped
for. The packing of the furniture, the innumerable small preparations,
took time and energy. Only a year had passed since they had thrown
themselves with enthusiasm into turning the house in the Rue St. Louis
into an abode to their liking, and now it was dismantled! It resumed its
air of melancholy. They had made no impression on it.

All the Balestriers wept at parting from them. From Monsieur Balestrier
downward, they wept with less and less restraint till, when it came to
Lou-lou, the youngest, he clung to Adeline's neck screaming and kicking.
To comfort him she gave him a little mechanical dancing monkey he had
long admired. His tears were turned to joy. Pleasure swept upward as it
had progressed downward till at the last Monsieur Balestrier was able to
smile as he kissed Philip on both cheeks and bade him return to Quebec
when he found Ontario unbearable as certainly he would.

The furniture was to be stored in Quebec till sent for, only their
personal luggage, their livestock, consisting of Nero and Maggie the
goat, journeyed with the family and their two servants. It was a
heartbreak for Marie to part with Gussie. She cried till her features
were blurred and Gussie cried too, though she was pleased to be going on
a journey with her Mama and Papa. She would have liked to leave Nicholas
behind, for she had as yet no love for him. She had a real affection for
Nero and Maggie.

She remembered vaguely her sea voyage and, when she realised that they
were going to travel by ship again, her mouth went down at the corners
and she clung tightly to her nurse's skirt. But this was a fine steamer
and its progress was made up the bright river in complete comfort and
serenity. At Lachine they left the steamer and were installed on
splendid "bateaux" drawn by the lively French-Canadian ponies. Gussie
was enchanted. She gave a cry of delight when Patsy snatched her up
exclaiming:

"Look, yer honour, Miss! There is a pretty sight for ye!"

"Who are dose mens?" demanded Gussie in her limited English.

"Sure, 'tis the Governor of the North-West, they say, and him goin' back
to his seat. Ah, that's the life I'd like. Look at the fine clothes on
him and the Red Indians in war-paint to escort him!"

All the party stood gazing at the Governor. A crowd had gathered and a
cheer arose. Officers in uniform were with him and eight noble canoes,
manned by Indians, were his escort. Their bronzed faces fierce with
war-paint, their gay bead-embroidered jackets, the feathers that swept
from their jetty hair to their muscular shoulders, filled Adeline with
delight. She grasped an arm of Philip and Wilmott on her either side.

"Oh, what a letter I shall write home!" she cried. "I shall tell all
this to my father in a way to astonish him."

In dignity the stately boats swept by. Three dozen paddles rose and
dipped, as though guided by one arm. A British flag on every prow spread
its crosses to the sun. The Indians sang as they paddled, in rich but
mournful tones:

                  _"A la claire fontaine,
                    M'en allant promener,
                    J'ai trouv l'eau si belle,
                    Que je m'y suis baign.
                  Il y a longtemps que je t'aime,
                  Jamais je ne t'oublierai."_

Gussie raised her voice and joined in the song which she had so often
heard from Marie. She joined in, to her own satisfaction, though no one
heard a sound she uttered.

Through canals, along shores where orchards flourished, past wild rapids
and peaceful slopes, now by barge, now by stage-coach, the party
leisurely made their pleasant way. The sky arched high and turquoise
blue, the land smiled its promise. There seemed no limit to the
possibilities of this country. From the stage-coach they alighted at
taverns with painted floors and French cooking. On they journeyed till
they came to taverns with unpainted floors and a flow of hard spirits.
Philip, Adeline, Gussie, Nicholas, Matilda, his nurse, Patsy O'Flynn,
Nero, the Newfoundland dog, Maggie, the little goat, Wilmott, who
studied maps and deplored the way Philip scattered money about, all
moved westward to their new home. Only Wilmott did not go as far as the
Vaughans' but remained in the nearest village to enquire about the
possibility of buying a small place for himself.




                                  VII
                              VAUGHANLANDS


DAVID VAUGHAN had acquired from the government, at a very moderate cost,
several hundred acres of beautifully wooded fertile land. He had built a
comfortable but unpretentious house with a wide verandah across the
front, on which he and his family spent much of their time in the fine
weather. He had now lived there for three years and he regarded them as
his happiest years. He was one of those fortunate men who can look back
on the greatest undertaking of their lives and say it was well done, who
can look forward to the future secure in the thought that they are
settled exactly where they want to be and that no further change is to
be considered. He loved and admired his wife. He was proud of his son.
It was his most cherished wish to draw congenial people to the corner of
the province where he had settled, and, with their help, establish the
customs and traditions of England, to be enjoyed and cherished by their
descendants. To these he wished to add the breadth and freedom of the
New Land. He believed the combination to be the ideal one for comfort,
tolerance and content. He remembered Philip Whiteoak as a man who would
fit admirably into this pattern of living. He had not met Philip's wife
but he had heard that she was distinguished-looking and animated in her
conversation. To him it seemed worth a real effort to persuade such
desirable people to settle beside him.

As the trouble of a prolonged visit from the Whiteoaks would fall on
Mrs. Vaughan, she was less enthusiastic than he. She earnestly hoped
they would not stay as long as he had suggested. However, she prepared
two bedrooms, one for the nurse and two infants, the other for their
parents--Philip had forgotten to mention Patsy O'Flynn, the Newfoundland
dog and the goat--with a sense of cheerful anticipation. There was such
an abundance of game and fish, almost at their own door, that the
question of food was not too exacting. Later in the season, wild
strawberries, raspberries and blackberries would provide fruit. There
was no better bread or butter than was made in her own house. She defied
anyone to make as good cheese as she herself could. No, it was not the
meals that hung over her, it was the thought of outsiders always denying
their privacy, and she felt hurt that her husband seemed not to mind
that. As for her son, Robert, he was delighted. But what else could you
expect of a boy of nineteen who sometimes found life a little too quiet
in the country?

It was a lovely evening in the first week of June when Adeline and
Philip first saw the scene where the rest of their lives would be spent.
David Vaughan had sent a carriage and a pair of strong grey horses to
meet the stage-coach. Also a light farm wagon for their luggage. The
horses had spent the preceding night in the stable of an inn. They were
fresh and well-groomed when they started out on the return journey. The
Whiteoaks also had spent the night in the town and rose refreshed. But
the unpaved road was rough. It was well for them that the floods of the
spring were past, for at that time parts of the road had been washed
away. Now it was rough but passable. The air was exquisite, the scenery
charming. Between the trees they had glimpses of the lake which to them
looked like a sea, sparkling at morning in endless bright ripples; still
and of a hazy blue, in the afternoon; flaming beneath fiery clouds at
sunset. Partridge and grouse were caring for their nestlings in the deep
woods, small birds darted through the bright air. Above the thud of the
horses' hooves and the jingle of harness their song was heard.

The Vaughans came out to the verandah to greet them. David Vaughan and
Philip had not met since Philip's marriage. They shook hands warmly,
then each presented the other to his wife, the ladies to each other.
Mrs. Vaughan and Adeline looked with a good deal of curiosity into each
other's eyes. Mrs. Vaughan was determined to like Adeline but she had a
misgiving when she looked into her eyes, even though Adeline's smile was
sweet with blandishment. "I don't believe I shall like her," Alice
Vaughan thought, "but what beautiful teeth and skin she has!"

Adeline saw a wife in Alice Vaughan, a woman whose thoughts never ranged
beyond husband and children. She was handsome, in the early forties. Her
prematurely grey hair framed a square face with even features and large
grey eyes. Her complexion was clear and she had a good colour in her
cheeks. She wore a black silk dress but no crinoline. Her only ornament
was a large cameo brooch. On her smoothly arranged hair was a small
white lace cap. After a moment's hesitant scrutiny she took both
Adeline's hands in hers and kissed her.

"Welcome to your new home," she said.

"How sweet of you to say that!" cried Adeline, and the fervour of her
kiss was disconcerting.

"It is to be your home, you know," put in Colonel Vaughan, "till you
have built a house for yourselves."

Colonel Vaughan turned with tender eagerness to the children. Gussie
looked tired out, even though her little face was sunburned to an
unnatural rosiness, but Nicholas, sitting on his nurse's arm, was
superb. From under his white bonnet a dark curl hung above his fine
brown eyes. His face expressed complete well-being.

"What dear, dear children!" said Mrs. Vaughan. "What a lovely baby! Do
you think he will come to me?"

"He is a most gregarious rascal," said Philip. "He has made friends all
the way from Quebec."

Young Robert Vaughan had stood by quietly watching the interchange of
greetings. He resembled his father who looked the man of letters rather
than the soldier. Robert was slenderly made. He had reflective blue eyes
and a mass of fine fair hair which he wore rather long. He had spent the
first ten years of his life in India, then had been sent to school in
England. He had not joined his parents in Canada till the summer before.
He was to enter the University in Montreal in the autumn. He had not yet
settled down to life in Canada. He felt scarcely acquainted with his
parents. Two such extreme transplantings in his short life had had the
effect of throwing his spirit back upon itself. He was defensive; he
loved no one; the look in his eyes was so impersonal as to repel any
intimacy. Yet he was gentle and made haste to help his mother with the
guests. After these had freshened themselves in their room they joined
the Vaughans in the cool vine-shaded dining-room for supper. Above the
table hung a branch of cedar, the scent of which was supposed to repel
the house-flies which were so difficult to keep out. Pigeon-pie and a
fine ham were on the table and a bowl of large lettuce leaves. There was
a cottage cheese and later came jam, made from wild strawberries, and a
caraway-seed cake.

It was hard to believe that Philip and Adeline were at the end of a long
journey. He looked as well-groomed as when he had promenaded the terrace
at Quebec. She, finding her dress crumpled, had retained a long silk
cape of tartan. She also wore black silk mittens which accented the
whiteness of her fingers, ringless except for her wedding-ring. Her
jewels were safe in a travelling-case upstairs. Her hair was brushed to
Chinese sleekness on her shapely head. As the black mittens accented the
whiteness of her fingers, her fine black brows and lashes increased the
brightness of her eyes. She looked hungrily over the table.

"I declare," she said, "I have not had a decent meal since I left
Quebec. I'm starving!"

"You have come to a land of plenty," said David Vaughan. He turned to
Philip. "Do you like shooting?"

"Nothing better."

"Well, you need scarcely leave your door to pick up a brace of these."
He indicated the pigeon-pie which he now began to serve.

"And the fishing?"

David Vaughan laid down the fork and stared at him. "Believe it or not,"
he said, "the sea salmon come right up through the lake and into our
river. I caught a whopper right here on my own property less than a
month ago."

"Well, well, do you hear that, Adeline?"

"I do. We shall not starve, at any rate. How delicious this pie is!"

"Will you have some lettuce?" asked Mrs. Vaughan. "We pride ourselves on
it. We are the only people who grow it. We supply the neighbourhood."

"What about the neighbourhood?" asked Philip. "Pretty congenial, from
what you wrote, Vaughan."

"A very respectable community. You'll like them and they'll like you. I
can tell you everyone is excited by your coming and will be still more
so after meeting you." His eyes rested admiringly on Adeline.

"I left good friends in Quebec," she said.

"Too damn French!" said Philip.

"That's what I felt," said David Vaughan. "My aim is to keep this little
settlement purely British. Indeed, if I had my way, only the English,
Scottish and Welsh should be allowed to settle in any part of Canada."

"No Irish?" asked Adeline.

Before he could reply, Philip broke in, "I warn you, my wife is straight
from the Ould Sod."

"I should welcome just one Irish lady," said Vaughan, "to be Queen of us
all."

"How flowery the old boy is!" thought Robert. "I could not have said
that. But she liked it." He fixed his shy, impersonal gaze on Adeline
who was smiling at his father.

David Vaughan was giving the history of the principal families of the
neighbourhood. He would forget to eat till his wife reminded him. When,
after the meal, they returned to the verandah, he brought out a map of
the district which he had himself made, showing the course of the small
rivers, the residences of the families he had described, the roads and
forest. A thousand acres of richly timbered land, adjacent to his own
property, was for sale and this he counselled Philip to buy. Nowhere
would he find a better opportunity for establishing himself in a
superior position in the province. Nowhere would he find better land,
better sport, within such easy reach of railway and town. Nowhere would
he find more hospitable, kinder-hearted or better bred people. Nowhere
would he and his family be more welcome.

As he and Philip bent over the map spread on the table before them, the
red light of the setting sun illumined their features. Adeline, in her
bright tartan mantle, sat on one side with Mrs. Vaughan. Young Robert,
perched on the verandah railing, only half heard what the men were
saying, but strained his ears to hear Adeline's voice, to him so exotic
in its inflections. His shy, cool gaze studied the lines of her shoulder
as she leant on the arm of her chair, the beauty of her sleek auburn
head. He wondered if she was conscious of his presence. She seemed not
to be, yet, when the cry of a whip-poor-will broke with melancholy
strangeness on the air, she turned quickly to him.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A whip-poor-will. There are hundreds about here."

"I've never before heard one! It's lovely but it's sad."

"This one is just the right distance away. They can be too noisy."

Again and again and again came the bird's cry. Then after a moment's
silence it flew nearer and, in mournful haste, repeated the three notes
as though it were a tragic message. Sunset had faded and a sombre dusk
emanated as though palpably from the massive trees. The house stood in a
grassy hollow.

In their room, Philip remarked to Adeline:

"I shall not make the mistake of building our house in a hollow. Fifty
years from now this place will be buried in greenery. If I cannot find a
rise to build on I shall at least be out in the open."

"Is there an 'out in the open'?" she wondered, peering through the
window. "Trees--trees--there are trees everywhere. How many varieties
did Colonel Vaughan say there are?"

"I forget. But what I mean is, I shall make a large clearing for our
house and it must be on the highest point on our land."

"I don't like the thought of a large clearing. I like trees about. I
like a park."

"You shall have a park with deer in it."

"How lovely! Where does the land lie? Am I looking out toward it?"

"Yes. I think so."

She drew a deep breath. "Just fancy! I am breathing the air from our
land! Over there is our land--the very spot our walls will rise from!
Will the house be stone?"

"That depends on what material is to be had. For myself, I like a nice
mellow brick. It looks warm-coloured among the trees. It has a cosy,
hospitable look."

"I rather like the white wooden houses they have in Quebec villages."

"Too flimsy."

"They say not."

"I don't like the looks of them. Don't you want a nice mellow brick?"

"If there is nothing better."

"What could be better?" he asked severely.

"I don't know."

"Then why raise objections?"

"I wasn't."

"You said you wanted wood."

"I said I like wood."

"But you don't object to brick?"

"Not in the least.... Philip,"--she came and sat on his knee--"I have
not seen you alone all day. I can't believe we are actually here."

He pressed her close to his broad chest. "What a time we shall have, my
sweet! We're going to be happier than we've ever been and that's saying
a good deal, isn't it? You look pale, Adeline."

She relaxed against him. "Oh, how tired I am!" she exclaimed. "Yet I am
too excited for sleep. My body relaxes but my brain refuses."

He found her eyelids with his lips. "There, close your eyes. Now I
command you. Keep them closed while I kiss each ten times."

But, as he spoke, he raised his head and listened. There came the rumble
of wagon wheels and the loud barking of dogs.

"They have arrived!" he exclaimed.

She started up. "Nero and Maggie!" she cried. "And I forgot to tell the
Vaughans about them! Did you?"

"By Jove, no! Still, they are expecting the wagon with our boxes. I
shall explain about the dog and the goat tomorrow. I wish you had left
the damn goat in Quebec. Gussie does not need her milk now."

"Leave Maggie behind! And she wearing the dear little bell my own mother
tied to her neck! Why, 'twould bring bad luck to us! What is one small
goat anyhow? Surely there is room for her in this great place!"

The rumbling of wagon wheels ceased but now came the snarls and yells of
a dog-fight. Men were shouting at them.

"Their dogs are killing Nero!" she cried. "Oh, Philip, run! Quick!
Quick! Save Nero!"

"He can take care of himself." But Philip hurried from the room. A small
lamp still burned in the hall. Downstairs he found David Vaughan with a
lighted lantern. They went together to the stable.

Adeline stood by the window listening to the dreadful noise of the
fight. Then silence fell. She began to undress. The silence was too
deep. She wished Philip would return but she dreaded what he might have
to report.

It was some time before he came.

"Well," he said, "it was more sound and fury than bloodshed. But
Vaughan's bulldog and the Scotch collie gave our Nero the worst of it.
He has a tom ear and a bite on his forehead."

"Oh, the brutes!" she cried. "And was he able to do them no harm?"

"He had his teeth into the collie's paw and there was blood on the
bulldog but I'm afraid it was Nero's."

"I do hope Mr. Vaughan will keep his dogs tied up."

"We can scarcely expect that. I must say he was very decent about it. He
gave me a box-stall for Nero for the present."

"And how is Maggie?"

"Right as a trivet. Little bell tinkling and all."

Adeline began to cry. "This dog-fight was the last straw," she declared.
"I shall not sleep tonight. Feel my heart."

He laid his hand on her chemise beneath the right breast. "My God," she
cried, "it's not there!" In exasperation she snatched his hand and put
it in the right place.

"It beats no faster than usual," he said. "And you obviously are panting
to quicken it. Come, my dear, you are quite all right."

"I shan't sleep tonight!"

But in thirty minutes by the grandfather clock in the hall she was in
County Meath with her brothers, though her head was pillowed on Philip's
shoulder.




                                  VIII
                                THE LAND


THIS morning in June was perfect. It seemed that no exquisite detail had
been forgotten to ensure that perfection. The turquoise sky arched above
the woods, cloudless. The trees themselves stood grand and strong, not
crowded as though in struggle for existence, but free to thrust out
their roots, to extend their branches in pride. Through their rich
foliage the sun poured down upon the dark loam and drew from it such a
carpet of moss, fern and wild flower that where was one to step without
crushing something fragile and sweet?

There was enough breeze to sway the branches so that in turn light shade
and warm sunbeam fell on this variegated growth. The wild grape-vine
draped the trunk of an elm which towered so tall, before it sent out a
branch, that it seemed to know nothing of what clung so lovingly to its
base. A stump became the throne of a pale convolvulus that tossed up a
fresh bloom each hour. There were patches of daintily formed moss into
which one's feet sank as into living plush. Then wintergreen spread its
glossy mat. Trailing arbutus sent down a delicate root, sent up a waxen
bell and pressed on, as though in haste to claim the land for its own.
Butterflies flew not by one or two but in bright throngs, sometimes
hanging like flowers on a branch, then moving swiftly away, stirred by
some subtle but inexorable impulse. They rose above the tree-tops, beat
their tiny wings against the azure of the sky, then sank, drawn down by
the same invisible guide till they hung on the branch of a maple. The
birds at this hour were mostly unseen, living their enthralling life,
from the routine of which they never deviated, among the rich green
foliage. But their song was heard in every part of the wood, from the
clear pipe of the wild canary, the studied cadence of the oriole, to the
deep note of the wood-pigeon. As they flew from bough to bough the
leaves fluttered and sometimes a pointed wing or a bright breast was
revealed. And in their burrows, mole, ground-hog, fox and rabbit reared
their young, in complete certainty that theirs was the most important
mission of all.

Philip and Adeline were standing on their own land. Philip had a small
hamper containing their lunch strapped to his shoulder. Two weeks had
passed since their arrival. During that time they had inspected the
property, made the necessary visits to government offices, paid the sum
demanded, been given the deed with impressive red seals and now could
say, "The land is ours."

"It is a paradise!" cried Adeline, turning her head from side to side,
"a perfect paradise, and it is ours!"

It was the first time they had visited the place alone. Each time one of
the Vaughans or a government agent had come with them. Always there had
been boundaries or business of some sort to discuss. But now they were
alone. There was no need to talk to the Vaughans, pleasant as they were.
They could stand gazing in rapt attention at each new vista that opened
up. They could explore like eager children, running here and there,
shouting to each other to "Look! Look!" How Adeline deplored her long
skirts and remembered her girlhood in Ireland when she would tuck them
up and leave her agile legs free. Once, wrestling with one of her
brothers, he had torn the skirt clean off her and she had risen in her
pantalettes. Oh, the bliss of it! She had leaped and run, higher and
faster than any of them. She had been caught and given a whipping but
she now recalled the incident with a grin.

"We might be Adam and Eve," said Philip. "We might be the only two
people on earth. Upon my soul you'd think the land knew we owned
it--it's so smiling!"

"Philip, my angel, you are a poet!"

"No... but I do feel... well, I can't explain... I know it
sounds ridiculous."

"It isn't ridiculous. It's true! Everything has a different air this
morning."

"Now you're going to laugh."

"At what? Not at you being poetical, I promise."

"What I'm thinking is--we've got the key of all this... not just the
land, you know. But everything."

"Yes. I understand. It's like being born again."

"I say, Adeline--we've come to the ravine from a different angle. Look!"

They stood, shoulder to shoulder, looking down into the green dusk where
the stream narrowed and was half hidden in wild honeysuckle and purple
iris. Spotted lilies grew there and a pair of blue herons rose, their
legs stiff. But Philip and Adeline could not descend the ravine because
of the undergrowth. They could only glimpse the river, palely foaming
about the great stones that had once rolled down the mossy steep into
it.

"Our house must be near the ravine," she said. "I want to be able to
walk across a velvety lawn, open a gate, a low broad gate, and make a
path down to the stream's edge."

"We will build a rustic bridge," he said, "across the stream. A path on
the far side would lead us back to Vaughanlands, I think."

"You are so good at directions! Now Vaughanlands seems to me in the
opposite one."

He took out the compass which was attached to his watch-chain, and
consulted it.

"I'm right!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "The Vaughans' house is straight
over there. A bridge across the stream and we should have a short cut to
it."

"Shall we ever get all this undergrowth cleared? Good heavens, if the
children wander away we shall never find them!"

"We are fortunate in its being a good hard-bush--I believe that's the
proper expression. There's a great deal of maple, oak, white ash,
hickory and so forth. A few strong axes swinging, a few days' work, and
your forest will look like a park."

"How much you know!" she cried admiringly.

"Well, Vaughan has told me a good deal in the past fortnight."

She tugged at his arm. "Come, let's choose the site for the house!"

"I have a spot in mind. If only I can find it! Vaughan approves of it
too. It must be quite near. There's a sort of natural clearing and a
spring."

"Oh, if there's anything I love, it's a spring! I shall plant watercress
about it and mint and honeysuckle!"

"It is comparatively near the road, too. We must be near the road....
Hello--here's the devil entering our Eden!"

They could see the tall thin figure of a man but he had drawn much
nearer before they recognised him as Wilmott. He had remained at an
hotel in the town to make enquiries for a suitable habitation for
himself. Philip had been to see him when he visited the government
offices and had told him of his purchase of a thousand acres. Wilmott
had promised to come out to inspect it. He had cast aside the clothes of
convention and now wore brown breeches tucked into top-boots, a shirt
open at the throat and a wide-brimmed hat. He was a little
self-conscious and asked, after greetings had been exchanged:

"How do you think I look?"

"Like the devil," said Philip.

Wilmott was astonished. "Well, I thought I should dress appropriately."

"You're not going to be a lumberjack, are you?"

"No. But I shall have rough work to do and I must save the clothes I
brought with me. It will be some time before I can afford to buy new
ones."

"I think you look charming," said Adeline, "except for the
side-whiskers. They are incongruous."

He gave her an intent look. "Do you really dislike them?" he asked in a
low tone. Philip had moved ahead.

She looked at him boldly. "Yes. I do."

"They'll come off tonight!"

"How did you find us?" demanded Philip over his shoulder.

"I engaged a man to drive me out. We stopped to ask the way of a man
with a horse and buggy, down the road a bit. He turned out to be your
Patsy O'Flynn. I don't know what was so funny about it, but seeing him
as he had looked in Galway and on board ship and in Quebec, and then
seeing him sitting in a buggy by a rail fence, was just too much for me.
I laughed and laughed. He must have thought I was just as funny, for he
laughed and laughed too."

Philip and Adeline had never seen Wilmott like this. He seemed
hilarious.

"I love the freedom of this country!" he exclaimed. "You are not going
to get rid of me, you know. On the way here I discovered a little log
house. The man who lives in it wants to move farther north. He wants to
get away from so much civilisation! Well, the long and short of it is,
I'm going to buy his property--a highly superior log cabin and fifty
acres, part of which is swamp. It is on the edge of a river and a
bigger, better river than yours, the man tells me."

Philip looked at him dubiously. He was afraid Wilmott had made a bad
bargain. He liked him but was not sure that he wanted him for a
neighbour. There was an uncertain quality in Wilmott. Also he had a way
of assuming an intellectual intimacy with Adeline, as though they two
looked on things from the same angle. But Philip liked him and his frank
face lighted. He gave Wilmott a slap on the shoulder.

"Good man!" he said. "But I must bring Vaughan to see the log house
before you pay the cash. He will know if it is worth it."

"Nothing shall dissuade me," said Wilmott. "It's the sort of place I've
been dreaming of."

"What about the swamp?"

"The owner says it will grow onions."

"Onions! What would you do with them?"

"Sell them."

"My dear fellow, you're in for a tumble if you bank on making money from
onions."

"The swamp is a haven for wild-fowl. All varieties make their home
there. Just come and see."

"You had better help us choose a site for our house. I have the axe-men
engaged but haven't yet decided where to put it."

"Are you sure you aren't lost?"

"Positive." Philip again consulted his compass. They moved on through
the wood.

"I wish D'Arcy and Brent could see us," said Wilmott. "I had a letter
from D'Arcy the other day. They are in New York. It's very amusing they
say. Strange fashions--spittoons everywhere, negroes in unbelievable
clothes! They saw Fanny Kemble and think she over-acts." He turned to
Adeline. "Have you seen Fanny Kemble?"

"No. What I enjoyed most in London was _The Bohemian Girl_. I declare I
shall never forget that evening. It was heavenly."

Philip shouted, "Here is the spot!"

He had pushed ahead and now awaited them in an open space. Perhaps in an
earlier time some settler had chosen it as his dwelling, for great
stumps showed where forest trees had been felled. But these were buried
in the luxuriant foliage of the wild grape, or clothed in moss. The
clearing had a friendly air. The sun poured into it and the trees which
had been spared spread in extraordinary beauty. A tall young
silver-birch fluttered its satin leaves and its satin bark was flawless.
As they drew near to it a flock of bluebirds rose from its midst, not in
fright but rather in play, and flew skyward where their blueness soon
was merged.

Adeline never had heard of the sentimental belief in the bluebird for
happiness but she liked their looks, and cried:

"Oh, the pretty things! They know the spot! We shall build here! I am so
happy I could die."

It was the day of fainting. She tried to faint to demonstrate her
emotion but could not. She staggered a little.

"What's the matter?" asked Philip.

"Can't you see I'm fainting?"

"Nonsense," he said, but he looked at her a little anxiously.

"Sit down here," begged Wilmott. He led her to a low moss-grown stump.

She sat down, closing her eyes. Wilmott snatched off his hat and began
fanning her.

"She's not fainting," said Philip. "Look at the colour in her lips."

She put her fingers over her lips and sighed. She felt a stirring
beneath her. She sprang up. A large adder glided across the stump and
into the grass. Adeline's shriek might have been heard to Vaughanlands.
The two men stared in horror.

"A snake!" she screamed. "A poisonous snake! There--in the grass!"

They found sticks and ran after it, beating the ground.

She was composed on their return.

"Did you kill it?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Philip. "Want to see it?"

"I'd rather not."

"It was a yard long," said Wilmott, "and as thick as my arm."

"How horrible!"

"Never mind," said Philip. "We shall soon be rid of them. Vaughan told
me there were a few about his place. When we have the undergrowth
cleared there will be an end to them."

"This is a superb site for your house," said Wilmott. "That little rise
is the perfect place. It should face south." He seemed to have forgotten
Adeline's fright and paced up and down marking the size of the
foundation.

Philip had gone off to the spring. He now returned carrying a tin mug of
water. He looked anxiously at Adeline as he gave her the drink.

"I'm surprised at your making such a fuss," he said, "after the snakes
you've seen in India. The snakes here are harmless."

She meekly drank the icy spring water.

"I had never sat on one before." She shuddered.

Wilmott called out, "You need not worry about excavating. The soil is
just right and the site well drained. I should advise a basement for the
kitchen and usual offices. It will be warm in winter and cool in summer.
You must have a square hall, with drawing-room on one side and library
and dining-room on the other. A deep porch would look well."

"He'll be telling us next what to name the house," said Philip.

Adeline rose.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Better. But I was almost fainting before the snake came. Why was I?"

"I forget."

"Oh, yes--it was the bluebirds. They made me so happy."

"You should try to restrain your emotions."

"But they're all so fresh and strong."

"Bottle 'em up!"

"But they won't keep."

Wilmott called out, "Behind the main stairway you should have space for
another good room. The house should be broad, substantial and
hospitable-looking."

"I shall see to that," said Philip testily.

"I recommend a third storey. It makes the house more impressive, and if
your family is large----"

"It's not going to be large."

"Still, I should have the third storey."

He came back to them. His thin face was alight.

"I am so hungry," said Adeline. "Let us have our sandwiches."

"Good," said Philip. "Will you join us, Wilmott?"

"Are you sure you have enough for three? However, you need not worry
about me. One will be plenty."

They sat down on the sun-warmed grass where one must crush tiny pink
flowers, they grew so close. Philip unstrapped his lunch-basket and took
out sandwiches, small cakes, a leather-covered flask of wine and
collapsible drinking-cup.

"Do you remember our picnics in Quebec?" asked Wilmott.

"Oh, what fun we had!" exclaimed Adeline, her mouth full of chicken
sandwich.

"With the Balestrier children all over the place!" said Philip. "If I
can't bring up my children to behave better, I'll eat my hat."

"How is the charming little Augusta?" asked Wilmott.

"Being utterly spoilt by Mrs. Vaughan," answered Philip. "However, she
is forgetting French and learning to speak English."

"Tell her I shall bring her a present. A doll--to take the place of the
one stolen on board ship. Does she still miss her ayah?"

"No. She has forgotten her."

There was a moment's silence as their minds flew back to the funeral at
sea. Then Wilmott said:

"The mosquitoes are a pest here. I suffer tortures at night from the
itching of old bites and the hideous buzzing as new bites are
inflicted."

"I am writing home," said Philip, "for mosquito netting. We shall cover
our beds with it when our house is built. The Vaughans seem quite
reconciled to being eaten alive."

"As a matter of fact," said Adeline, "the mosquitoes pass by the
Vaughans to feast on Philip."

Philip produced the flask of wine. "We have only one drinking-cup," he
remarked. "I was going to give it to Adeline and myself drink from the
flask. But she and I can use the one cup."

"Give me the tin mug," said Wilmott.

"Wherever did you find it, Philip?"

"By the spring. And there were footprints about. Vaughan tells me that
there is a log hut on the property and that an old Scotsman, called
Fiddling Jock, has taken up his abode there. Vaughan says he's
harmless."

"How large is the hut?" asked Wilmott. "I might have lived there."

Philip opened his eyes till they were a little prominent. "What about
land?" he asked.

"True," returned Wilmott. "I must have land."

"Couldn't we sell him fifty acres?" asked Adeline in a stage aside.

"Out of the heart of the property? Never."

"Oh, I am quite satisfied with the place I have chosen. I shall live on
berries and fish and wild-fowl and read all the books I have been
wanting to read."

"Where will you get them?"

"I have brought them with me."

The Whiteoaks stared. "I knew you had brought some books," said Adeline,
"for you lent me several, but I didn't know you had enough to keep you
going."

"There is quite a respectable library in the town. Also D'Arcy is
picking up some in New York. Quite rare ones but worth the price."

For the hundredth time the Whiteoaks wondered about Wilmott's financial
status. At times he talked quite largely, at others as though he were a
pauper. Now he asked:

"What of the neighbourhood? Are there any interesting or intelligent
people?"

"A good many," said Philip. "David Vaughan to begin with. He and his
wife gave a dinner-party for us the other evening and we met the
neighbours. A quite respectable and well-informed circle. There is a Mr.
Lacey who has a son in the Navy; Mr. Pink, the clergyman; Dr. Ramsay, a
rather cantankerous fellow but a man of character and, I believe, very
capable; and half a dozen other families. We discussed the future of the
province. Their sincere hope is to keep it free of foreigners. They want
to build up the population slowly but solidly out of sturdy British
material. They want both freedom and integrity in the land. And I've
pledged myself to this project. Vaughan contends that the United States
is going to pay bitterly for opening its gates to old Europe. Well,
after all, these people from Eastern and Southern Europe would as soon
as not stick a knife into your back. Their religion is superstition.
They'd do you in for a few pounds. Torture and cruelty are in their
blood. I've lived a good many years in India and I've seen enough of
treachery. Let's go slow and sure. Let's keep British."

"_And_ Irish," added Adeline.

"I'm with you," said Wilmott. "Here's to the building of your house and
this province!" He raised the tin mug.

When they had drunk the toast Philip produced a leather cigar-case and
offered a cigar to Wilmott.

"This will keep off the mosquitoes."

"Thanks. I haven't smoked a cigar since the last one you gave me."

Philip and Adeline were embarrassed. Wilmott was using his
poverty-stricken tone. Perhaps he was conscious of this, for he added as
he took the tip off his cigar:

"I'm no smoker."

"Well, I am," said Philip, "and I can tell you that it irritates me not
to be allowed to smoke in the house. Mrs. Vaughan won't have it."

"Doesn't he smoke?"

"He has a pipe on the verandah after breakfast and at bedtime."

Wilmott stared about him, with a look both reflective and wondering. He
said, "I suppose these forests go on and on, right to the Arctic."

"Yes. It gives one--a feeling."

"For the grandeur of it, you mean?"

"Yes. And the stability. There ought to be enough timber for all time."

"Not if the people go on hacking it down and burning it--just to get rid
of it."

Adeline rose and shook out her skirt. She said, "I want to walk about."

"I'll stay here," said Wilmott. "You two go. I shall smoke and conjure
up a suitable name for your house."

"He's too damned officious," said Philip, when they were alone. "He's
planned our house to his satisfaction. Now he's going to name it.
Whatever name he chooses I'll not have it!"

"Oh, Phil, don't be silly!" She gave a skip of joy. She held up her
heavy skirt and petticoat and danced across the flowery grass.

"Here will be our kitchen," she chanted, "with a big, big fireplace and
a brick floor! Here will be the pantries and the larder! Here the
servants' quarters. A nice wee room for Patsy O'Flynn!"

Tucking up his coat-tails and placing his hands on his hips, Philip
danced to meet her.

"Here, Madam, is my wine-cellar!" he declared, "well stocked, maturing
at leisure!"

She clasped him in her arms and laid her face against his shoulder.

"Let's live to be old--old," she said. "So we may enjoy
it--together--for years and years and years."

"I promise."

"And you must promise to let me die first."

"Very well, dear. I promise."

"What shall we name the place? If we don't do it soon, it's just as you
say, Wilmott will do it for us."

"I should like a name that has associations for me at home."

"But I don't want an English name."

He stared, a little truculently.

"I should like," she said, "a name which has associations for me. What
about Bally----"

He interrupted her. "I'm dashed if I can stomach an Irish name."

She glared at him.

Wilmott's tall figure was approaching. He was almost on the run. "I have
it!" he cried.

"Have what?" asked Philip.

"A name for your place."

They looked at him defensively.

"The name of your military station in India," he went on. "You met
there. You were married there. You will probably never be quite as happy
again as you were then. It is a pretty name. It is striking. It is easy
to remember. It is----"

"Jalna," said Adeline musingly.

"No," said Philip. He looked defiantly at Wilmott.

"Don't you like the name?"

"I like it well enough."

"Do you like it, Mrs. Whiteoak?" Wilmott looked eagerly into Adeline's
eyes. The pupils were reflecting the green of the forest. They looked
mysterious.

"You took the word out of my mouth," she said. "I was
thinking--Jalna--Jalna--as hard as I could--when you called out."

Philip's face lighted. "Were you really? I confess that I like it--now I
hear you say it. Jalna... yes, it's pretty good. It's a souvenir of
my regiment. A seal on the past."

"And a good omen for the future," she added. "I'm glad I thought of it."

Wilmott stood irresolute.

"It's a damned good name," said Philip. "It's extraordinary you should
think of it just before Wilmott did."

"It came in a flash. _Jalna_, I said to myself! Then Mr. Wilmott came
running with it in his mouth. But I said it first."




                                   IX
                             THE FOUNDATION


THE woodsmen's blows resounded on the trunks of the trees. With axe and
with long-handled bill-hook they cut away the saplings and the
undergrowth. Then they attacked the trees. Now the axes were whetted to
extraordinary sharpness. The man swung the axe and brought it down in a
deft, slanting stroke on the proud bole. Then he struck upward, meeting
the first incision, and a clean chip sprang out. So, down and up, down
and up, till the hole was cut half-way through. Next he attacked it from
the other side. The blows rang. The sweat ran down the man's face. The
tree gave a little tremor, as though of surprise. The tremor ran through
all its boughs, even to the smallest twig. At the next stroke an
agitation swept among its leaves. As though in a fury he struck. Then
the beech fell. At first without haste, then in a panic it flung to the
ground, moaning, cracking, swinging its boughs in a storm of green
leaves.

The woodsmen were orderly, making no chaos of trunks and severed
branches. The great stumps and long-reaching roots were dug up. The
brush-heaps grew. The trees which were left to ornament the grounds
spread their branches in proud security. The bright axe had passed them
by. You could have driven a carriage and pair between them. The grounds
took on the aspect of a park. But later, fields would stretch about the
park, they would be ploughed and sown, orchards planted.

Adeline saw Philip in a new light. He who had always been fastidious in
his dress, a bit of a dandy in fact, would return to Vaughanlands with
muddy boots, with clothes wrinkled and hands scratched by thorns. He who
had even sent his best shirts to England to be laundered because they
could not be done to his satisfaction in India now appeared with
crumpled linen and seemed not to care, even to rejoice in his condition.
He had taken an axe into his hands but he was chagrined by his own
efforts as compared with the performance of these practised,
tobacco-chewing woodsmen. But he spent his days in watching their
progress, in lending a hand where he could. He was bitten by black flies
and mosquitoes. He grew deeply tanned. All his exercise and polo-playing
in India had not toughened him as this life was doing. But in the
evening he again presented himself as the dashing Captain of Hussars,
agreeable to the neighbourhood, properly attentive to Mrs. Vaughan.
Before going to bed he would remove himself to the verandah and there
smoke a last cigar.

A competent architect was recommended by David Vaughan. Simplicity in
design was the order of the neighbourhood, but the Whiteoaks wanted
their house to be the most impressive. Not pretentious but one worth
looking at, with good gables and large chimneys. It was a thrilling
moment when the first sod was turned for the foundation. A sharp spade
was placed in Adeline's hands by the foreman. The sod already had been
marked out and loosened. She rubbed her palms together, took a grip of
the handle, placed her foot on the spade, gave an arch look at the
assembled workmen and drove it deep into the loam. She bent, she heaved,
the sod resisted.

"It's pretty tough, I'm afraid," said the foreman. "I'll loosen it some
more."

"No," said Adeline, her colour bright.

"Put your back into it," adjured Philip.

She did. The sod released its hold, came up. She held it triumphantly on
the spade, then turned it over. The house had its first foothold on the
land.

Philip admired the way these men worked. They worked with might and good
heart, in fierce heat, in enervating humidity. Only during the
electrical storm or the downpour of rain did they crowd into the wooden
shelter they had made themselves. The Newfoundland dog, Nero, came each
morning to the scene of the building with Philip. He so greatly felt the
heat that Philip one day put him between his knees and clipped his fur
to the shoulders so that he looked like an immense poodle.

Wilmott kept his promise and shaved his whiskers. When he appeared
before Adeline clean-shaven she scarcely knew him. He had been
interesting, dignified. Now the contour of his face was visible she
found him with a hungry, haunted look that was almost romantic. The
bones in his face were fine. The hollows of his cheeks showed odd planes
of light.

"How you have changed!" she exclaimed.

"It is well not to look always the same," he answered laconically. "I
suppose I look even less attractive. Handsome looks are not my strong
point."

"Who wants handsome looks in a man!"

"You do."

"I? Philip would be the same to me if he had a snub nose and no chin."

"Now you are talking nonsense, Mrs. Whiteoak."

"How rigid you are! Surely you might call me Adeline."

"It wouldn't be the thing at all."

"Not in this wilderness?"

"This is already a close conventional community."

"What about your log house and swamp?"

"That's my own corner.... In it I have always called you Adeline."

"Please don't say _Adelyne_. I am accustomed to _Adeleen_."

"I suppose that is why I pronounce it _Adelyne_."

"How cantankerous you are!" she exclaimed. "I declare I think it's a
good thing you are not married."

He reddened a little.

"But perhaps you are," she smiled.

"I am not," he answered stiffly, "and I thank God for it."

"You would be a more amiable man if you were."

"Should I? I doubt it."

She gave her happy smile. "I'm glad you aren't," she said. "Because I
should dislike your wife. You are the sort of man who would choose a
woman I'd dislike."

"I'd have chosen you--if I'd had the chance."

They were sitting on a pile of freshly cut, sappy logs, within sight and
sound of the workmen. But his words created a separate space for them,
an isolation as of a portrait of two, in a picture-frame. They sat
listening to the sound of the axe, the thud of spade, their nostrils
drew in the resinous scent of the logs, but they were no longer a part
of the scene. Their eyes looked straight ahead and, if they had been, in
fact, figures in a portrait, it would have been said that the eyes
followed you everywhere.

Nero was lying at Adeline's feet. She put a hand on his crown and
grasping a handful of thick curly hair, rocked his head gently. He
suffered the indignity of the caress with inviolable majesty.

"You say that," she murmured, "because of this place. It makes one more
emotional."

He turned his eyes steadily on her but she saw his lips tremble. He
asked:

"Do you doubt my sincerity?"

"You can't deny that you sometimes put things--oddly."

"Well, there's nothing odd about that. Most men would say it."

"And you've seen me in real tempers!"

"I am not saying you're perfect," he replied testily. "I am saying----"
He broke off.

"It's very sweet of you, Mr. Wilmott--after seeing me at my worst for
over a year."

"Now, you're talking nonsense."

"It's better to talk nonsense."

"You mean in order to cover up what I said? Don't worry. I'm not going
to plague you. I just had an irrational wish to let you know."

Adeline's lips curved. She looked at him almost tenderly.

"You are laughing at me!" exclaimed Wilmott hotly. "You are going to
make me sorry I told you."

"I was just smiling to see you so--impulsive. I like you all the better
for it."

"If you think Philip wouldn't mind my calling you by your Christian
name--it would give me great pleasure."

"I'll ask him."

"No, don't.... I'd rather not."

Philip was coming toward them, striding in riding-breeches across the
broken ground where each day flowers opened, fern fronds uncurled, only
to be crushed. He said as he drew near:

"I have to go to inspect some brick with the architect. I don't know how
long I shall be. Will you take Mrs. Whiteoak back, Wilmott?"

"Goodness, why don't we call each other by our Christian names?"

"All right," agreed Philip. "I'm willing. James, will you take Adeline
back to Vaughanlands?"

"She hasn't seen my estate yet," said Wilmott. "It's palatial. I should
like to show it her first."

"Splendid. You'll admire what he has done, Adeline. Now I must be off."
He strode back to where the architect stood waiting.

Adeline and Wilmott clambered into the dusty buggy lent by the Vaughans.
The grey mare was tied to a post where the main entrance was to be. She
was now so in the habit of waiting that she had ambled into the ditch.
It was a miracle that the buggy was not overturned.

"This nag is as quiet as a sheep," said Wilmott, taking the reins. "I
wish I owned it."

"What an admission!"

"I want to be lazy and worthless for the rest of my life."

"You can't be worthless--not while Philip and I are your friends,
James."

"It's handsome of you to say that," and he added stiffly, "Adeline."

The horse jogged along the sunny road that lay deep in fine white dust.
Yet the road led between dense woods and seemed no more than a pale
ribbon dividing a wilderness. For all that, they met heavy wagons loaded
with material for the building of Jalna, a ragged, barefoot girl driving
a cow, an old cart drawn by a mule and filled with an Indian family and
their effects. Raspberries glowed redly in the tangle of growth at the
road's edge. Wild lupin, chicory and gentian made patches of celestial
blue. There was a constant movement among the trees as birds fluttered
or squirrels and chipmunks leaped from bough to bough. Sometimes a field
appeared, heavy with tall grain. It seemed a country in which fulfilment
pressed forward to meet promise.

Philip had been forced to admit that Wilmott had got a bargain in his
log house and the fifty acres that went with it. They had gone over the
place together carefully. Wilmott had paid the money and moved in at
once, but had not wished Adeline to see it till it was, to his mind,
presentable. Now, on the bank of a full-flowing river, it stood out in
its little clearing, strong and weather-proof. Wilmott was proud of it.
There was a dignified swagger in his movements as he assisted Adeline to
dismount from the high step of the buggy, then led the way along a grass
path to the door. The voice of the river came to them and the sibilant
whispering of reeds on its edge. An old punt was tied to a mossy stake.

"How lovely!" exclaimed Adeline. "I had no idea it would be so lovely.
Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to surprise you," he answered, not doubting her sincerity, for
he himself thought the spot perfection. He unlocked the door, which
opened stubbornly, and showed her inside the dwelling. It had only one
room with a lean-to at the back. Evidently he had hoped she would come
today or was amazingly precise in his habits. Nothing was scattered
about, in the way Philip scattered his belongings. The floor was bare
and was still moist from scrubbing. A hooked rug, showing a picture of a
ship, lay in front of the small stove. The furniture had been made by
the former owner, a table, two chairs, a bunk spread with a patchwork
quilt. Red curtains hung at the one window. In a cupboard on the wall a
patently new tea-set of blue china spoke of England. Along one wall
Wilmott had himself built bookshelves which were filled with books old
and new, the leather and gold of their backs shining in a shaft of
sunlight which fell on them as though directed. There was something
touching in it all--and the poor man living alone! Adeline said, in a
tremulous voice, as though she had never seen anything to equal it:

"And you have done it all by yourself!"

"Yes."

"I don't see how you managed it. It's lovely."

"Oh, 'twill do."

"It's so tidy!"

"You should see it sometimes."

"And the sweet tea-set! When did you buy it?"

"Two days ago." He went to the cupboard, took out the cream-jug and
handed it to her. "You like the design?" he asked.

She saw a shepherd and shepherdess reclining under a tree by a river--in
the background a castle. She touched the jug to her cheek.

"What smooth china! Shall I ever drink tea from it, I wonder."

"I'll make it now," he said. "That is, if you will stay."

"I'd like nothing better. Do let me help."

He hesitated. "What of the conventions? Would people talk?"

"Because I drank tea with you? Let them! My dear James, I've come here
to spend the rest of my days. People had better begin their gossip at
once. I'll give 'em food for it!" She moved with elastic step and
swaying skirt across the room.

He returned the jug to its place. Then he turned to her impulsively. "I
shall light the fire, then," he said.

The fire was already laid. He touched a match to it and it flared up
brightly. He took the tin kettle and went to the spring for water.
Through the window she watched his tall figure, so conventional in its
movements. "I wonder what you have in that head of yours," she mused.
"But I like you. Yes, I like you very much, James Wilmott."

She ran her eyes over his books. Philosophy, essays, history, dry stuff
for the most part, but there were a few volumes of poetry, a few works
of fiction. She took out a copy of Tennyson's poems. It had passages
marked. She read:

        Give us long rest or death, dark death or dreamful ease.

Wilmott came in with the kettle, from which clear drops dripped.

"I'm reading," she said.

"What?" he asked, stopping to look over her shoulder. "Oh, that," he
said impassively, and went to set the kettle over the flame.

"It doesn't seem at all like you."

"Why?"

"It--seems too indolent."

"Am I so energetic?"

"No. But you are purposeful, I think. This is more like you:

             'I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
                Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.'

You should have marked that one."

"My God!" he ejaculated. "That isn't me! I wish it were. My soul is
houseless."

"I am not subtle," she said, replacing the book. "I'm going to take off
my hat." She removed the ridiculous little hat she wore, that had two
small ribbons fluttering at the back. A sudden intimacy clouded the
room.

Wilmott looked about him puzzled, as though he had forgotten where he
had left things.

"Let me make the tea," she said.

"No. I could not bear that."

Adeline laughed. "Not bear to see me make tea?"

He gave a rather grim smile. "No. It would be too beautiful. Such things
aren't for me."

He brewed the tea deftly enough, set out the new dishes, a square of
honey in the comb, then invited her to sit down. All the while he
talked. He told her of the farmer's wife who baked his bread and sold
him honey. He had bought a cow, two pigs and some poultry. Philip was on
the lookout for a good team of horses for him. Oats and barley had been
sown by his predecessor. He would learn farming. With what income
remained to him he would get on very well. "In short," he said, cutting
a square of honey for her, "I've never been so consciously happy in my
life."

Adeline took a large mouthful of bread and honey. Her eyes glowed.
"Neither have I," she said.

Wilmott was amused. "I'll wager you have never known an hour's real
unhappiness."

"What about when I said good-bye to my mother? What about when I saw my
mother and father on the pier and couldn't go back to them? What about
the voyage and Huneefa? All that since you've known me!"

"You just confirm what I have always thought."

"What?"

"That you are the happiest creature I have ever known."

"I don't go about blazoning my sorrows," she said, trying to look
haughty as she helped herself to more honey.

"Do I?" He had reddened a little. Adeline regarded him speculatively.
"Well, you said a moment ago that you are consciously happy. Perhaps you
are sometimes consciously unhappy. I'm not afraid of life. I never
expect the worst."

"I am going to tell you about myself," he said. "I never intended to
but--I'm going to."

She leant forward eagerly. "Oh, do!"

"I must beg you to keep it secret."

"Never shall I breathe it to the face of clay!"

"Very well." He rose, took the teapot to the stove and added water to it
from the kettle. With it still in his hand he turned to her abruptly.

"I am married," he said.

She stared unbelievingly. "Oh, surely not," she said. "Surely not."

He gave a short laugh. "I don't think I am mistaken. I'm not only a
husband but a father."

"Of all things! Then you lied to me, for you told me you were single."

"Yes. I lied to you."

"Yet you seem to me the perfect bachelor."

"Many a time I was called the perfect husband."

"Ah, well," she said, with her Irish inflections intensified, "whatever
you were, you'd be good at it!" She mused a moment and then added,
"Lover and all."

"_And_ liar!"

She looked him in the eyes. "Are you going to tell me why you lied?" she
asked.

"Yes." He came and sat down.

"What I mean is, why you hid the fact of your marriage."

"Yes, of course.... I was running away."

"Leaving her?"

"Yes."

"And the child?"

"Yes."

"Boy or girl?"

"Girl of fourteen."

"Then you've been married a long while!"

"Fifteen years. I was twenty-five." He added, with sudden force,
"Fifteen years of misery!"

"Surely not the whole fifteen!"

"We weren't married six months till I knew I had made a mistake. The
remaining years were spent in realising it more and more."

"Couldn't you do anything about it?"

"Nothing. I was rooted. Hopelessly. You can't imagine how I was rooted,
because you've never lived that sort of life."

As his hand rested on the table she laid hers on it for an instant.
"Please tell me about it," she said.

Through the open door came the voice of the river, talking among its
reeds. The cow Wilmott had bought lowed at the gate.

"She wants to be milked," he said.

"Can you do it?"

"I have a young Indian helping me."

"Oh, I do love this little place!" exclaimed Adeline. "I don't want to
think you're unhappy here."

"I have told you how happy I am. But things won't be right with me till
you know all the truth."

"You're a dangerous kind of man," she said.

"You mean it isn't safe to tell the truth?"

"I can bear it, but not all women can. Perhaps your wife couldn't."

"Henrietta never knew anything about me. Not really. She knew I held a
responsible position in a large shipping house. I had married too young
but I kept my nose to the grind-stone. I was good at figures. They
thought well of me in the business. Our friends--that is, my
wife's--said I was such a good husband and father. It was no wonder. I
had a good training. She never let me alone. Tidiness, order, meticulous
living, that was her aim from morning to night. That and the acquiring
of possessions. No sooner had we got one thing than her heart went out
to another. Glass, silver, carpets, curtains, clothes--and all to be
kept in the most perfect order. No dogs about the place. The two
maids--we had risen to two when I left--constantly scouring and
cleaning. But if only she could have done it peaceably. She did nothing
peaceably. She talked without ceasing. She would talk for hours about
some trivial social triumph or defeat, or the misdoings of a maid. If
she was silent it was because she was in a cold fury and that I could
not stand. I would either quarrel with her to get her out of it or just
succumb and be meek. You see, she was the stronger character."

"And the little girl?" asked Adeline, trying to fit Wilmott into this
new picture.

"She's not a little girl," he returned testily. "She's a big lump of a
girl, with no affection and small intelligence. Her mother is convinced
that Hettie inherits my musical ability. She took music lessons and was
always pounding out the same piece, always with the very same mistakes.
My wife was eternally talking but Hettie rarely spoke. She just sat and
stared at me."

"Faith, it was a queer life for you!" said Adeline.

Wilmott sat smiling gently at her. "You could not imagine it," he said.

"And then what happened?"

"I applied myself more assiduously to my work. I was promoted. I made
more money but managed to keep the fact secret. I began to talk to her
of the East and how I longed to go there. I would interrupt her
discourse on a friend's soire to talk of Bombay and Cashmere. All the
while I was planning to come to the West. She could not understand my
sudden talkativeness. My talk bored her excessively. Hettie would just
sit staring. Hettie was always sucking lozenges flavoured with cloves.
When I think of her I smell cloves."

"Ah, you should have been a bachelor!" said Adeline.

"Would that have made me immune to the scent of cloves?" he asked
tartly.

"I mean, you weren't fitted for the intimacies of family life. Not the
way my father is. Smells don't affect him or whether a woman is silent
or talks. He has the knack of marriage."

"Upon my word," exclaimed Wilmott, "one might think you sympathised with
my wife!"

"A good beating was what she needed. It would have brought out the good
in her. Was she plain or pretty?"

"Pretty," he returned glumly.

"Did she keep her looks?"

"She did."

"And Hettie? Was she pretty?"

"As pretty as a suet pudding."

"Whom did she resemble then?"

"My wife's father. He was always taking snuff. It was always scattered
over his waistcoat."

"There you go again--noticing small things! Maybe you have a talent for
writing."

Wilmott flushed. "I have faint hopes in that direction."

"Don't let 'em be faint!" said Adeline. "Let 'em be fierce! I don't
believe in faint hopes. It wasn't faint hopes that got me Philip."

The mention of Philip's name put a damper on Wilmott's confidence. He
could feel Philip's presence in the room. He said stiffly:

"I should not be telling you all this."

"And why not? What else is friendship for?"

"You despise me."

"Could I despise my friend? You are my only friend in all this country,
James Wilmott." She spoke fondly, cherishing his friendship and his
ambition. Then she added quickly, "But is that your real name?"

He nodded.

"Are you sure you're not lying again?" She smiled at him coaxingly, as
though to worm the truth out of him.

"I deserve that," he said. "But this time I am telling you the truth.
Perhaps I should have changed my name, as I ran away from her."

"You ran away! Good for you! Ah, I'm glad you left her--the nagging
woman! How did you leave her?"

He did not answer for a moment. His thoughts had flown backward. Then he
said composedly:

"I knew for five years that I was going to do it. But I made up my mind
that I would not leave her badly off. I can tell you, I did not spare
myself. I never was anything but tired and tense--in all that five
years.... At last I had my affairs as I wanted them. She would own
the house, have a respectable income. I made over everything into her
name. Then I wrote her a letter telling her that I was going to the East
to spend the rest of my life and that she would never hear from me
again. I got leave from the office to go for a week to Paris. I bought a
ticket to Paris. Then I went to Liverpool, took a boat for Ireland, and
you know the rest.... You don't think she can trace me, do you?"

"Never. She'll never trace you. But--I wish you had changed your name."

"Somehow I could not think of myself except as James Wilmott." He got up
and paced the room. "If you knew the pleasure I've had in this new life!
In being free and _alone_! Sometimes I deliberately leave the place in
complete disorder--just to prove to myself that I'm free. I'm like a
prisoner released. I no longer have to concentrate. As I sit fishing in
my river my mind is a delicious blank--for hours at a time. My past
begins to seem like a dream."

"We all are going to be happy here," said Adeline. "I love this country.
Come and show me your cow. And the young Indian who is working for you.
I must see him--and the pigs--and the great fish you caught."




                                   X
                                THE WALLS


AS the summer sped on, the walls of the house rose from the foundation
in solid strength. Philip, acting on the advice of David Vaughan, had
offered wages which had attracted good masons and carpenters. The best
quality of brick had been ordered, built on a foundation of stone. The
brick was of a fine red that would mellow to the colour of a dark
dahlia. The basement was paved with bricks and contained the large
kitchen, two servants' bedrooms, pantries, coal and wine cellars. Not a
house in the neighbourhood had a wine-cellar and Philip affirmed that
this was to be well stocked. He had studied the catalogues of dealers
and had already placed a respectable order with the most reliable firm.
Not that he was a hard drinker. He had never drunk himself under the
table as some of his ancestors had done, in a day when it was quite the
thing for a gentleman to do. Philip, in fact, was careful of his health
and had no wish to become gouty and irascible as his grandfather had
been.

While the walls were rising from the foundation, an army of axe-men were
clearing the land. Noble timber was being swept away to make room for
fields of grain. As there was no space in which to preserve all this
timber or use for it if it were preserved, much of it was to be burned.
It lay awaiting this end which would be accomplished in the autumn when
danger of forest fires was past. The great green branches were struck
from the trunks and mounded in piles by themselves, birds' nests flying
in all directions, leaves crushed, the vines which had draped themselves
in profligate luxuriance along the boughs torn up by the roots and going
down to disaster with the rest. Honeysuckle and wild grapes with
clinging tendrils wilted and sank in the heat. As for the great trunks
of the trees, their wounds bled resin, filling the air with pungent
odour, while woodpeckers ran up and down them glutting themselves on the
myriad insects that had made their home in the bark. Rabbits and
ground-hogs hid in the mounded boughs and at the noon hour the workmen
amused themselves by discovering these and killing them. Some made
catapults and became expert at shooting birds and squirrels, though if
caught by Adeline in this pastime they tasted the sting of her anger.
So, building up, tearing down, killing for the lust of killing, the days
passed in bright succession.

The red plumes of the sumach turned to brown, the clusters of
choke-cherries ripened to blackness but still hung secure from birds
because of their bitter flavour. Mushrooms sprang up in hordes on the
cleared ground: meaty meadow mushrooms of a delicate brownish pink
beneath; pretty parasol mushrooms with fringed edges; the destroying
angel, set in its snow-white cup; and in the woods mushrooms of crimson
and purple, pretty as flowers. Of the meadow mushrooms many a good dish
was made for the table at Vaughanlands. Adeline never before had had
such an appetite.

In early September young Robert Vaughan and Adeline set out together
along the path which that summer had been made from Vaughanlands to the
new estate. It led across a level field, red with the stubble of a fine
crop of barley, through a wood of oaks and pines, then down steeply into
the ravine where the stream which, in those days, almost merited the
name of river, ran swiftly over shimmering sand and flat stones. In one
place it narrowed between its banks and here a temporary bridge of logs
had been thrown across. The pungent smell from their resin-oozing wood
mingled with the cool damp earthy smell from the ravine. Adeline never
set her foot on this path without a sense of adventure. She had pride in
realising that this path, now well cleared of undergrowth and showing a
decided depression where feet had many times trodden it, was the print
of her own and Philip's passage. It had been virgin, untouched, but she
and Philip had, as it were, made it a link between their old life and
the new. She had trodden it in all sorts of weather and often alone. Now
on this September day she thought she had never seen it so inviting. The
season of mosquitoes was past, the air was of almost palpable sweetness
and full of renewed bird-song, for now the young could fly. The stream
made a steady murmuring.

As they crossed the bridge of logs young Vaughan took her arm to guide
her. Adeline was well able to cross the logs unaided and had done so
many a time when they were slippery with rain. But now she leant against
Robert's shoulder as though timidly and her fingers clasped his.

"We shall have a rustic bridge here, later on," she said.

He pressed her arm a little. "Then you won't need my help," he said.

"Now I'm very glad of it."

"If you knew what it has been to me," he said, flushing, "to have you
here. Before you came I never knew what to do with myself. You know, I'm
not really acquainted with my parents yet. The truth is I feel that I
know you better than I do them."

"Ah, I'm easy to get on with."

"It's not that. But I feel you understand me and you are the only one
who does."

"You are very sweet, Bobbie."

It was a real irritation to Robert's parents to hear Adeline call him
Bobbie. They tried to intimate their disapproval by pronouncing his name
very distinctly when they addressed him. But Adeline was oblivious to
this or took, as they thought, pleasure in opposing them. The two began
to mount the opposite side of the ravine.

"My mother is rather upset this morning," said the boy.

"I hope it's nothing I've done--or Philip or the children--or our dog or
our goat."

"No--nothing of that sort. It's about a cousin of mine, Daisy Vaughan.
She's coming to visit us and Mother wishes she wouldn't, just now."

"Then why doesn't she write and tell her not to?" asked Adeline.

"She can't very well, as Father thinks we should have Daisy. She is his
only brother's child and an orphan. She's been staying with relatives on
her mother's side, in Montreal. She's had a falling-out with them and
written a pathetic letter to Father and he's inviting her to spend some
months with us."

"I declare," said Adeline, "this is a nuisance! The house is full enough
already, what with me and mine. No wonder your mother is vexed."

"Oh, she'll manage. Mother always does."

"Do you know this Daisy?"

"Yes, I've been to her aunt's house in Montreal. There were daughters in
the house. I don't think she got on very well with them."

"Is she forward, then--or pert? If she is, I'll take her down."

"She's almost as old as you. About twenty-five. Quite dashing, too, but
not at all interesting to me. In fact, the thought of her coming bores
me excessively. I hate the thought that college will soon open and I
must go." He looked into her eyes, his sensitive boy's face troubled.

"Don't worry, Bobbie. We're friends and always shall be."

"I am not thinking of the future," he said. "It's the present that
interests me. You make light of my feelings. You don't care tuppence,
really."

"I care a great deal. I am a stranger here. You have helped to make me
happy."

"You are lucky to be able to settle down so quickly. I don't belong
anywhere."

Adeline opened her brown eyes wide at him. "Why, Bobbie, what a way to
talk! When you've had more experience of life you'll not worry about
belonging places."

He answered gloomily, "That's the trouble. I have no experience. You are
only interested in men who have had experience. Your stiff-necked
friend, Wilmott, for example."

"What do you know about him?" she asked sharply.

"Oh, nothing--except that he looks unutterable things... I can't
tolerate him."

They had, somewhat breathless from talking while they climbed, reached
the top of the steep. The walls of the house rose before them, roofless,
with gaping windows and scantling floors. Great stacks of brick and
mounds of gravel flanked it. Piles of sweet-scented lumber lay ready.
But the workmen, their lunch eaten, were having their noon-hour
relaxation. They lay on the ground or sprawling on the lumber, with the
exception of two French-Canadians. These were lumbermen who had been
attracted by the high wages Philip offered. As though they had not had
exercise enough in their work they now were dancing with great vivacity
and energy. They leaped, stamped, twirled, with intricate steps,
snapping their fingers, their teeth flashing. One was middle-aged, with
a red handkerchief tied about a thin corded neck, the other young,
handsome, but no more agile, indeed not so much so. The music for the
dance was supplied by an old man seated on the great stump of a pine
tree. He was Fiddling Jock. He had expected to be turned out but the
Whiteoaks had been taken by his oddity and allowed him to stay on.
Philip had given him shingles to mend his leaky roof and new glass to
fill the broken windows. No one knew when the cottage had been built,
probably by some settler who long ago had died or found the place too
lonely. Adeline had christened it Fiddler's Hut. Now she called out:

"Splendid, Jock! Ah, but that's a fine tune! Play up! Make 'em dance!"

The old fellow nodded violently. With a flourish of his bow he increased
the tempo of the music till the feet of the two dancers seemed possessed
of a mad spirit. Robert Vaughan was, as usual, amused and a little
embarrassed by her familiarity with the men. He would not have had her
different but he resented the fact that her unconventionality gave rise
to criticism in the neighbourhood. "Damn their strait-lacedness!" he
thought. "She is perfect." But still she made him feel embarrassed.

The Frenchmen sat down breathless. The old Scot reached for a tin mug of
tea and took a swig of it. The mug was held to no visible mouth, for the
lower part of his face was hidden by an enormous growth of grizzled
beard. He wore a grey jacket and a kilt of Scotch tartan so faded that
to which clan it belonged was no longer discernible. His bare knees were
thin and hairy. He looked as durable and tough as a tree growing on a
stony hillside but there was an appealing, lonely look in his wide-open
blue eyes.

Adeline clapped her hands. She exclaimed:

"You should give them an Irish tune, Jock. If you played an Irish jig
for them on Irish pipes they'd not be hopping about in that feeble
fashion."

"There's nae chunes sae fu' o' sperrit as the Scottish chunes," he
answered stoutly. "And as for dancin', I'll warrant no Irishman livin'
could beat yon Frenchies."

"Ah, you should see them dance in Galway," she said. "And their
whistling as clear as a pipe."

"We have two Irishmen here," said Jock, "and they have no more dance in
them than clods."

"They're from Belfast. That's the reason." She turned to the
French-Canadians,--"_Bon! Vous tes trs agiles. Je vous admire
beaucoup._"

"_Merci, Madame,_" they said in one voice.

"Wad ye be givin' a pairty when ye move into your fine hoose?" asked
Jock.

"Indeed we shall."

"I'd like fine tae play ma fiddle for it. D'ye think I micht? I'll learn
an Irish jig for the occasion if ye'll allow me."

"I engage you on the spot."

"It will cost ye naething, mind. I'd like to mak' a return for a' ye've
done for me."

As they went toward the walls of the house Robert exclaimed, "You can't
have that fellow play at your party! It would be the talk of the
countryside!"

"But he plays at all the weddings and christenings, doesn't he?"

"Not of your sort."

"I'm just an immigrant," she declared. "I want to be like the other
immigrants."

"Captain Whiteoak will never agree."

"We shall see."

They mounted the temporary steps and went in at the doorless door.

But Robert continued to look gloomy. He said, "Women exert too much
influence on us men."

A dimple darted into Adeline's cheek and away again.

"If she's the right sort of woman it's good for you, isn't it?"

"The right sort of woman could do anything with me."

"Then we must be on the watch for her. But don't you ever let her do
things to you till I have inspected her.... Come along, Bobbie, let's
see the house!" She took his hand and led him in. "Isn't it enchanting?"

They had inspected it the day before but the beams put into place since
then, the rows of bricks added, the mortar just setting into hardness
were of enthralling interest. The walls had no more to support than the
ethereal arch of the sky. But they stood solid, waiting, as though in a
kind of benevolent eagerness to shoulder their expected burden.

"Isn't it enchanting?" she repeated. "Oh, the things that will happen
here! It's enough to frighten one, isn't it, Bobbie, to think of the
things that are crowding in on us?"

She bent her brows to a dark line. "Wouldn't it have been strange if,
when the architect brought us the sketches for the house, he could have
brought a sketch of all that lay before us here?"

"Perhaps you will not spend all the rest of your days here. You may want
to move. Perhaps you will want to go to another part of the country or
even back to the Old Land. There are many who do."

"Never! Not Philip and me! We've come here to stay. Canada will have our
bones. Jalna will be our home." Her eyes filled with tears. "Do you
know, Bobbie, that is the first time I have called the place _Jalna_,
naturally and easily. Now the name belongs to it, just as Philip and I
do."

Young Vaughan was watching a figure bent double behind a newly rising
partition. He pressed her arm and whispered:

"There's a half-breed fellow in there. I think he's stealing something.
Let's watch him."

They crept forward in time to see the youth filling his pockets with
nails and screws from a box of carpenters' supplies. As he saw himself
observed he straightened his body and looked at them coolly. He was very
thin, very dark, with chiselled features of surprising beauty. They were
of the aquiline Indian type, though less pronounced, but he had a warm
colour in his cheeks, and his hair, instead of being coarse and
straight, was fine and hung in wavy locks about his thin cheeks. His
clothes were ragged. He was about Robert's age.

"Well, now," said Adeline, "that's a fine trick you're at!"

"I work for Mr. Wilmott," he answered gently. "I'm building a
poultry-house for him and I ran short of nails. I thought maybe the
carpenters wouldn't mind me taking a few."

"It's a good thing for you they didn't catch you at it," said Robert.

"They were for Mr. Wilmott," he returned, keeping his eyes on Adeline's
face.

She went forward eagerly. "Take all you want!" she exclaimed. "There are
all sizes and shapes here. Come, let's see what you have."

Hesitatingly he drew some specimens from his pockets.

"'Tis not half enough! Come, here is a bit of sacking. Fill it up. Would
you like some of these nice hinges and hooks? And here's a funny-looking
thing but it might be useful."

The young half-breed knelt eagerly beside her, and began snatching all
that caught his eye.

"My goodness," exclaimed Robert, "you mustn't do that! The carpenters
know just what supplies they have and need them."

"We can buy more," said Adeline. "Besides, there are tons of nails here.
No one could miss what we've taken."

The half-breed deftly knotted the four corners of the sacking and
slipped away. Before he left he gave Adeline a smile of gratitude.

"It will be a wonder to me," said Robert Vaughan, "if anything movable
is left on this place after two days. Every thief in the neighbourhood
will be here."

"But the Indians are honest. Your father told me so."

"The half-breeds aren't."

"Tell me about that boy."

"I don't know much except that his name is Titus Sharrow. They call him
Tite. He's no good. I don't see why Mr. Wilmott employs him. I am told
that he sleeps in the house."

"How does he come to be a half-breed? Are his parents living?"

"I don't think so. I believe he's really a quarter French. His mother's
father was a French-Canadian. It's a shame, the way they took up with
the Indian women."

"The boy is charming."

"I call that a funny adjective to use about a half-breed thief."

"He wasn't stealing."

"Do you think Mr. Wilmott sent him for the nails, then?"

"I dare say," she answered a little huffily, as though Wilmott's honour
were in question, or her friendship for him.

"Well, here comes Captain Whiteoak! Let's tell him all about it!"

"For pity's sake, no! Don't breathe a word of it, please."

Philip strode up. "Adeline, I have a dozen things to ask you," he
exclaimed, and they entered on a long and fascinating discussion of
building problems.

Two weeks passed and the niece, Daisy Vaughan, arrived. She was a
visitor unwanted by all. David Vaughan had not seen his niece since she
was in her teens. The slight reports he had had of her were not
endearing. Her coming would disarrange his wife's housekeeping still
further and, heaven knew, the Whiteoaks had disarranged it enough for
any woman's endurance. But he had family loyalty. Daisy was his only
brother's only child. She had written him a pathetic letter. He could do
no less than offer her hospitality. Mrs. Vaughan would not have dreamed
of opposing him but she felt injured. This sense of well-bred and
restrained injury encircled her silvery head like a dim halo. Adeline
was all on her side. "Dear Mrs. Vaughan," she would say, "this is the
last straw for you, I know. Philip and I and our tribe were quite enough
but, with your husband's relations trooping in, 'twill be the end of
you. Once that roof is on our house, I promise you we shall decamp."

"Don't speak of it," said Mrs. Vaughan. "I shall manage."

Robert was certain that Daisy would always be on hand when he wanted to
talk to Adeline. If they two walked together Daisy would be present. She
was a pushing, unnecessary girl and he hated the thought of her.

Aside from the feeling that her coming would make rather a crowd in the
house, Philip was not averse to it. Daisy was a pretty name. She would
be sprightly, probably amusing--in truth he was so happily absorbed in
the building of his house that events outside it affected him little. He
stood somewhat behind the others, his hands in his pockets, while they
put the best face on their welcome. Robert had driven the long way to
meet her.

She wasn't _petite_ and she wasn't pretty. She wasn't at all like a
daisy. But, by Jove, Philip thought, she had self-confidence and she
displayed originality in her dress. You could see that, even though it
was travel-worn. She kissed her aunt and uncle and was introduced to the
Whiteoaks.

"Are you very tired, my dear?" asked Mrs. Vaughan, herself looking very
tired.

"Not at all," answered Daisy, "though it was monstrous hot and dusty
travelling. The friends I was travelling with from Montreal were half
dead but I seem to be made of india-rubber."

As she spoke she untied the wide ribbon of her bonnet from beneath the
brim of which her face looked out with an eagerness that seemed to
express determination to take in at one glance everything that was to be
seen.

"She is like no Vaughan that ever was," thought her uncle.

"I do hope she is not a minx," thought Mrs. Vaughan.

"Egad, what a small waist," was Philip's inward comment.

"Ugly, but dangerous." Adeline was taking her in. "A grinning hussy. Let
her keep away from me!" She said:

"You are not in the least like a daisy. Your parents should not have
named you till they'd had a better look at you."

Daisy looked sidewise at her. "Can you think of a flower-name that would
suit me better? They were set on a flower-name."

"In Ireland," said Adeline, "there's a wild flower the peasants call
Trollopin' Bet."

Philip caught Adeline's fingers in his and pressed them sharply. "Behave
yourself!" he said. He gave a startled look at Daisy.

Adeline jerked away her hand like a child who says, "I will do as I
please!"

"You can't offend me," laughed Daisy. "I'm made of india-rubber, as I
told you."

"I don't understand," said Mr. Vaughan. "What did Adeline say?"

"She said I should have been named for that _red-haired_ Queen
Elizabeth," answered Daisy. She took off her bonnet and disclosed
luxuriant dark hair, dressed elegantly.

The scornful emphasis on the word _red-haired_ had brought the colour to
Adeline's cheeks. She sought for words to fling at the newcomer which
would not affront her host and hostess.

"If 'tis my head----" she began.

"Good God!" interrupted Philip. "Nicholas is going to fall downstairs!"

He sprang up the steps, three at a time, to catch the baby who, on hands
and knees, had crept to the top to see what was going on. Philip ran
down with him in his arms and held him up for the visitor's inspection.

"What do you think of this," he demanded, "at nine months?"

"The angel!" exclaimed Daisy Vaughan.

Nicholas knew not what shyness was. He sat on his father's arm, his hair
rising in a curly crest, and beamed at the visitor. He had a look of
unutterable well-being. When she held out her hands to him he went to
her with great good-humour and examined her face with interest.

It was a short face with high cheek-bones, narrow eyes and a turned-up
nose. The mouth was large and full of fine teeth. When the under lip met
the upper--which it did not often do--it caused the chin to recede a
little, though not enough to be disfiguring. She was thin but not bony.
Her waist was indeed incredibly small. To this part of her Adeline bent
a look of extreme exasperation, for she had recently made certain that
she herself was to have another child. The sight of that waist and the
thought of what lay before herself was enough to put her out of temper.

"I know nothing of babies," said Daisy, "but to me this one seems the
most beautiful I have seen. Is he your only child?" She raised her eyes
to Philip's face.

"We have a little daughter," he answered. "She's up there somewhere with
her nurse."

"How lovely! How old is she?"

"I'm not quite sure. How old is Gussie, Adeline?"

"I'm damned if I know," returned Adeline bitterly. "But I know I had
her."

She took care to lower her voice so that Mrs. Vaughan should not hear
her, who now exclaimed:

"Gussie is the dearest child and so intelligent! Will you let me take
you to your room now, my dear? Then you must have something to eat."

David Vaughan went to the dining-room to fetch a decanter of sherry.
Robert followed his mother and Daisy up the stairs, carrying Daisy's
dressing-case. The Whiteoaks were alone in the hall. Philip had again
taken Nicholas into his own arms. He said with a stern look at Adeline:

"You seem determined to disgrace yourself. You must know that the
Vaughans aren't used to such talk."

She wound a lock of her red hair on her finger. "They will be used to it
before I leave," she said.

"You may have to leave sooner than you are prepared for, if you go on
like this."

"I am prepared for anything!" she answered hotly.

"Where would you plan to go from here," he returned, "with the roof not
yet on our house?"

"I could stay with Mr. Wilmott." She gave him a roguish look.

He laughed. "I believe Wilmott could manage you."

"You little know him," she returned.

"That's a funny remark," he said.

"Why?"

"It sounds as though you had a peculiar knowledge of him."

"I'm a better judge of character than you."

"You only jump at conclusions, Adeline. You have taken a dislike to this
Daisy Vaughan for no reason whatever. For my part, I think she is an
interesting creature."

"Of course you do! Just because she made eyes at you."

Philip looked not ill-pleased. "I didn't see her make eyes," he said.

"Oh, Philip, what a liar you are!" she exclaimed.

Nicholas leaned from his father's arms to embrace her. Their heads were
close together. David Vaughan returned with the sherry. "I hope the
ladies won't remain too long upstairs," he said. "What a nice family
group! I think Nicholas has come on well since his dresses were
shortened. He appears freer in his movements."

"He gets into more mischief," said Philip.

Nicholas took his mother's finger into his mouth and bit on it. She
suffered the pain because his new tooth must come through.




                                   XI
                                THE ROOF


IT was wonderful to see the roof begin to spread above the walls. It was
music to hear the tap-tap of the carpenters' hammers as they made secure
the shingles, one overlapping the other. The shingles were new and clean
and sweet-smelling. Up the slopes of the gables they climbed, and down
they crowded to the eaves. Above all rose the five tall chimneys never
yet darkened by smoke, awaiting the first fire. Now the house had a
meaning, a promise. It rose against the brilliant autumn foliage as
something new and tough-fibred to be reckoned with in the landscape. The
house was windowless, doorless, in some places floorless, the partitions
were incomplete, but, with the roof bending above it, it spoke for the
first time. Adeline and Philip would stand, with linked fingers, gazing
up at it in admiration. For generations their families had lived in old
houses, heavy with traditions of their forebears. Jalna was hers and
Philip's and theirs only.

Robert had gone off to his university. It had been as he had foretold.
Daisy had interfered sadly with his enjoyment of his last days at home.
Her thin supple figure edged itself into every crevice of companionship.
She had something to say on every subject and though she tried, almost
too assiduously, to make what she said agreeable, a jarring note, an
edged word often crept in. Adeline declared there was malice in
everything she said and did. Philip persisted that she was an
interesting creature and went out of his way to be pleasant to her, to
make up for Adeline's coolness, he said, but Adeline said it was because
Daisy flattered him. If she had been a fragile little thing Adeline
could better have endured her, but she was lithe and strong and she
imitated everything that Adeline did. If Adeline walked swiftly across
the temporary bridge of logs that spanned the stream, Daisy ran across
it. She screamed in fright as she ran but she did run. If Adeline
penetrated the woods to gather the great glossy blackberries, Daisy
pressed just ahead snatching at the best ones. Adeline had a horror of
snakes but Daisy showed a morbid liking for them. She would pick up a
small one by its tail, to the admiration of the workmen. When they
carried home the pretty red vines of the poison ivy, it was Adeline who
suffered for it. Daisy was immune.

A large barn was being erected at some distance from the house. Later on
Philip would have stables built but at present the under part of the
barn was to serve as shelter for horses and cattle.

Adeline and Daisy strolled over to inspect it one afternoon in the
Indian summer. The framework of the barn stood as a lofty skeleton
against the background of dark-green spruces, balsams and pines, with
here and there a group of maples like a conflagration of colour. Piles
of lumber lay about, filling the air with the sweet smell of their
resin. Great chips and wedges of pine were scattered on the ground,
showing a pinkness almost equal to that colour in the sea-shell. Slabs
of bark were scattered too, and strands of moss and crushed fern leaves.
But hardly did anything die here before a fresh growth pushed up to take
its place, or erase its memory, if there had been eyes to notice it.
Birds were migrating and now a cloud of swallows had settled on the
framework of the barn to rest. It was Sunday and no workmen were about.
There was a primeval stillness that was broken only by the myriad
twitterings from the swallows' throats. They sat on the scaffolding not
in hundreds but in thousands. They perched wing to wing, as close as
they could sit. Their forked tails made a fringe beneath their perch.
They changed the skeleton edifice from the colour of freshly hewn wood
to bands of darkness. Only a few darted overhead as guides and watchers.
When these saw the two young women draw near they made some word or
sign, for a slight stir took place among the swallows but they showed no
real alarm. There they were, guardians of land and fruit and flower,
benign toward man, capable to hold down any insect pest that ever rose,
powerful to protect every kind of crop and harvest. Insects were their
food. All these thousands of sharp beaks, bright eyes and swift wings,
were alive for the destruction of insects.

Adeline snatched up a wedge of pine and threw it up among the birds.
Daisy's predatory laugh rang out and she also began to throw chips at
them. The birds bent their heads, looking down in surprise. Then they
rose from every scaffold, scantling and smallest perch. They rose in a
body, forming themselves into a whirling cloud, making the sound of wind
among the trees with their wings. They flew in all directions yet
remained within their own system, and that moved southward.

"Don't go, don't go!" cried Adeline. She turned in anger to Daisy. "You
should not have frightened them! 'Twill bring bad luck to the barn. They
had made it their resting-place and now they are going."

"You threw first, Mrs. Whiteoak."

"I only tossed a wee stick among them to see if they would notice it."

"But you went on throwing. You didn't stop. You were quite violent."

"It was because you excited me. You should remember that I was a girl
among a horde of brothers who were always ready to let fly a stick. But
you--you were an only child--a little girl alone. You should be gentle."

"I am gentle, Mrs. Whiteoak."

"You were not then! You were showing all your teeth and laughing as you
threw the sticks."

"Not one bird was struck."

"But they're going! They'll never come back! Look at them."

The swallows had risen high in the air. They looked no more than specks
sinking and rising. They were like a floating sediment in the
translucent bowl of the sky.

"It is natural for them to go to the South," said Daisy. "I wish I
were!"

Adeline raised her arched brows. "Then you aren't contented here?" she
asked.

"What is there here for me?" asked Daisy.

"What do you want?" asked Adeline, surprised.

"Experience. I'm not just a young girl."

"But you have been about a good deal, haven't you?"

"Always at other people's beck and call. You don't know what it is to be
poor, Mrs. Whiteoak."

Adeline gave an ironic laugh. "Oh, no--I don't know what it is to be
poor! Let me tell you, I never had two sovereigns to rub together till
my great-aunt died and left me her money."

"How lucky you are! A fortune left you! And such a husband!"

"Ay, he's a good fellow," said Adeline curtly.

They had come to the barn and stood gazing up into its towering
framework. A ladder of scantlings was built against its base and up this
Daisy began to climb. She climbed nimbly considering her voluminous
skirts. At the top of the ladder she set out to walk along a beam while
her fingers, just touching another, supported her.

"You are silly!" exclaimed Adeline. The girl was ready for any
adventure, she thought.

"Oh, I love heights!" cried Daisy. "No height makes me dizzy. I revel in
this."

"You should have been a tight-rope walker."

"The view is lovely!" Daisy now walked with arms extended in precarious
balance. "You look no more than a pigmy down there. Do come up."

"I daren't."

"Why not?"

"In the first place I have no desire and in the second I'm going to have
a baby."

This announcement was more of a surprise to Daisy than Adeline had
expected. It was almost a shock. She stiffened and stood still. Then she
gave a cry, swayed and sank to the beam that supported her, crouching
there in an attitude of terror. Her skirts stood about her like a
balloon.

"I'm going to fall!" she cried. "Oh, Mrs. Whiteoak, save me, I'm going
to fall!"

Adeline turned pale but she said sternly, "Come back the way you went.
Surely you can do that! Just take hold of yourself and move carefully.
You'll be all right." But the space from where Daisy clung, to the
ground, seemed very far.

Daisy crouched shivering on the beam. "I daren't move," she said, in a
tense voice. "Get help quickly! I'm going to fall!"

The thought of leaving Daisy in this predicament while she sought help
made Adeline hesitate. At that moment Philip strolled out of the wood
and came toward them. Adeline ran to him.

"That interesting creature, as you call her," she said, "has climbed to
the top of the barn and is stuck there! She says she is going to fall."

"My God!" exclaimed Philip, looking up at Daisy. "She is likely to break
her neck!" He called out: "Don't be frightened! I'll come and fetch you.
Just keep calm and look upward."

He mounted the ladder and walked cautiously but steadily along the beam.
A feeling of nausea came over Adeline. She closed her eyes for a space.
When she opened them Philip had reached Daisy and was leading her back
toward the ladder. When his feet were secure on it Daisy collapsed
against his shoulder.

"I cannot," she sobbed. "I cannot take another step!"

"You are quite safe," said Philip. "Just hang on to me. I'll carry you
down."

Daisy did hang on to him and, as they reached the bottom, her cheek was
against his tanned neck. She was sobbing.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said as he set her gently on her feet.

"You have need to be," said Adeline, "for you gave me a monstrous scare
and risked Philip's life. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

Philip was still supporting Daisy. "Don't scold her," he said. "Any girl
is likely to do hare-brained things. It's a good thing Miss Daisy's
light. I should have had a time of it to carry you down, Adeline."

"I should have stayed up there till Doomsday before I'd have asked you
to." She turned away. She looked up at the last of the swallows, now
winging swiftly above the tree-tops.

"I was on my way to Wilmott's," said Philip. "Would you like to come
with me? Do you feel able for a walk, Miss Daisy?" He had released her
from his arm.

"I shall do whatever you say," she answered, in a new sweet voice.

"I think I shall go back," said Adeline coldly.

"In that case, we'll all go back," said Philip.

"I am quite capable of returning by myself," but she was ready to be
persuaded by him.

"Come along," he said coaxingly.

They took the path which was now beaten by usage and led to where
Wilmott lived, two miles away. Philip led the way, holding back branches
when they intervened, striking with his stick at brambles that would
have torn their skirts. High above, the cloud of swallows moved, as
though leading them.

Daisy's misadventure and Philip's rescue of her had made a constraint
among them. They spoke little and then only of what they saw. Sometimes
the path was edged by bracken and sometimes by the purplish foliage of
blackberries. Sometimes it was carpeted with pine needles, or the
scarlet leaves of the soft maple, the first to fall. Mushrooms as large
as dinner-plates sprang up on it or scores of little ones marched like
soldiers. An owl, with her five young ones, sat in a row on the limb of
a beech tree. Philip raised his arm to point them out to his companions.
The mother owl shot past him like a bolt, dealing him a blow that nearly
felled him. The young ones stared down imperturbably.

Adeline flung her arms about Philip.

"Oh, are you hurt?" she cried. "Let me see!" Clasping his head in her
hands she examined his scarlet cheek.

"It's all but bleeding," she said, his head still possessively in her
hands.

"That's why I don't like this country," said Daisy. "You never know what
will happen next. I always have the feeling that something wild is going
to happen, and it depresses me."

"I thought you said you longed for experience," Adeline said, beginning
to walk along the path again.

"I meant experience in myself--not to be buffeted about."

"I can tell you that owl gave me a clout," said Philip. "It's monstrous
strange how having young makes the female wicked."

Adeline's eyes burned into his back and he remembered. He looked over
his shoulder and gave her a wink. "I don't mean you," he said, in a low
voice. He plucked a red maple leaf and stuck it in his hat, as though in
salute to her.

They found Wilmott fishing from his flat-bottomed boat on the broad
breast of the river. Equinoctial rains had swollen it but it lay
tranquil, reflecting the bright colour of the foliage at its brink.
Wilmott sat, with an expression of bliss, his eyes fixed on the little
red float that moved gently on the water.

"What a way to spend Sunday!" exclaimed Adeline.

Wilmott rose in his boat and drew in the line. "I look on this as
necessary toil," he said. "I'm fishing for my supper. I suppose you have
just returned from the afternoon church service."

"No need to be sarcastic," said Philip. "There was no service today.
What have you caught?" Wilmott held up a pickerel.

"Go on with your fishing," said Adeline. "We'll watch you. It will be a
nice rest after all we've been through."

"I must come over here and fish with you," said Philip. "But the fact is
I have little time for anything save the building of my house. Just one
thing after another happens."

"Yes, I know," said Wilmott. "It's the same here." He laid the fish on
the bottom of the boat and picked up the oars. He dipped them lazily
into the calmness of the water.

"Why, you're making a lovely little wharf," exclaimed Adeline.

"Yes," he answered, rowing gently toward her. "Tite and I work at it in
our spare time."

"This is Mr. Wilmott, Daisy," said Adeline. "Miss Vaughan, James."

Wilmott steadied the boat with the oars and bowed gravely. Daisy
returned his greeting and all stared down at the small landing-stage on
which tools lay.

"A nice saw," said Philip, picking it up. "And a new hammer."

"They belong to Tite," said Wilmott. "He has very good tools. A man he
worked for couldn't pay him the cash, so he paid him with tools."

"What lots of nails!" said Daisy. "Did he pay him with nails too?"

"He found the nails," answered Wilmott. "Someone had dropped them on the
road."

"I bought a supply of good tools," said Philip. "They have a way of
disappearing, so I carve my initials on the handles." He turned the
hammer over in his hand.

"Why, here is a clear P.W. on the saw!" cried Daisy.

Wilmott got out of the boat and tied it to the landing-stage. He bent
his head beside Philip's.

"Let's see," he said. Then he added, "I'll be hanged if your initials
aren't on the hammer!"

"That's the way with half-breeds," said Philip easily. "Keep the tools.
I have finished with them. You're quite welcome."

"Oh, no," returned Wilmott. "I shall return them when we have finished
the work. I couldn't think of keeping them."

"As you like."

"Oh, what an enchanting little house!" cried Daisy. "Will you show it
me?"

As they went in at Wilmott's invitation they saw Tite rapidly picking up
things from here and there and carrying them into the kitchen. Before he
disappeared he gave Adeline his gentle smile in which there was a touch
of sadness.

Daisy was delighted with the place, which Wilmott had indeed made
homelike if in rather an austere fashion. She exclaimed at everything
but especially at the oddity of encountering so many books in a log
house.

"I love reading," she said. "I wonder if you would lend me a book to
read? Have you that new one of Bulwer Lytton's?"

"I'm afraid not," said Wilmott. "But if you can find anything to please
you, do take it."

"Will you help me choose?" she asked Philip. "I should like something
you can recommend."

"I'm no great reader," he answered, "but I'll do what I can."

She and Philip went to the bookshelves. Adeline turned to Wilmott.

"Are you still happy here?" she asked.

"I'm serenely and consciously happy every hour of the day and, I could
almost add, of the night. This life just suits me. I could live a
hundred years of it without complaint. I lack only one thing."

"And what is that?"

"More frequent glimpses of you. Of course, I have no right to say it but
just seeing you, talking to you, gives an added zest to everything I
do."

Daisy had taken up an exercise-book and was examining it.

"I am teaching my young Tite to read and write," explained Wilmott. "He
is very intelligent."

"What lovely pot-hooks!" exclaimed Daisy. "Look, Captain Whiteoak, what
lovely pot-hooks!"

"You must teach him to read my initials, Wilmott," said Philip.

"Wilmott!" repeated Daisy. "Why, I thought your friend's name was
Wilton!"

"No--Wilmott."

"Now here is a coincidence," she cried. "Before I left Montreal I met a
Mrs. Wilmott. Let me see, where did I meet her? Oh, yes, it was at a
soire given by the wife of a Montreal banker. This Mrs. Wilmott--I
remarked the name because it is not a common one--this Mrs. Wilmott
struck me as quite unusual. She seemed a woman with a purpose. She is
out here from England--I think to meet her husband."

Wilmott had taken Tite's copy-book into his hands. He bent his gaze on
it in an absent-minded way. Adeline came and looked over his shoulder.
She said, in an undertone:

"I shall come over tomorrow morning--soon after breakfast."

"Names are amusing," Philip was saying. "I knew another Vaughan in the
Army in India. He was no relation to your uncle, Miss Daisy, but he had
the same name. He even looked like him. Did you ever notice that people
who look alike have similar voices?"

"Tomorrow morning," whispered Adeline, into the copy-book, "and--don't
worry."




                                  XII
                                HENRIETTA


ANXIOUS as Adeline was, she drew in the reins and slackened the pace of
the quiet bay horse so that she might look up the drive that led to
Jalna. There was no gate as yet. The drive was no more than a rough
track. Piles of lumber, heaps of brick and sand disfigured the ground
before the house, but there stood the house with its roof firmly on, its
five chimneys staunch and tall, waiting for her and Philip! There was a
sagacious look about it, as though it were conscious that it had no drab
destiny but was to be the home of two people who were beloved by each
other and who loved life. The builder promised that in early spring they
should move in.

Adeline could scarcely endure the waiting for that day. She had now been
five months at Vaughanlands. No people could have put themselves about
with a better grace than the Vaughans. Still, two grown-ups, two
children and their nurse, were a large addition to the work of the
house. Domestic help was cheap enough but untrained and ignorant. All
her life Adeline had been waited on. Work got done somehow and never had
she troubled her head as to how. In the past months she had often seen
Mrs. Vaughan tired out. Yet, when she tried to help her, she did
everything wrong and experienced dreadful boredom into the bargain. It
took all the nurse's time to care for the children and to wash and iron
their little clothes. She saw to it that it took all her time. Adeline
at last appealed to Patsy O'Flynn.

"For the love of God, Patsy-Joe, take hold and help with the housework!
For if you can't make yourself useful I shall have to send you back to
Ireland."

"Me make mesilf useful!" he cried, affronted. "If I haven't, I'd like to
know who has! How would your honour have got here, with the babies and
the goat and the dog and all, if it hadn't been for me! 'Tis yersilf has
many a time said so and now you throw me uselessness in me teeth and
expect me to swallow it!"

"Very well, Patsy-Joe," Adeline said sadly. "I'll clean the silver and
wash the glass and make the beds myself, if you are to talk like that."

"Well, I'll do what I can," he grumbled, "but 'tis the most small,
inconvanient house I iver was in, and the servants the worst."

He did turn in and help with the work and might have been heard saying
to the housemaid, "Mind yer manners, ye ill-taught wench. Curtsy and
say, 'Please, yer honour,' whin ye spake to the misthress, or I'll be
the death of ye." The buxom girl took it in good part. Wherever
Patsy-Joe went he was a favourite.

The horse's hooves moved quietly in the deep dust of the road. In spite
of early autumn rains the land lay dry as tinder. Even the heavy dews at
night could do no more than moisten the parched lips of the plants. But
colour was bright on every side. With careless flamboyance the trees ran
the bold scale from bronze to fiery red. The fields showed the hot blue
of chicory and yellow stubble, the fence corners the crimson sumachs.
The purple clusters of elderberries looked ready to drip from the trees
in their over-ripeness. Ten thousand crickets filled the lazy air with
their metallic music. How much, thought Adeline, they could do with two
single notes! One note was grave and one was gay, and with the two they
could do anything.

She had slept little last night. It was only by strong curbing of
herself that she had remained in bed. She had felt that by springing up
and pacing the floor she might find some means of saving Wilmott from
discovery by his wife. The aghast look in his eyes had frightened her.
What if he were gone when she arrived at his house? He had looked
capable of anything at the moment when Daisy had told of the meeting
with that woman. But Daisy and Philip had seemed to notice nothing.
Wilmott was not a man you would suspect. Not that he seemed without
mystery but he appeared to carry it in his heart and not as a physical
covering. You wouldn't think of him as hiding from a woman, thought
Adeline. But hiding he was and must be protected. Her love for Philip
never wavered but the small, unbridled something in her that would stray
loved Wilmott also, with a bold protective love.

His bit of river was as smooth as a blue glass plate and the rushes
along its verge, even in their dryness, were too still for whispering.
The little new landing-stage shone out clean and white. His fishing
tackle lay on it and the flat-bottomed boat was moored beside it.
Everything was so still that Adeline had a sense of foreboding as she
knocked at the door. There was no answer but she saw the window-blind
move and had a glimpse of Tite's thin dark hand.

"It is Mrs. Whiteoak!" she called out.

The door opened and he stood there, in shirt and trousers but barefoot.
He said, in his soft voice:

"Come in, Missis. My boss he want to see you. You wait here and I bring
him. You go inside and shut the door."

She entered the house. Tite's copy-book was open on the table. He had
been at work, the ink was still wet on his laborious pot-hooks. Her
heart was warm with pity for Wilmott as she looked about the room where
he had made himself so comfortable, so mentally at ease. It was very
tidy. Try as he might he would never shake off the punctilious habits
inflicted on him by that wife. He came quickly into the room and closed
the door behind him. He looked pale and his eyes were heavy.

"You have not slept either," she said.

"I did not trouble to go to bed. But I'm sorry you should lie awake on
my account. After all, we have jumped to a conclusion. There might
conceivably be another Mrs. Wilmott--one who would be welcomed by her
husband." He smiled grimly. "I must try to find out more particulars
from Miss Vaughan. Yesterday my mind refused to work. I was as near to
panic as I have ever been."

"I'm afraid you have reason for it," she said. "When I had Daisy to
myself I brought up the matter again and found that the Mrs. Wilmott she
met came from the very part of London you lived in. She was pretty,
too--very neat in appearance, Daisy said, but rather precise in her
speech, with a high-pitched voice and a little quirk at the corner of
her mouth."

"My God," he exclaimed, "you'll have the girl suspicious!"

"I don't think so. Anyhow, we had to make certain. I think we can be
certain, don't you?"

"My wife will never rest till she finds me!" he exclaimed. He looked
wildly about the room.

"Don't look so desperate."

"I _am_ desperate. I tell you, Adeline, I will not live with my wife
again. I'll hang myself from one of these rafters first!"

"She must not find you."

"She will find me! You don't know her. I tell you she's indefatigable.
Nothing will stop her."

"You tell me this," cried Adeline. "Yet you took passage to Canada
without changing your name! You lived in Quebec under your own name!
What did you expect?"

He spoke more calmly. "I thought she would abide by my decision."

"Was that her habit?"

"Don't be sarcastic, Adeline. I left her well provided for. She had the
child. Why should she follow me?"

"Oh, listen to the man!" Adeline folded her arms to imprison her
exasperation. "Oh, the innocence! It is no wonder she is seeking you,
James. For what a blank you have left in her life! How can she be
herself without you there to badger and to hector and harass? God help
her, she is like a waterfall with nothing to fall over!"

"Well, she won't have me! I shall clear out. To think that she may walk
in here at any moment! Did she mention a child?"

"Yes, she spoke of her daughter, who had mumps on the voyage out."

Wilmott's face showed no fatherly concern at this news.

"Is the girl like her mother?" asked Adeline.

"No, but she is absolutely under her influence."

"Who wouldn't be?" exclaimed Adeline. "Who could live in the same house
with such a woman and not be under her influence? You couldn't, James."

"I kept my secret hidden from her all those years," he said grimly. "My
secret intention to leave her."

"You did well. What have you told Tite?"

"That I may be going away."

She swept to him and took his head between her hands. She looked
compellingly into his eyes. "You shall not go!" she said.

He drew violently away from her. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me--I love
you too well! I have to keep telling myself that Philip is my friend."

"We must take Philip into our confidence." Her hands had dropped to her
sides as though they had not touched him. She looked at him calmly. "We
must tell him all. He and I will go to the town and see if we can find
out where your wife is. It's just as you say, she's had plenty of time
to follow you here."

"What will Philip think of me?"

"He'll be on your side. You have impoverished yourself for her. You
can't deliver over your body to her. What man would expect you to? Not
Philip!"

"I wish it were not necessary to tell him."

"Tell him yourself. As man to man you'll make him understand."

"If anyone can do that, you can, Adeline."

She smiled. "Oh, I might do it too well."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I get carried away. I might make the situation too melodramatic. Philip
might want to keep out of it. I'll send him to you. You shall tell him
in your own dignified way."

"I still think it would be better for me to leave."

"There is no need for that," she declared. "I shall tell the woman you
are dead."

Wilmott gave a sardonic laugh. "She'll never believe you," he said.

Adeline's eyes were blazing when she turned on him. "Not believe me!"
she cried. "If I can't convince a flibbertigibbet like that, my name is
not Adeline Whiteoak!" She took his hand, as though sealing a compact.
Then she went to the door. "To think," she said, "that Henrietta may
walk up this path at any moment!"

Then she showed her white teeth in a mischievous smile and added: "Leave
Henrietta to me."

Wilmott stood looking at the russet plaits of her hair beneath the
little velvet hat, and the intimate grace of her nape as it melted into
her shoulder. It was hard for him to believe in the existence of
Henrietta.

"The first thing is to find Philip," she said finally, "and to send him
here to you."

"My God, what an interview!"

He went with her to where the horse was tethered, and helped her to
mount. "Everything will be all right," she called back to him as she
rode away.

She was half-way to Jalna when she saw a carriage approaching. It was of
the type hired out by livery stables and drawn by a pair of lean horses.
She saw that a woman and a young girl were in the seat behind the
driver.

Adeline's heart began to thud rapidly against her side, but she hastened
forward. As she passed the dust-covered carriage she took a good look at
the occupants.

The driver wore a shabby livery and weather-beaten top-hat. He had a
harassed, almost a plaintive look. He was comforting himself by chewing
tobacco, a trickle from which discoloured his chin. Behind him, very
upright on the uncomfortable seat, sat a smallish fresh-coloured woman.
She was pretty and self-possessed, looking young to be the mother of the
lumpish girl at her side. She gave Adeline a keen look, then leaned
forward and poked the driver in the back.

"Stop the horses," she commanded.

Either from stupidity or self-will he continued on his way, his eyes
fixed on the flies that buzzed above the heads of the horses, moving
with them in a horrid halo.

Mrs. Wilmott poked him again but more fiercely.

"I shall certainly complain of you to your master," she declared. "You
are the stupidest man I have ever seen. Stop the horses and try to
attract that lady's attention!"

The driver gave her a lowering look over his shoulder. "Did you say
_master_?" he growled. "We don't call no one master in this country.
This here country is a free country. But if you want me to holler to the
lady, I will."

He gave a loud bellow of, "Hi there, Ma'am! You're wanted!"

His horses had not required any order to stop but now made as though to
go into the ditch where they saw the long grass. He wrenched at the
reins. "Whoa," he bellowed. "Stay on the road, can't you? It's bad
enough to traipse all over the countryside without you pullin' the arms
off me!" The horses, with hanging heads, settled down to wait.

Adeline had drawn bridle and was slowly approaching. Her colour was
high. She looked more composed than she felt. When she had stopped her
horse beside the carriage she looked down enquiringly into Mrs.
Wilmott's face, who said:

"I wonder if you can give me any information of the whereabouts of Mr.
James Wilmott. I am told he bought a property in this locality."

"Yes," returned Adeline, in a deep quiet tone, "he did. A little log
cabin it was, far up the river where the swamp is, and an acre or two of
land. An Indian boy was with him."

"Oh!" Mrs. Wilmott's face showed a faint look of shock. "Really. A
swamp, did you say? An Indian! How degrading."

"It was not all swamp. He had a cow and a pig and a few fowls. He might
have been worse off."

"Is he gone from there?"

"Yes. He's gone."

Mrs. Wilmott drew a deep breath, then between pale lips she said, in a
tense tone, "I should like to speak to you privately." She looked at the
slumping back of the driver. Then she said:

"Just drive along the road a short distance while I converse with this
lady. Hold the horses steady whilst my daughter and I get out of the
carriage. Now be very careful. Steady the horses!"

"Remember I'm paid by the hour," he grumbled. "You'll have a pretty
bill." He shifted his tobacco to the other cheek and looked vindictively
over his shoulder at her.

"I shall certainly complain to your master," she declared. "You are
disobliging and impudent."

"There's no masters here!" He glared at her. "No masters, I tell ye! No
masters!"

"Mind your manners, my man!"

"There's no manners here neither and no 'my man-ing.' It's a free
country. Now are you goin' to get out or sit there complaining?"

Mrs. Wilmott alighted cautiously, followed by her daughter. The driver
went a little distance down the road. Adeline dismounted and led the way
to a grassy knoll. Her horse began at once to crop the dry herbage. She
said: "We can talk quite privately here. Will you sit down?"

She invited Mrs. Wilmott to be seated as though in her own drawing-room.
Mrs. Wilmott looked at her inquisitively, and at the same moment
explained herself. Adeline's gaze was sympathetic.

"I am Mrs. Wilmott," she said. "I am here to seek my husband. You must
think the circumstances very strange. They are indeed. My husband is a
very strange man. He is a very peculiar man. I've had to come all the
way from London in search of him. My father, Mr. Peter Quinton, he is
descended from Sir Ralph Quinton who was a great inventor and scientist
of the sixteenth century--you may have heard of him--I mean of Sir
Ralph, of course, not of my father. Not that I should say my father is
not a man of some importance, for he has stood for his borough more than
once and been not too badly defeated. But naturally, he is not as
important as Sir Ralph. He said to me--and much as I dislike repeating
the private remarks of my family to a stranger, I shall repeat this to
you, for you appear so exceedingly reliable and sympathetic--he said to
me--that is, my father, not Sir Ralph, said to me--'Henrietta, a man who
had no more consciousness of his responsibilities than to go to a
distant country on a pleasure trip and remain away for a year and a half
without writing a line home, is not worth seeking.' But I'm not of that
opinion. A husband's place is with his wife, I insist. Don't you agree?"

"If it can be done," said Adeline, her sympathetic eyes on Mrs.
Wilmott's face.

"That's just what I say. And I have left no stone unturned till I have
tracked James down. You have met him, I gather."

"Yes. I have met him."

"And how were you impressed by him? Pray do not try to spare my
feelings. If he lived here, as you say, in a swamp with a cow and a pig,
he must have reached a very low ebb."

"He had."

"Dear me! It is mortifying to think of such a situation. And where did
he go from here? I must ask you your name. Really, I never have been so
informal in my life. Anyone seeing me sitting in this dusty ditch would
scarcely credit what my position in London is. My father, Mr. Peter
Quinton who I think I mentioned, is----"

The young girl here distracted her mother's attention by the ferocity
with which she was scratching mosquito bites on her plump legs.

"Hettie!" cried Mrs. Wilmott. "Stop it!"

"I can't," returned Hettie, in a hoarse whimpering voice. "They itch."

"What if they do! No lady would scratch her limbs under any
circumstances."

"Can I go into the fence corner and scratch them?"

"No. I say no, Hettie."

"They itch!"

"I say no. That is final." Mrs. Wilmott turned to Adeline. "I was about
to ask you your name and where Mr. Wilmott went from here, but this
child has me at my wits' end with her disabilities. Since we left
England she has suffered in turn from train-sickness, sea-sickness,
mumps, dyspepsia, hives, ingrowing toe-nail, sties and now it is bites."

"They itch," said Hettie.

"Of course they itch!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilmott, in complete exasperation.
"What else are they for?"

"I hate midges."

"Well, hate them or not, you are to stop scratching." Again she turned
her eyes questioningly to Adeline.

"I am Mrs. White," Adeline answered, swallowing the last syllable of the
name. "My husband and I came over on the same ship with Mr. Wilmott. We
saw a good deal of him."

"Oh, how fortunate that I should find you! How did my husband conduct
himself on the voyage?"

"Very miserably," said Adeline.

"Did he speak of his family?"

"Never a word."

"Dear, dear! How unfeeling of him! Dear me! What a man! And he has left
this place, you say?"

"Some time ago."

"Where did he go? Wherever it is I shall follow him."

"He left in the darkness of night, with no word to anyone, but 'tis said
he went to Mexico and died of a fever there. Now I can give you the
address of two Irish gentlemen who are staying in New York and who can
tell you much more about him than I can. If any two men on this
continent can help you to discover what the true end of your husband
was, these are the two."

"He died!" cried Mrs. Wilmott, on a note of frustration. "You say he
died! Oh, surely not. He never had a day's illness in his life. He can't
be dead."

"'Tis said he died in Mexico," said Adeline, plucking a handful of
grass.

"Who says so?"

"The word came and went. I cannot remember who said it first."

"I must talk to these people. Who are they?"

"They'll be glad to talk to you, for, when he left, he owed money to
everyone in the neighbourhood. I suppose you will pay his debts?"

"Never!" There were two sharp points in Mrs. Wilmott's eyes, "I am under
no such obligation nor ever could be."

"It is a strange country," said Adeline. "You never know what will be
brought up against you."

"James was always talking about the East," said Mrs. Wilmott. "He
appeared fascinated by the East. I can't imagine why he came here."

"I believe he thought he was bound for the East." Adeline laid the
handful of grass in a little mound like a grave. "But he got on to the
wrong ship."

"Dear, oh dear, oh dear! It's enough to make me say I am well rid of
him."

"I think you are indeed," said Adeline. "A man like that is bound to do
something desperate. It boils up in him for years and then bursts
forth."

"I thank Heaven that my child bears no faintest resemblance to him. She
is the image of my father."

"I don't like Grandpa," said Hettie.

Mrs. Wilmott almost screamed. "Hettie, how dare you say such a thing!
Your dear grandpapa who is so superior to other people in every way!"

"I don't like him."

Mrs. Wilmott turned to Adeline in despair.

"I don't know what has come over the child. Before we left home she was
the most docile and respectful girl you could imagine. Now she will say
quite shocking things."

"It's the travelling," said Adeline. "It ruins them. On the voyage out
there was a young girl about your daughter's age, travelling with her
mother. Well, what did this girl do, d'ye suppose? At the first port she
eloped with my own young brother whom I was bringing out here! She ran
off with him and left her widowed mother. The poor lady was carried to
the dock on a stretcher more dead than alive."

A slow smile spread over Hettie's face. There was a brightening of her
eyes. But Mrs. Wilmott paled as the news of her husband's death had not
made her pale. She looked with a kind of horror at Hettie. Then she said
rather tremulously to Adeline:

"What do you advise me to do?"

"I advise you to go straight to New York and make enquiries from the two
gentlemen whose names I shall give you. Then, when you are satisfied of
your husband's whereabouts or of his departure from this life, you can
sail from there. I am told their sailing clippers are unequalled for
comfort and their new steamships too."

"That is just what I shall do! And if I can locate Mr. Wilmott it will
be due entirely to you."

"I never liked him either," put in Hettie.

Mrs. Wilmott looked meaningly at Adeline. Then she said, "Stop
scratching your limbs, Hettie."

"They itch."

"You must control yourself."

"I hate the midges."

"You have said that far too often."

"Not so often as they have bitten me. Mama, when can we go?"

"Very soon, Hettie." Mrs. Wilmott opened her reticule and took out a
small memorandum tablet. She handed it to Adeline. "Will you be so kind
as to write down the names and addresses of the gentlemen in New York?"
Their hands touched. A feeling of benevolence came over Adeline. She had
the feeling of taking care of Mrs. Wilmott, guiding her in the way she
should go. She wrote the names of D'Arcy and Brent in her bold
handwriting and returned the tablet.

"Irishmen, you say," Mrs. Wilmott remarked.

"Yes."

"I have never liked the Irish."

"There you go," said Hettie.

"What do you mean, child?"

"Saying what you tell me not to say."

"Hettie, do you want to be punished?"

"How?"

"By a hard smack."

"Smack me on the midge bites and I'd like it."

Mrs. Wilmott rose. "I want you to believe, Mrs. White," she said, "that
my daughter was not like this at home."

"That is what travelling does to them. My own daughter has not the
manners she had."

"It is deplorable." Mrs. Wilmott held out her hand. "Well, goodbye," she
said. "I cannot tell you how thankful I am that we met."

"Faith, so am I!" Adeline's benevolent clasp enfolded Mrs. Wilmott's
small dry hand. "I should ask you to drink a dish of tea with me but my
little girl has whooping-cough"--this was indeed true--"and yours might
contract it."

The very thought of such a contingency was upsetting to Mrs. Wilmott.
Again she told, and this time in detail, all she had been through with
Hettie since leaving home. Hettie interrupted her by saying, "The
carriage is going."

The livery horses were indeed ambling dejectedly down the road, for the
driver had fallen asleep and let the reins drop from his hand.

Mrs. Wilmott gave a cry and began to run after it.

"I'll fetch him for you!" exclaimed Adeline. She hastened to her horse
and began to lead him back to the road.

However, the driver had been woken by Mrs. Wilmott's cries. He looked
vindictively over his shoulder, again possessed himself of the reins,
and the carriage was stopped.

Mrs. Wilmott's bonnet had fallen back on her nape but she still was
dignified. On reaching the carriage she opened her reticule and took out
her handkerchief which she waved in farewell. Hettie looked on in
complete pessimism. She said:

"I hope we don't find him."

"Really!" exclaimed Adeline.

"Yes. I never liked him."

Laughing, in sudden hilarity, Adeline mounted her horse. She trotted to
where Mrs. Wilmott waited. Her face sobered. She said genially:

"A pleasant journey to you, Mrs. Wilmott."

"Thank you and thank you again for your help. Dear, oh, dear, when I
think of all that lies before me! When I think of all that lies behind!
Mrs. White, I had other chances. Mr. Wilmott was not my only suitor. I
shall say that and nothing more, except that my dear father was always
against the alliance. 'You can do better, Henrietta,' he repeatedly
said. 'James Wilmott never will be a man of consequence. There is a
great lack in him.' But I was determined--and this is what I get. Do
hasten, Hettie! Was there ever such a slow girl! It will be night before
we reach the town. When I consider the inconvenience, the expense I am
put to, it is enough to turn my hair white." She lifted her skirt and
cautiously climbed into the carriage. The driver took up his whip.

Hettie was approaching slowly, dragging her feet. Her mother urged and
directed her every step. At last they were seated side by side.

"Say good-bye to Mrs. White, Hettie, and thank her prettily."

"Good-bye," said Hettie morosely.

"Good-bye, Hettie."

The driver chirruped to his horses. As they moved off he turned to look
at Adeline. He contorted one side of his face into what seemed to be a
wink of derision toward the occupants of the carriage. A cloud of dust
rose and in its midst a white handkerchief fluttered.




                                  XIII
                               AUTUMN RAIN


ADELINE did not go on to Jalna but returned to Wilmott's log house. She
felt a strangeness in returning there. So much had happened since she
had left. Again she knocked and again she saw Tite's dark hand draw
aside the curtain. He opened the door at once.

"You want to see my boss?" he asked.

Wilmott now appeared.

"It's a pretty sort of life I lead," he exclaimed. "Like a criminal! And
I suppose that, in a degree, I am. You may go, Tite."

When they were alone, Adeline said rather breathlessly, "I've seen her!"

"Not Henrietta?"

"Yes."

"My God!" He stared incredulously. "Is she here, then?"

"She was. She's gone. I had no time to find Philip. When I reached the
road I met her coming in a hired carriage."

"I tell you," he said, between his teeth, "I will never go back to that
woman. But I am done for in this place! Where is she?"

"On her way back to the town. Tomorrow she will go to New York in search
of you. I told her it is said here that you went to Mexico and died of a
fever. Ah, the lies I've uttered on your behalf!"

"And she believed you?" He cared nothing for the lies. He turned a look
of concentrated anxiety on Adeline.

"Do I do things well or do I not? Of course she believed me. I told her
you had lived near here with a cow, a pig and an Indian You lived in a
swamp, I said, and when you left you were in debt to all the
neighbourhood."

He could not restrain a look of consternation. "Good God, and that is my
epitaph in England! Henrietta will tell everyone. She can't control that
tongue of hers."

Adeline turned to him fiercely. "Follow her then and deny it. She'll be
easy to find."

He made an excited turn about the room. "Don't be angry with me," he
said. "Don't expect me to say the right thing at such a moment. Don't
imagine that I'm not overflowing in gratitude to you. But I'm fairly
dazed by it all. It's happened so quickly."

"You resent my blackening your character. Who cares for character! You
are not seeking a situation! Oh, James Wilmott, the thing was to be rid
of that woman! I could see meanness and cruelty sticking out all over
her. What a time you must have had to please her!"

"I never pleased her--not after the first year. And I resent nothing you
told her. I am grateful, with my whole soul. Just think--if it were not
for you--she might have her feet on this land at this moment!" He just
touched Adeline's shoulder with his thin hand. "There you
stand--beautiful and strong--and my protector--not from Henrietta but
from what she would make of my life!"

"Don't thank me. I loved getting the best of her. Faith, if ever she
comes back, I stand ready for another bout!"

"If only we had some way of finding out if she really goes to New York
and if she sails from there!"

"We have!" said Adeline triumphantly. "Thomas D'Arcy and Michael Brent
will tell us."

"D'Arcy and Brent!" cried Wilmott, stiffening. "How could they know
anything of the matter?"

"I gave her their address so she could find out all the truth about your
trip to Mexico from them."

"You must have been mad!" shouted Wilmott. "What do they know of this
affair?"

"Nothing. But I shall write post-haste and tell them to expect her. I
know those two Irishmen. D'Arcy is a rip and Brent a regular playboy.
They'll like nothing so well as to tell fairy-tales to Henrietta for my
sake."

"You place yourself in a strange light," said Wilmott. "What will they
think of you?"

"There you go, wondering what people will think! I say people will think
ill of you no matter what you do. It's human nature."

"I would not have taken a thousand pounds and had those two told this of
me."

"Then I shall not write to them."

"Have you no reasoning power?"

"No. I have only instinct. Why?"

"Naturally they will have to know everything--now you have sent
Henrietta to them."

"You need not care. You will never see them again."

"I possibly never shall. But will Messrs. D'Arcy and Brent refrain from
telling this good story to their friends after dinner?"

"I will swear them to secrecy, James."

"Do you think they will remember to be secret when they have drunk well?
No! All their friends will hear this story."

"You need not care. You are dead."

"I had better be," he returned bitterly.

They eyed each other coldly. Then Adeline exclaimed in exasperation,
"What in the name of heaven did you expect? Did you expect me to meet
Henrietta with a full-fledged plan in my head, with no weak spots in it?
I think I have done very well--but what thanks does one ever get for
interfering between husband and wife?"

"She is no wife to me, nor has been for five years."

"Then why worry about her now that she is far away? I may add that
Hettie doesn't want you back."

Wilmott stared. "Was Hettie there?" he asked incredulously.

"She was. And showed no desire for a reunion with her papa."

Wilmott exploded in bitter laughter. "What a family we are! And how
unworthy of your interest in us!"

She gave him a piercing look. "If you still say _us_ about yourself and
those two, I wash my hands of you."

"I don't!" he exclaimed. "I announce myself free. I have never been so
happy in my life as I have been here. I shall trust in a beneficent
Providence and go on being happy."

"Just trust in me," she returned.

Wilmott turned to her, his features working, his eyes full of sudden
tears. "If I am happy here," he said, "it is because you are near me."

Adeline gave a little laugh. "Come with me," she said, "to Jalna. I will
not leave you alone."

He looked about him. "It doesn't seem too much for a man to ask to have
this log house in peace and yet I cannot feel at all convinced that I
shall."

"You shall not stay here alone today," she returned. "We'll go to Jalna
and see the staircase. The men are just building it and Philip has found
a wood-carver who is carving a beautiful newel-post for it. The
newel-post is to be of walnut and done in a design of grapes and their
leaves, with a grand bunch at the top. Shouldn't you like to see it,
James?"

"I should like nothing better."

He got his hat. He no longer wore the woodsman's clothes he had affected
when he first arrived but he had kept his word about taking off his
whiskers. Adeline again remarked the improvement in his appearance.

"I declare," she said, "you look very distinguished, now that you have
got rid of those whiskers."

"As a matter of fact they were quite small ones," he returned.

"All whiskers are too large. Don't you want me to say that you look
distinguished?"

"Everything you say is so important to me that I am bound to criticise
it."

"You are a character, James, as we say in Ireland, and sometimes I could
find it in my heart to pity Henrietta."

They went through the intricate paths that led to Jalna, he leading her
horse, she with the long skirt of her habit thrown across her arm. They
found Colonel Vaughan with Philip. They clustered about the stairway,
discussing the width of the treads, the curve of the banister, the
design of the proposed newel-post. Adeline declared that, for ease of
mounting, the steps had never been equalled. She could run up and down
them all day, she said, with a baby on either arm.

Colonel Vaughan invited Wilmott to join his other guests at dinner.
Wilmott was invited to Vaughanlands less frequently than he might have
been had Mrs. Vaughan liked him better. She had on several occasions
heard him express views on religion and politics which were antagonistic
to her. She had seen that her husband admired him. She felt that he was
a dangerous companion for Robert. What she disliked still more about him
was the admiration for Adeline which she had glimpsed alight in his
eyes. She thought it was reckless of Adeline to visit his home alone and
so make herself the subject of gossip. She thought it lax of Philip to
allow her to do so. She said as much to Adeline the same afternoon
before dinner.

"Dear Mrs. Vaughan," said Adeline, smiling, a little dangerously,
"please don't take me to task for something entirely innocent."

"I am not taking you to task, Mrs. Whiteoak. I am only warning you."

"Warning me of what?"

"That you will find yourself talked about."

"You mean that I am already talked about?"

"You must acknowledge that what you are doing is unconventional."

"Philip and I are unconventional people. We don't care a fig what
gossips or busybodies say."

"But these people are not gossips or busybodies. They are nice people
and your future neighbours, you must remember."

"Oh, Mrs. Vaughan, please don't take a chiding tone with me!" Adeline's
cheeks were scarlet but she added more calmly, "While I am here with you
I shall not go again alone to Mr. Wilmott's house. I hope that will
satisfy everyone."

She went off to dress for dinner, feeling the constriction of a
prolonged visit. She stopped at the children's door and opened it.
Nicholas had just been given his bath and was sitting on his nurse's
knee, wet and shining as a shell just lifted from the sea. His hair flew
upward in moist waves from his forehead. His eyes had a look of infant
hilarity and daring. He had thrown the sponge to the floor and now, on
Matilda's knee, reached for his slippery pink toes. She, with the
prideful fatuous smile of the nurse, looked up at Adeline as though to
say, "You may have borne him but just now he is mine, mine."

Nicholas did not care whose he was. He took a large, magnanimous view of
life. His chief occupation was to destroy what was nearest.

"You angel!" cried Adeline. "Oh, Nurse, how he grows! Aren't his dimples
enchanting?"

"They are indeed, Ma'am," answered the nurse, as smugly as though she
had put them in with her own finger.

Gussie came forward carrying a doll Wilmott had given her. It had a
pink-and-white face and black curls painted on its china head. It wore
only a chemise.

"Look," said Gussie, holding up the doll.

"Oh, how pretty!" said Adeline, but her eyes returned at once to
Nicholas.

"Look," said Gussie, drawing back the doll's chemise and displaying its
body.

"It's a marvel," said Adeline, but she did not look.

Gussie laid the doll in the bath and pressed it firmly down. As it sank,
an odd look came into her eyes. She remembered something. She turned to
her mother.

"Huneefa," she said.

Adeline was startled, almost horrified. What did the child remember? Why
had she said the ayah's name?

"There she goes, at her naughtiness!" exclaimed the nurse. "All day long
I can't keep up to her. If it isn't one thing it's another. If you would
punish her, Ma'am, it might do some good."

Gussie began to cough from whooping-cough, ending in that strange
crowing noise. The cough shook her tiny frame. It was pathetic to see
her supporting herself by grasping the arm of a chair. When the paroxysm
had passed, her face was crimson and her forehead moist with sweat.
Adeline wiped it with her own handkerchief.

"Poor little Gussie," she murmured, bending over her. "How you do cough!
This is what comes, Nurse, of her going to tea with the young Pinks."

"Well, Ma'am, it was your own wish. I didn't like the idea myself. You
can't be too careful--not with a baby in the house."

"Good heavens, how was I to know the little Pinks were taking
whooping-cough?"

"You never can tell what clergymen's children will be taking, Ma'am."

A step came on the stair. There was a quick knock at the door.

"It is the doctor," said Nurse, enfolding Nicholas' nakedness in a huge
bath-towel.

Adeline opened the door and Dr. Ramsay came in. He was a young man of
just under thirty, of bony frame but particularly healthy appearance.
His high cheek-bones and firmly cut lips gave him a look of endurance,
even defiance. His manner was somewhat abrupt. After greeting Adeline he
turned to his little patient.

"Hullo," he said. "Another bout of coughing, eh?"

Gussie gravely assented. She passed her hand across her forehead,
putting back the curls that clung moistly there.

Dr. Ramsay sat down and took her on his knee. He laid his fingers on her
tiny wrist but his eyes were on Adeline.

"I wish," he said, "we had some way of isolating her. I shall be very
sorry if you develop whooping-cough, Mrs. Whiteoak."

"There is little likelihood of that, since I did not take it when five
of my brothers had it at one time."

"I wish you had taken it then," he returned.

"Indeed then, I don't, for I should have missed the races in Dublin to
which my grandfather took me, and all my five brothers whooping away at
home!"

"Better the miss of some races," he returned, "than the miscarriage of a
child."

Adeline varied between having complete trust in Dr. Ramsay and disliking
him. The dislike did not impair the trust but it tarnished it. She said:

"All I worry about is my baby. He has never yet had a day's illness."

Dr. Ramsay turned to Nicholas, sprawling in supreme comfort in his
nurse's lap.

"If he contracts this cough," he said, "it will take off some of that
fine flesh of his."

"If only Miss Augusta would keep away from him," said the nurse, "but
she won't."

"If only Mrs. Whiteoak would keep away from Augusta!" said Dr. Ramsay.

Philip found Adeline dressing in their room. Between Mrs. Vaughan's
criticism of her visits to Wilmott's house and a certain irritation
provoked by Dr. Ramsay, Adeline's mood was not an amenable one. Her head
in the wardrobe, her voice came out to Philip on a note of
dissatisfaction.

"I declare," she said, "I am sick and tired of considering other
people's feelings. From morning to night I am put to it not to give
offence. My clothes are all in a heap. My children are in a heap. You
and I are in a heap."

"What's up?" asked Philip, laconically, unbuttoning his waistcoat.

"It's all very well for you! You live unhampered. You are free as air.
You are not chided for visiting your neighbour. You are not going to
have a baby. You haven't seventeen crinolines hanging on one hook!"

"I have to sit with my head out of the window or up the chimney when I
smoke a cigar," he returned mildly. "Was it about going to Wilmott's
that Mrs. Vaughan spoke to you?"

She withdrew her head from the wardrobe and faced him with dishevelled
locks and flushed cheeks. "Yes. Who told you?"

"Vaughan. He thinks it is rather too unconventional of you and I expect
he is right. I have given you a loose rein, Adeline, because I think it
is the best way with you, and I believe Wilmott is a decent fellow. I
told Vaughan I would speak to you."

"You needn't have troubled. I've told Mrs. Vaughan I shall not go to
Wilmott's again while I am here.... Dr. Ramsay says it will go hard
with me if I get whooping-cough."

Philip looked aghast at the thought. "You are to keep away from those
children. I command you."

"I am not worrying. It is just that I don't very much like Dr. Ramsay. I
wish Dr. St. Charles were here. Do you think perhaps he would come and
look after me if we asked him?"

"I'm afraid it is rather too far. For my part, I think Ramsay is a very
capable fellow. What is that you are putting on?"

She had taken a green taffeta dress from the wardrobe. It was cut very
low and to Philip seemed extreme in fashion for such an occasion. He
told her so.

Adeline threw it on the floor and desired him to find her something
hideous enough to grace the moment. He looked at his watch.

"We are going to be late for dinner," he said. "Your head is like a
hayrick. If you want to appear with your head like a hayrick and your
body overdressed, I shall try to endure it, but I promise you, I shall
be ashamed."

She sat down gloomily, looking out of the window. "How sweet it is in
County Meath at this time of the year," she said.

"Ay," he returned, "and it's nice in Warwickshire, too."

"Ah, you English have no heart for your country! You don't know the
deep, dark hungering love we Irish know for ours."

"And a very good thing, too. Else we should be where Ireland is."

"It is you English who have made us what we are!" she flared.

"We can do nothing with you and you well know it."

She laughed, a little comforted. She began to play a tune on the
window-sill. "How out of practice I am!" she exclaimed. "I can feel my
fingers getting quite stiff and I used to be able to play 'The Maiden's
Prayer' with only three mistakes."

Philip came behind her chair, put his hands beneath her arms and raised
her to her feet.

"Now," he said, "you dress for dinner or I'll take a stick to you!"

She leant back against his shoulder and sighed. "I'm tired," she said.
"If only you knew the day I've had!"

She did not wear the green dress to dinner but a much simpler dress of
maize-coloured India muslin, and had time only to twist her hair into a
sleek knot. But she was able to show off a little with long, yellow,
diamond earrings and a late yellow rose in her hair.

Wilmott was extraordinarily lively at table. He was always either more
or less animated than those about him. His mood never quite fitted into
the mood of the moment. When his eyes met Adeline's they would exchange
a look of understanding. The image of Henrietta flashed between them.
Mrs. Vaughan intercepted one of these glances and she had a
disconcerting sense of being surrounded by intrigue. The behaviour of
her niece did not make her any happier. Daisy so obviously was straining
to capture the attention of Dr. Ramsay. She had made up for the
simplicity of her dress by an elaborate arrangement of her hair that
hung in a glossy dark waterfall to her shoulders. Mrs. Vaughan had a
dreadful suspicion that Daisy had rouge on her cheeks. She laughed too
much, showing too many teeth. She leaned too far across the table to
attract the young doctor's eye. He had just returned from a hunting trip
and Philip was eager to hear its details. He planned next year, when he
had his family installed at Jalna, to join the party. Daisy cried out to
hear of the hazards endured by the hunters, and the magnificence of the
quarry. Deer, a moose and a bear had been killed. Wilmott maintained
that no man had a right to kill more than he could eat and he also
maintained that, sitting in his own boat on his own river, he had as
good sport as any man needed. Daisy took sides almost fiercely with the
doctor and declared that if she were a man, she would go to India and
shoot tigers as Captain Whiteoak had. She had a mind to marry some
big-game hunter and accompany him on his expeditions.

"You would very soon get enough of it, Miss Daisy," said Philip.

"It would depend entirely on the man," she returned. "With the right
man, I would face any danger."

"You had better come with us on our hunting trip next year, as a
preparation," said Dr. Ramsay.

"Ah, but would the right man be there to give me the moral support I
need?"

"At any rate, Dr. Ramsay could attend to your physical injuries," said
her uncle.

This turned the conversation to arduous journeys the doctor had had to
make in his profession to remote places in the depth of winter. When the
ladies had left the room he was encouraged to enlarge on these. Colonel
Vaughan again circulated the decanter of port.

"You would be surprised," said Ramsay, "to see what shift I can make
when I am put to it. A few weeks ago I was visiting a patient when a
neighbour came in a great state of excitement to fetch me. Her husband
had given his foot a gash with an axe. Well, when I reached their little
farm, there was the man looking pretty weak. It was a bad wound. I had
nothing with me for sewing it up. There was no linen thread in the
house. So I just went to the barn and pulled a few good white hairs from
the tail of one of their nags and they did the trick. Not very sanitary,
of course, but that gash healed as well as any I've seen."

He told other experiences which were shocking to Wilmott. He bolstered
himself with port. No one noticed that he walked rather unsteadily when
they returned to the parlour, or that he had become very quiet. He went
and sat beside Adeline. Rain was beginning to fall. They could hear it
beating against the windows.

"I am glad to hear that rain," said Colonel Vaughan. "It is badly
needed."

"I wish it had waited till I reached home," said Dr. Ramsay. "It will be
an uncomfortable ride. My mare never fails to step in every hole and
puddle. Just listen to how it's coming down!" He turned to Wilmott.
"Were you on horseback, sir?"

Wilmott looked bewildered. "Yes--yes," he began slowly. "I hope to buy a
good horse. A team--yes--and in time--a saddle horse."

"I asked," returned Dr. Ramsay irritably, "if you rode here."

"No--no--I never ride."

Philip, seated on the other side of the room on a sofa beside Daisy,
knew that she wanted to be urged to play on the piano. He said to Mrs.
Vaughan:

"I wish you could persuade your niece to play for us. She's adamant to
my implorings."

"I think it would be very nice," said Mrs. Vaughan. "Do play something,
Daisy."

"Oh, Aunt, I perform so horribly! Please don't insist."

"I don't wish to insist, Daisy, but I think it would be agreeable to
everyone."

"Not to Dr. Ramsay, I'm sure. I am positive he hates the piano-forte."

"I don't know how I gave that impression," said the doctor. "I myself
can play 'The Bluebells of Scotland' with one finger and take great
pride in it."

"Oh, please do! I should so love to hear you."

"After your performance."

"Come, Miss Daisy," urged Philip, "don't be obstinate. It's not becoming
in a young girl."

She rose, gracefully reluctant, and went to the instrument. It required
some twirlings of the piano-stool to make it of the height to suit her.
Philip assisted in this and also in the finding of her music.

Adeline said in an undertone to Wilmott, "If the creature didn't pose
so, I could tolerate her."

"I hate all women but you."

There was something uncontrolled in his voice that made Adeline turn to
him quickly.

"What is the matter with you, James?"

"Nothing," he answered. "Except that I've had a little too much to
drink."

Daisy was sailing brightly through a Strauss waltz, while Philip turned
the pages for her.

"Oh, to waltz!" sighed Adeline. "What wouldn't I give to waltz!"

"Why not waltz then? I should like nothing better."

"In this room! On this carpet! Come, be sensible.... I mean in a real
ballroom and to a waltz played sensitively--languorously."

There was a murmur of approbation as the music ceased. Daisy refused to
play another piece.

"My heart is set," she said, "on hearing Mrs. Whiteoak and Mr. Wilmott
sing together from _The Bohemian Girl_. I know they do it excessively
well because Captain Whiteoak has told me. Do command them to do it,
Captain Whiteoak!"

"It is impossible," said Philip, "for my wife to keep on the tune. But
I'll engage to make her sing if the company demands it."

"I demand it," said Dr. Ramsay.

"What about it, Wilmott?" asked Philip. "Do you think you can keep
Adeline to the tune?"

Wilmott rose with sudden alacrity.

"Come," he said to Adeline, "we'll show them what a really finished
performance is." He held out his hand to her.

She allowed herself to be led to the piano but she gave Wilmott a look
askance. She was a little mistrustful of him. However, he sat down
before the keyboard with an air of confidence. He knew the accompaniment
by heart. He played the opening chords. But his first vocal note was a
kind of discordant groan. He looked up at her in astonishment.

"Is anything wrong?" asked Colonel Vaughan.

"No, no," said Adeline. She bent over Wilmott. "Are you going to shame
us both," she whispered, "or are you going to sing?"

"Going to sing," he muttered.

Philip beat a tattoo with his heels. He would have liked to be a little
rowdy but was afraid of Mrs. Vaughan.

Wilmott struck the opening bars afresh. Then, abruptly he took his hands
from the keys, crossed his arms on the music-rack and laid his head on
them. Mrs. Vaughan sprang up.

"Is Mr. Wilmott ill?" she asked.

"No," answered Adeline, "not really ill, just a little faint."

"I'll get my smelling-salts." She hurried from the room.

Philip came and looked down into that part of his friend's face which
was visible. Dr. Ramsay also bent over him.

"Are you aware of what is wrong with him?" asked the doctor.

"Yes. I've been suspicious of him ever since dinner. We'd better get him
out in the air before Mrs. Vaughan comes back."

Philip turned to Adeline. "You and Daisy must go to Mrs. Vaughan and
tell her we've taken Wilmott outside. Hadn't you the wit to see that he
was tipsy? You should not have attempted to sing with him."

She stood abashed for once. Then she murmured, "He's had such a day--the
poor man!"

"You can tell me about that later."

He and Dr. Ramsay got Wilmott to his feet and steered him across the
room. The two young women went to find Mrs. Vaughan. Colonel Vaughan
followed the other men. The rain was beating in on the verandah. He
said:

"You can't take him out there."

"It will do him good," said the doctor.

They placed Wilmott in a rocking-chair. It swayed with him so that his
head rolled against his shoulder. Philip winked at the doctor.

"He looks pretty seedy, doesn't he?"

Dr. Ramsay nodded grimly. "He'll not go home tonight."

Wilmott opened his eyes and looked at them. "I'm afraid I can't sing,"
he said.

"We'll excuse you, old man," said Philip. He went to the Colonel. "Do
you think you could put him up for the night?" he asked apologetically.

Colonel Vaughan replied coldly, "Certainly. He may have Robert's room.
We must keep this from my wife. Her feelings would be outraged."

"Upon my word," said Philip to Adeline, when they were in their room, "I
shall be glad when we are in our own home. I like to be able to put a
friend to bed when he needs it, without all this secrecy. Vaughan has
thoroughly spoiled his wife. But why did that fool, Wilmott, choose this
house of all places to get tight in?"

"He was so tired, poor man."

Philip turned his full blue eyes on her. "Tired of what? Sitting in a
punt fishing? Or teaching young Tite to make pot-hooks?"

"Ah, he has worries you will never know."

"What worries?"

"I'm not at liberty to tell them."

"Now, look here, Madam," said Philip, "I don't want you to be made the
confidante for Wilmott's past. If his past is such as to make him drink
too much at the mere thought of it, let him keep it to himself or
confide in another man."

"True," said Adeline mildly. "True." Then with a long-drawn breath she
added, "I feel ailing tonight. D'ye think I am perhaps going to have a
miscarriage?" She crept into the deep feather bed.

Philip's expression became one of concern but he said stoutly, "I think
you are tired and a bit worried by Wilmott's behaviour. What you need is
a good night's rest." He drew the blankets snugly about her. "There now,
isn't that cosy? I'll be beside you in a jiffy. Egad, listen to the
rain! It's coming down in a torrent."




                                  XIV
                              WINTER SPORT


THE rains were heavy in November. Often they were joined by winds,
mostly from east and north-east. These swept the last of the leaves from
the trees, leaving the conifers in dark possession of the woods. On the
roads, wheels sank in the deep mud, carpenters were forced to wait for
the material to work with, but still the building of Jalna proceeded at
a satisfactory speed. The workmen built themselves a log weather-proof
shelter with bunks, and a stove was installed in the shed where they
took their meals. They were healthy and, on the whole, jolly, for they
had months of well-paid work ahead of them. Several of them played on
mouth-organs, one on a flute. Then there was Fiddling Jock, who had more
music in him than many a concert musician. There were the two
French-Canadians who could dance, and others had good voices for a song,
so their evenings passed cheerfully and, on Saturday nights when they
had had a good deal to drink, noisily. There were a few quite bloody
fights among them.

The wind veered to the north, the wet weather turned to frosty
brightness. There were snow flurries. Nero, the Newfoundland dog, grew a
tremendously thick coat and bounded in riotous health over the estate
which he considered to be his to guard. He knew all the carpenters,
masons and bricklayers. He was hail-fellow-well-met with the
wood-cutters, but to a stranger looking for work he was fierce and
formidable. The foreman fed him many a heaping tin plate of potatoes and
pork in addition to the regular meals he had at Vaughanlands, so that he
grew rather more stout than he should have been. He also devoured the
bones of wild-fowl which the men threw him. Some canine Providence must
have had him in mind, for though he occasionally was very sick, it was
only for a few minutes. Neither did splinters of bone pierce his vitals.
He was robust, he was good-tempered, he was as happy as a lark. He was
bounding. He was rough.

Adeline had contracted whooping-cough from Augusta and coughed with
frightening violence up to Christmas-time. Indeed, the cough never
really left her till the following spring. Dr. Ramsay dosed her with
flax-seed tea. Mrs. Vaughan gave her large quantities of honey and rum.
Mr. Pink, the Rector, brought her a bottle of Radway's Ready Relief,
Mrs. Lacey a bottle of Pine and Tar Syrup. Philip never went into the
town without returning with some new tablets or lozenges for her relief.
These multiple remedies had little effect on her except to spoil her
appetite. She consequently grew thin and, because of this, would have
shown her condition of pregnancy more but for the way she laced. By
means of long French stays and a wide crinoline she continued to look
graceful and even elegant. It is true that Mrs. Vaughan counselled her
otherwise. She would injure the health of the infant, Mrs. Vaughan said,
but she sympathised with Adeline's desire to conceal her state,
especially with Robert coming home for his holidays. It would have been
embarrassing indeed to have had a bulky Adeline about, with Robert and
Daisy in the house. She was so kind to Adeline in these days that
Adeline never forgot it.

The various cough medicines of which Gussie partook, along with her
mother, had a worse effect on the little girl. She not only lost her
appetite but could ill digest the little she did eat. Her eyes looked
enormous with the dark rings about them, her lips had a bluish colour
except after a bout of coughing when her whole face would become almost
purple. Nicholas, on the other hand, flourished like a weed. He weighed
more than Gussie and, though he had not begun to walk, he crept
everywhere with surprising strength and speed. He had a temper when
things went wrong and would fill the house with his roars of rage. He
slept like a top but woke at sunrise shouting and chuckling his pleasure
in the new day. He was a pet with everyone and promised to be a spoilt
and headstrong boy but he had great charm, and his smile could not be
resisted by anyone in that house.

Oh, how cold it suddenly was! Clear and cold and sharp as a knife. The
cold woods stood darkly waiting. The trees marched on to meet the great
forests of the north, on and on till their march was ended and there
were no more trees but only frozen lakes and ice-bound land. The night
Robert returned from his university the weather moderated, the sky grew
heavy. All night the snow fell. There was to be real Christmas weather.

With Robert's luggage carried to his room, with Robert tall and fair and
smiling in the house, Mrs. Vaughan's heart sang. She felt that she
really was to become acquainted with the son of whom she had seen so
little. But Robert found it easier to be natural with Adeline than with
his parents.

"Perhaps it is that they expect so much of me," he said when he had
voiced this feeling to Adeline. "They expect me to be a loyal Canadian
when I scarcely know the country. They expect me to be a noble character
when I am really full of faults. They expect me to show my affection
when I'm really confoundedly shy. But you expect no more of me than I
can achieve." He gave her an eloquent look. "If you knew my thoughts as
the train was bringing me home you would have been surprised."

She smiled. "Should I?"

"Yes. I was wondering what it was all about. Why was I cramming my head
with book learning at the university? What fate had thrown you into my
life...? What would my life be...? Should I ever really belong
anywhere...? Was I real...? What do all our struggles mean? Now
this house you are building--can you cling to it? Does it make you feel
safe? I was wondering about these things."

"From season to season is enough for me," she said. "If I have my very
own roof and those who belong to me under it--that is real."

"My friendship means nothing to you!" he exclaimed.

"I should love this place less if you were not my friend."

"I should hate it if you weren't here," he exclaimed hotly. "This
country is just a great waste to me. Perhaps my son, if I have one, will
love it, but I never shall. Look at the snow. It will cover everything
for months. In Montreal it is worse."

Adeline touched his cheek with her fingers.

"Ah, Bobbie," she said, "what a one you are for talking! Let us go out
and make snowballs. I used to make them in Quebec with the Balestrier
children."

"Am I a child too?" he asked, mournfully.

"You are very sweet," she answered.

Mrs. Vaughan groaned as she saw the two pelting each other with
snowballs. Adeline's recklessness frightened her. To handle snow and she
with such a cough! To so exert in her condition was almost wicked. But
she held the children up to the window to see their mother's wild
behaviour. As Philip appeared from the woods he was greeted by a
snowball full on the breast and, when he entered the battle, it became
fierce indeed. Nero bounded after the snowballs, he jumped up on the
opponents, almost overthrowing them.

"Heaven help that unborn child," thought Mrs. Vaughan. She stroked back
the crest of hair from Nicholas' forehead. "Just look at your mother!"
she said.

He chuckled, wet his finger in his mouth and drew it across the pane.

Mrs. Vaughan stroked Gussie's head. "Your mother is as wild as a deer,"
she said. "It is not good for the next little brother."

"No more little brothers, please," answered Gussie. She felt the cough
rising in the pit of her stomach.

"When you are a little older, perhaps on your next birthday, Gussie, I
am going to have a tea-party for you. About six nice little children.
The little Pink boys----" She felt the cough shaking Gussie's chest.
Then it came.

By Christmas the land was frozen solid but not with the bitter coldness
of Quebec. Wilmott's river formed a glassy pond just by his wharf. He
and Tite cleared it of snow and swept it clean. They worked together in
complete happiness. From the night of his intoxication, Wilmott had
avoided the Vaughans. On that night he had taken a dislike to Mrs.
Vaughan and to Dr. Ramsay. But he had settled down to life in the
neighbourhood. He went to the Pinks' and the Laceys' to play whist, to
talk politics and religion. The Reverend Heber Pink was a sturdy,
florid-complexioned man of early middle-age, with a wife rather like
himself but that she was timid where he was hearty and sure of himself
in all company. He was very hard-worked and was accustomed to expose
himself to all weathers. He had three parishes, one with a good church
in the village of Stead where the community about Jalna attended
service, two in smaller villages, considerable distances apart and with
small wooden churches which he was struggling to improve. He was
argumentative but tolerant and he enjoyed his talks with Wilmott. But he
liked Philip much better and was encouraging him to donate land and give
substantial aid to the building of a new church. If this were done, Mr.
Pink would be relieved of his two small churches.

Captain Lacey's young son had leave from his ship which was lying at
Halifax, and was home for the holiday season. He was a high-spirited
boy, not at all like Robert Vaughan, but the two youths became friendly
at once. There was a festive feeling in the neighbourhood. The building
of Jalna had added a new interest to life there. The house was talked of
for miles about and people drove long distances to inspect it.

Wilmott had made up his mind to give a skating-party. No one in the
neighbourhood had done such a thing before nor had he himself ever given
a skating-party. But it now became the one form of entertainment which
appealed to him. To be sure, his house was very small but, if the day
were not too cold, refreshments could be served out of doors. He had
bought skates, not only for himself but for Tite, and the two had
practised for days on the river, with many bruises and sore muscles. The
Pinks and the Laceys were competent skaters. So were others in the
neighbourhood, including the Busbys, a family who had lived in Canada
for generations and had several young sons and daughters. Adeline never
had had the opportunity to skate. Now she was determined to, though Mrs.
Vaughan did her utmost to dissuade her and even braced herself to speak
to Philip about it. He, surprisingly, seemed to think it would not hurt
Adeline and was himself eager to skate. "If the unborn child is a
cripple," thought Mrs. Vaughan, "the blame is on their heads. But I
could weep when I think of the poor little thing."

Philip had had some practice in Quebec and chaffed Wilmott because he
had not taken advantage of his opportunities there. He bought skates for
Adeline and for Daisy also, who was in a state of bliss because she not
only could skate but do the figure eight and the grape-vine. She
promised Philip to teach him to waltz on the ice.

Christmas Day passed in pleasant serenity. A tree was brought from the
woods for the children and decorated with tinsel and candles. Large
packages of presents came from Philip's sister in Devonshire and at
least a dozen, very badly wrapped and in which many of the contents were
broken, from Adeline's relatives in Ireland. She had bought Philip a
dark-green velvet smoking-jacket and cap, and embroidered a design in
gay silks on the cuffs and collar of the jacket and around the cap, from
the top of which depended a gold tassel. He looked so perfectly
beautiful when adorned in these that Adeline could have wept to see him.
He was a little rueful to think he could not wear them at once, but must
lay them away till he was under his own roof. He wore the rueful
expression when displaying the gifts to Mrs. Vaughan, which somewhat
embarrassed her but not to the extent of telling him to light a cigar
that very moment.

On Christmas Day, Gussie wore her first pantalettes and in them appeared
a little girl, no longer just a baby. They were of a dainty whiteness
beneath a blue silk frock with short sleeves and low-cut neck, and
Adeline had herself made the lace which edged them. Gussie looked so
adorable in these that Adeline could have wept to see her, also. She
snatched her up and covered her face with kisses, then held her out for
Philip's inspection, her little blue shoes dangling beneath the
pantalettes.

"Did you ever see anything so enchanting and ridiculous?" she exclaimed.

Gussie looked faintly offended. She thought they were laughing at her.
Nicholas, who was accustomed to being the centre of attraction, could
not bear to see his sister so enthroned. He crept to Adeline's skirt and
attempted to climb up it ruffle by ruffle. Philip picked him up and set
him on his broad shoulder.

"They are a pretty pair," he declared. "The little Balestriers cannot
hold a candle to 'em."

"Neither can the little Pinks."

"Nor any other children I know."

"I wonder who our new baby will be like?"

"I hope for another boy. But I wish the little beggar weren't coming."

"I hope he will be fair and the image of you."

"Yes. It is about time there was one like me. But he will probably be
the image of your father, red hair and all."

"Heaven forbid!"

"I think I should like to call him Charles after my father. He was a
fine man and Charles goes well with Whiteoak."

"If you name him for your father he must be named for mine too."

"I don't see why."

"Do you want to push my poor father out of everything?" she flared.

"You said a moment ago that you hoped the child wouldn't look like him."

"That is different."

"Do you mean to say you would call your son Renny?"

"My father has more than one name. His name is Dennis Patrick Crawshay
St. John Renny."

"Humph. I can't say I like any of them."

"Not Dennis?"

"Dennis is not bad."

"My dear father," she said, in a mild tone, "was called Dennis all his
life till he was twenty-three. Then the uncle he was named for offered
him a thousand pounds if he would use one of his other names. So my
father, who was willing to come for any name whatever when money was in
question, cast aside Dennis and became Renny. But indeed there are
members of the family who still call him Dennis, because they so hate
him that they will not call him by their grandfather's name. Not that
their grandfather was a man to boast of. He was----"

Philip was looking at his watch. "It is time to dress," he interrupted,
"and if you want me to hook up your stays we had better begin."

The weather on the day of Wilmott's skating-party was crystal-bright and
cold. But there was no wind and the cold was exhilarating. A glittering
snow powder was now and again sifted through the clear air which was
devoid of all scent but struck the nostrils, impersonal and penetrating.
Footprints of the wild creatures lay like little etchings on the
glittering snow. It was as though the day had been especially ordered.

Wilmott and Tite worked hard all the morning clearing the ice of snow,
sweeping it with brooms, not only on the pond but for some distance up
the river. They had built benches for the ladies to rest on, and over
them they had laid red and grey blankets. A neighbouring farmer's wife
had come in to help with the refreshments. To grace the occasion Wilmott
had put on a red scarf, the long fringed ends of which dangled over his
waistcoat.

The Pinks were the first to arrive and Wilmott was glad of this. They
lent an air of comfort to a party. The Rector chaffed Wilmott about
introducing new and frivolous ways to the community. Mrs. Pink laughed a
little when her husband made a joke, smiled when Wilmott made one. She
was thankful to say that her little boys were quite recovered from
whooping-cough.

The next to arrive were the Laceys. They brought with them their son, an
only child like Robert Vaughan, but in this case the only child raised
out of three, so he was trebly precious. The Laceys were the Pinks' most
intimate friends. They quickly merged into a group so congenial that
Wilmott felt a little out of it. He looked anxiously toward the road,
for he could hear the jingle of sleigh-bells. A large sleigh drawn by
two raw-boned, only half-broken-in horses precariously entered the gate.
A lusty young fellow was driving them and with some trouble brought them
to a halt. Another lusty young fellow jumped out of the sleigh and ran
to their heads. Three buxom girls scrambled out. Young Lacey flew to
their assistance but was in time only to assist their enormously stout
mother.

The father of the family came last. He was Elihu Busby who had been the
original owner of much of the land hereabout. He was in his early
sixties but might well have passed for less than fifty. He was so
straight as almost to lean backward. He had fought in the War of 1812
under General Sir Isaac Brock and had lost an arm in the battle of
Queenston Heights. He was of mixed English, Irish and Scottish
extraction but had a faint contempt for each of these peoples which, in
the case of the Scotch, amounted to dislike. But his strongest prejudice
was against the Americans. He was descended from United Empire Loyalists
who had left affluence behind them in New England and escaped to Canada
in the early days of the Revolution. The persecutions they had suffered
before they left rankled with amazing freshness in his mind, for he had
drunk them in as a boy from his grandparents' relating. He was proud and
egotistical but he had taken a fancy to Wilmott and enjoyed nothing more
than to inform the newcomer on all affairs of the province. His eldest
daughter, Kate, also had taken a fancy to Wilmott, but a much warmer
one, and could scarcely wait for the moment when they would skate
together. Busby himself was businesslike about the skating and,
immediately after greeting his host, sat down at the edge of the river
and commanded his eldest son, Isaac, to put his skates on him, which he
could not do for himself because of his lost arm.

The Whiteoaks and Robert and Daisy Vaughan now joined the party. A
little later it was completed by the appearance of Dr. Ramsay who tied
his mare to a tree, blanketed it and stalked up to Wilmott, as though he
were a patient who probably would never pay his bill.

"I can't stay long," he announced. "I have to go to Stead. I have a man
there with his arm broken in three places."

"Amputate it," advised Busby, over his shoulder, "the way they did mine.
Give him a gill of whiskey and amputate it."

Dr. Ramsay ignored the remark. He folded his arms and looked
disapprovingly at Adeline.

"She has no business to be here," he said. "Just recovering from
whooping-cough and due to have a child in April! And look at the way she
is laced!"

Wilmott thought this remark in bad taste. Dr. Ramsay's presence froze
him. He said vaguely:

"Oh, I expect all will be well."

Dr. Ramsay turned a pair of cold bright eyes on him.

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"It seldom is, I may tell you."

Elihu Busby was the first on the ice. He glided smoothly across the
river and would have been graceful but for an angularity in his posture
due to his lack of one arm. Nero, who had arrived with the Whiteoaks,
had never before seen a person on skates. The sight filled him with a
kind of savage hilarity. He rushed, sliding and slipping as he went,
after Mr. Busby. Adeline shrieked Nero's name and Philip shouted it, but
he sped on, woolly and inexorable. He leaped on Mr. Busby's shoulders
and in an instant they were prone together.

"I expect he has broken his only arm," observed Dr. Ramsay grimly. He
skated rapidly to Mr. Busby's aid.

When Nero saw a newcomer on skates he sprang to attention, with feet
planted wide apart, ready to deal with him as he had dealt with Mr.
Busby.

"Keep off, you brute!" shouted Dr. Ramsay.

But with a joyous bark Nero was on his chest. For an instant the doctor
struck an extraordinary and grotesque figure which might have gained him
fame as a fancy skater if he could have held it. But that was the last
thing he desired to do. He was now in a kneeling posture, for he dared
not rise to his feet. However, his manner was far from supplicating as
he swore and struck at Nero who circled about him in an abandon of
barking.

Mr. Busby had not been at all hurt and, sitting on the ice, gave way to
shouts of laughter.

Philip had on one skate but in his excitement could not fasten the clasp
of the other. He kept on roaring, "Nero!" which served only to stimulate
Nero's pleasure in having two men down.

"Capture that dog!" Wilmott ordered Tite.

"Boss, I dare not," answered Tite.

"I say, capture him!"

With stealthy grace the boy crept across the ice toward the
Newfoundland. It was like a play to those on the shore. Now that the
Busbys were sure that their husband and father was not injured, they
could enjoy the scene to the full. Nero did not notice Tite till he had
caught him by the collar. Then he bounded with the boy's light figure
clinging to him, he gambolled, dragging Tite after him while Mr. Busby
continued to shake with laughter and Dr. Ramsay to curse.

Suddenly Patsy O'Flynn appeared, almost as broad as tall, he was so
bundled up against the cold, and stalked toward Nero. He took him by the
collar and led him with an air of swagger from the river. There was a
round of applause. Patsy exclaimed:

"Sure, he's like meself--a lamb, if yez know how to handle him!"

Now all were brave to hurry to the two roughly used gentlemen. Now
everyone was laughing, even the doctor. Wilmott had engaged the old
Scotsman, Jock, to make music for the skating. He tuned up his fiddle
and to a lively reel the ring of blades on the smooth ice was heard.
Kate Busby had her wish and soon was sailing about with Wilmott. Truth
to tell, she was his support rather than he hers, so good a skater was
she. His arm linked within that of the good-natured girl, Wilmott
wondered what life with such a companion would be. What sort of man
would he be today, he wondered, if _he_ had had such a companion. Daisy
and Robert Vaughan were the most graceful couple on the ice. He wore a
belted jacket with fur collar, very tight trousers and a fur cap of a
rather long yellowish fur, beneath which his fair face looked out as
from a strange, prehistoric headdress. Daisy, in black skirt and scarlet
jacket trimmed with gold braid, made the Busby girls feel shy and
countrified, Mrs. Pink disapproving. She considered Daisy's movements
entirely too free of restraint. But Daisy was really longing to skate
with Dr. Ramsay. He had been watching, with a good deal of anxiety,
young Lacey steering Adeline about. Now he himself approached her. He
said:

"If you must endanger yourself in skating, Mrs. Whiteoak, I must ask you
to skate with me. I am the strongest skater and most sure-footed here."

Adeline laughed, though she surrendered herself to skate with him. "I'm
glad you have told me," she said. "At any rate, I hope I shall be easier
to manage than Nero was."

"You need not rub that in," he returned.

As they left the pond and moved slowly up the river, he began to lecture
her on the care she should take of herself. She drew sharply away from
him. She exclaimed:

"Very well. If you are going to be disagreeable to me I shall skate by
myself." She took a long, sweeping stroke for which she had not the
skill and would have fallen had not Wilmott, now skating with Mrs. Pink,
glided forward and caught her. She clung to him, laughing into his face.

"For heaven's sake, take me away," she implored. "Dr. Ramsay is a
tyrant! Mrs. Pink, would you mind changing partners? Dr. Ramsay and I
have had a falling-out."

"I shall be quite glad to," said Mrs. Pink. "Mr. Wilmott is too fast for
me."

"It's the speed of the imbecile," said the doctor under his breath.

The poplar trees by the river's edge now began to cast long, blue
shadows across the ice. The snow, piled high at its verge, lay like
ruins of some marble tower that had fallen in its first white splendour.
The reddening sun lowered toward the pines. Tite and the farmer's wife
were carrying about hot broth and scones, baked on the bricks. On a
table, covered by a cloth of red-and-white check, were a huge jug of
coffee, cups and saucers, plates mounded with cinnamon drops and plum
cake. Inside the house was a bowl of punch, to be served later.

Adeline hovered near the refreshments, anxious for Wilmott's sake that
all should go well. Indeed, all had gone well. The innovation had been a
success. The company wore an air of unaffected jollity. Most of them
were gathered about the table where the cake and coffee were, but a few
of the younger ones were still on the ice. One of these was young Guy
Lacey who was taking lessons in figure-skating from Daisy Vaughan and,
with a sailor's abandon, eating a slice of plum cake at the same time.
Daisy could give him her whole-hearted attention, for Dr. Ramsay had
taken his leave. Not long before this the children's nurse had appeared,
having pushed the white sleigh brought from Quebec all the long way from
Vaughanlands with Augusta and Nicholas in it. They had been greeted with
delight and instantly supplied with cinnamon drops. Now the younger
Busby boy was propelling them, with somewhat reckless speed, over the
ice. Nero, escaped from Patsy O'Flynn, bounded joyfully at the side of
the sleigh, now and again uttering a deep-throated bark.

As the punch was being drunk and pronounced excellent, Wilmott said to
Adeline:

"I think everything has gone off fairly well, don't you?"

"Everything has been perfect," she declared, looking at the snow through
the redness in her glass. "I don't know when I have had a better time.
And look at Philip, as blithe as a schoolboy."

"He will catch his death of cold. He should not have taken off his cap
in this temperature."

Philip held his mink cap in his hand and his light-brown hair stood up
in moist waves. His expression was one of staunch assurance that the
system under which he lived was perfect, and a serene belief that the
future would hold nothing which Adeline and he could not cope with.

"Put on your cap!" she called out.

He pretended not to hear.

"Your cap!" she repeated. "You'll take cold."

"Tommyrot! I never take cold."

Lydia Busby firmly possessed herself of his cap and standing on tiptoe
placed it on his head, herself blushing furiously at her own temerity.

"Too far back!" cried Adeline. "It looks like a baby's bonnet."

Philip instantly assumed an expression of infantile innocence. Lydia,
blushing still more, drew the cap forward on his brow.

"Horrible!" declared Wilmott. "He now resembles a dancing dervish with a
mop of hair in his eyes."

Philip quickly changed his expression to one of barbarous ferocity.

"Oh, Captain Whiteoak, how you frighten me!" exclaimed Lydia. She
snatched the cap from his head.

"Lydia," called out her mother. "That's enough."

"Try again, Miss Lydia, try again!" urged Philip.

This time she placed it jauntily to one side.

"Will that do?" she asked.

Philip winked at her.

"Perfect!" cried Mrs. Pink. "Perfect!"

"Lydia," called out Mrs. Busby. "That is enough."

But now Adeline was looking toward the gate. Two men had alighted there
from a hired cutter and were paying the driver. Her eyes widened. She
stared, scarcely believing their evidence. Then, as the men approached,
she turned to Wilmott.

"It's Thomas D'Arcy," she said, "and Michael Brent! Whatever are they
doing here?"

Wilmott gave them a look of apprehension, almost panic. "I won't see
them!" he exclaimed. "Not after what has happened. Oh, Adeline, why did
you tell them about me?"

She could not answer, for the Irishmen were upon them. She hastened
forward. "Don't say a word about James Wilmott's wife," she warned them,
giving each a hand. "How well you both look! And what wonderful new
hats! You bought them in New York, I'll be bound."

"We did indeed," said D'Arcy. "You yourself are looking superb, if I may
make bold to say so."

"What luck," said Brent, "that we should arrive in time for a
skating-party! We can skate too. Have you some skates to spare?"

"We have just come from Niagara Falls," interrupted D'Arcy. "Superb in
winter-time. Really superb. We heard the jolly noises when we arrived
here and we said at once, 'This is Jalna!' You see we remember the name.
So we told the driver to put us down on the spot."

They shook hands with Wilmott.

"You here too!" said Brent, with a roguish look. "What good fortune!"

"This is my own home," Wilmott returned, rather stiffly. "You are very
welcome."

"Then it's not Jalna! But our luggage has been put off at your gate!
Never mind, we shall carry it to Jalna."

D'Arcy said, out of the side of his mouth, to Wilmott, "We got rid of
her for you. She's off to Mexico. What a tartar! I don't blame you. I'd
have done the same myself."

Wilmott, with a set face, stared straight ahead.

Philip now discovered the visitors. They were provided with refreshments
and, after that, with Mr. Pink's and Wilmott's skates. Wilmott and Tite
went to the gate where their luggage was and carried it into the house.
Philip met them there and it was decided that Wilmott could give them
his room for the night and himself sleep in Tite's bed. Tite should
sleep on the floor.

While they were talking Captain Lacey joined them. He declared that, if
Wilmott could put the two Irishmen up for the night, they would be
welcome in his house after that, for his son was leaving the next day to
join his ship and it would be a good thing for himself and his wife to
have such lively company to cheer them up.




                                   XV
                           IN WILMOTT'S HOUSE


THE skating-party was over and the farmer's wife had, more or less,
tidied up after it. Fiddling Jock had all but finished the punch and
gone back to his hut in the woods, singing "Loch Lomond" at the top of
his lungs. There was bright young moonlight. The wild things came out of
their burrows and there were cries of terror as the stronger seized the
weaker.

It was hot inside the house, for Wilmott had heaped up the logs. The two
Irishmen, Philip, Adeline and Daisy were gathered about the fire while
the travellers poured out their adventures in the States. Adeline had
tried to persuade Daisy to leave with the others but it had been
impossible. Daisy was in a state of high exhilaration at being part of
so unconventional a gathering. D'Arcy and Brent had racy tongues. It
seemed that they had done everything there was to do in New York and
Chicago. They were enthusiastic about life in America. Then the
conversation turned to the voyage from Ireland on the _Alanna_, the stay
in Quebec. There was so much to talk of, yet all the while Wilmott and
Adeline were thinking about Henrietta. Quite suddenly Daisy exclaimed:

"Oh, to skate in the moonlight! I have always longed to do that above
all things. May I go to the river all by myself, Mr. Wilmott? It would
be so mysterious, so eerie, to skate in the moonlight."

"Miss Daisy is bored by us, D'Arcy," said Brent. "We talk too much about
ourselves."

"On the contrary," said his friend, "she wishes to be alone to decide
which of us she loves best."

Philip passed a large white handkerchief across his forehead. "You keep
your house confoundedly hot, Wilmott. I believe I shall go skating with
Miss Daisy and help her make a choice--if she'll allow me."

"Oh, heavenly!" cried Daisy. "I should adore that."

Brent asked, "Can you feel mysterious and eerie skating with Captain
Whiteoak?"

"We shall drift over the ice like disembodied spirits," she returned.

Wilmott looked anxiously at Philip. "I'm afraid you are taking cold," he
said, and laid his fingers on Philip's wrist as though he had been a
doctor.

Philip looked down at their two hands and then, rather puzzled, into
Wilmott's eyes. Wilmott had a feeling of anger against the three who
knew his secret. He felt that Philip was the only true and honourable
one of all those in the room.

When the door had closed behind Daisy and Philip, there was silence for
a space. One of the two candies on the table was sputtering. Its flame
hung low and sickly. But the moonlight strengthened, throwing the
outline of the window-panes sharply on the bare floor. Wilmott got up
and snuffed the candle which now burned steadily but very small.

The three from Ireland had brought some essence of their country into
the room. It felt foreign to Wilmott, and himself a stranger. The others
waited for him to say something.

"Among you," he said, "you have placed me in a pretty position."

"I--I don't understand. What do you mean?" asked Brent blankly.

"I am a man who first deserted his wife and daughter and then allowed
them to be sent on a fool's errand."

"Why--" said Brent, "we thought you'd be pleased."

"After what Mrs. Whiteoak had told us," put in D'Arcy, then he too
stared blankly and stopped.

"It's not what we've done," said Adeline. "It's the way we have done
it."

"I can look nothing but a scoundrel to anyone." Wilmott spoke bitterly.

D'Arcy ran his hand through his hair. "Now look here," he said. "I'm no
bachelor. I've been separated from my wife for years. I know how you
feel. Sometimes you think it may have been your fault."

"You only had to meet Mrs. Wilmott," said Brent, "to realise who is to
blame in this case. I'd run around the globe to escape that woman."

"She's a terror," added D'Arcy. "You can see that. It's self--self--self
with her and never stop talking."

"No man could stand it." Brent spoke in a soothing tone.

D'Arcy raised his voice. "With my wife it was a violent temper. She'd
fly off the handle for next to nothing and throw things at me or at the
servants."

Wilmott sat hunched up. He drew back his lips and tapped his teeth with
his finger-nails.

"You don't wish I had let Henrietta come here, do you, James?" asked
Adeline.

"No."

"You aren't sorry I got her out of the country?"

"How can I be?"

"Then what is wrong?"

"Everything."

"Don't imagine we did not treat her in a gentlemanlike way," said Brent.
"We were most considerate."

"It was a lark to you," exclaimed Wilmott.

"It was no lark at all," said Brent. "We took it very seriously. We were
considerate but firm."

"You sent her on a fool's errand to a half-civilised country!"

"Mexico was civilised," said D'Arcy, "long before this part of the
country. And I think that the lady really wanted to see it."

"The trouble with Wilmott is that he has too lively a conscience," put
in Brent.

"No, it's not that," said Wilmott, "but what I did was a thing that
should be kept secret in a man's own mind. When you bring it out into
the light it looks much worse. It looks like a crime, which I suppose it
really is."

"I understand"--D'Arcy spoke patiently--"that you gave your wife
practically all you had. You certainly are not living in luxury here.
All you deny her is your presence."

To this Brent added, "And to judge from all she said, you didn't make
her happy when you were with her."

"No--far from it."

Adeline's eyes were large and gentle as they rested on Wilmott, but it
was to the others she spoke.

"What the poor man needs is a drink. He is tired after his party and
all. Is there nothing but that little drop of punch in the house?"

The three looked at Wilmott as though he were an invalid. He felt
hypnotised. D'Arcy rose and tiptoed to the cupboard. His shadow on the
wall was enormous. He brought out a bottle more than half full of rum.
He held it at arm's length and looked through it at the candle-flame.
They could hear Daisy laughing on the river.

"There are tumblers on the shelf," said Wilmott, as though he were in
truth an invalid.

"Will you have a taste of spirits, Mrs. Whiteoak?" asked D'Arcy.

"No, no, thank you. I shall finish the punch."

Wilmott took a drink and began to laugh. "It's all rather funny," he
said. "It's as though we were in the cabin of the _Alanna_ again. Only
that outside there is a sea of snow."

"Thank God we are here and not there," said Adeline.

There was silence except for the soft flapping of a flame against a log.
Then Brent spoke. "Wherever I go I find life amusing. I may be sad for a
little but I am soon amused again."

"I am the same," said Wilmott.

D'Arcy refilled his glass. "I am never greatly amused or greatly sad. I
am critical, analytical, and philosophic."

"I am the same," said Adeline.

When the skaters came in, Nero bounded after them. He stood in the
middle of the room and shook himself, sending out a snow-shower. Then he
laid the side of his face on the floor and pushed it rapidly first in
one direction, then in another.

"He is like an elephant in the room," said Wilmott. "When I get a dog it
must be a small one I can tuck under my arm. Did I tell you that Tite
has a pet raccoon?"

Philip and Daisy had cheeks like roses after the cold air. Their eyes
were bright and they had some joke between them. Both refused anything
to drink.

"I am starving," Daisy said, unwinding yards of pale-blue crocheted
scarf from about her neck. "I had nothing but a piece of plum cake and a
cup of coffee."

"I'm enormously hungry also," said Philip. "Have you a cold game pie in
your larder, Wilmott? And some bottles of stout?"

Nero lay down at Adeline's feet and began to lick the snow from his
great paws.

"He's no less than a snow-drift beside you," exclaimed Wilmott. He
sprang up and dragged Nero in front of the fire. Nero gave him a long,
puzzled, mournful look, then returned to the licking of his paws.

Wilmott bent over Philip. "I have nothing in the house," he said, "but a
side of bacon, some eggs from my own hens, some cold boiled potatoes and
a jar of apple butter."

"A meal fit for a prince," said Philip. "Daisy and I will cook it."

Adeline thought, "Miss Daisy when they went out to skate--Daisy when
they come back. I wish she'd settle down to chasing only one man."

Daisy arranged her ringlets on her shoulders. "This is the happiest day
of my life," she said. "If you knew how conventional it's been you would
understand. But now I've left it all behind. I'm a pioneer. If I had
heard a wolf howling outside I'd not be afraid. I'd just take that gun
and go out and shoot him."

A long-drawn howl sounded mournfully somewhere in the darkness. Daisy
shrieked and threw herself into Philip's arms. Nero rose trembling.

The men stared at each other, waiting for the next howl. It
came--nearer, louder. Adeline gave an hysterical laugh. Wilmott threw
open the door into the kitchen. Tite stood there, slim and dark, his
mouth open, shaping another howl.

"You young rapscallion!" said Adeline. "You ought to be flogged." But
she laughed naturally now.

When the Irishmen understood, they were disappointed. It was hard to
persuade them that Tite had given those realistic howls. "Do it again!"
they cried, like boys. Wilmott looked sternly at Tite.

"No--no!" cried Daisy. "I can't bear it!" She made wide eyes from
Philip's shoulder.

Brent took the gun from the wall. "Here, Miss Daisy," he said, "let us
see you shoot him. Remember your boast." He put the gun into her hand.

With a sudden swagger she grasped it. There was a loud explosion. The
ball entered the wall above Tite's head. Philip gave Daisy an astonished
look and took the gun from her. "That's enough from you, young woman,"
he said. "Behave yourself."

She stood with her breast heaving and her eyes defiant, "I'm not one to
be challenged and not take it."

"Did the lady mean to kill me?" asked Tite.

Wilmott went into the kitchen and closed the door behind him. He said
sternly:

"Never do such a thing again. You have frightened those ladies
terribly."

"But the Mees Daisy one wanted to hear a wolf howl and I can do it so
well."

"You were listening at the door, Tite."

"Yes. I was wondering if you want something before I go to bed. Did the
Mees Daisy one want to kill me?"

"No, no, she was over-excited."

"Boss," Tite spoke in a low voice, "do you think she is a harlot? She
told me I had long eyelashes and a mouth like a pomegranate flower. Now
I repeated this to my grandmother and she says Mees Daisy is a harlot.
But since then she has tried to kill me, so perhaps she is reformed."

"Bring out the bacon, the eggs and the cold potatoes," ordered Wilmott.
"God knows what we shall have left to eat tomorrow."

"Another time," continued Tite stubbornly, "she said my neck was like a
bronze statue's and I told my grandmother and my grandmother said again
she is a harlot."




                                  XVI
                         PROGRESS OF THE SEASON


THERE were no more hospitable people in the neighbourhood than the
Laceys. Their house was not large but their hearts were. They liked
gaiety and movement about them and the two Irishmen satisfied their
liking to an extraordinary degree. They were almost always gay and they
seldom were still. They settled down for a lengthy visit with the
Laceys. They had been travelling so long that they were glad of the
change to this backwater. Their expenses had been heavy; they were glad
to pay in the coin of good fellowship. Not that they did nothing to make
themselves useful. When heavy snowfalls came in midwinter, they armed
themselves with shovels and dug the Laceys out, with speed and
efficiency. They went over icy roads to the town to shop for Mrs. Lacey
and brought her presents of Scotch marmalade and German cheese and
French wine. D'Arcy played chess with Captain Lacey and Brent read aloud
from the works of Thackeray and Sir Walter Scott.

Wilmott's skating-party had started the ball rolling and that winter saw
more dancing, skating and charades than the neighbourhood had ever
before known. On Sunday, unless a blizzard were blowing, everybody
turned out to attend the church service in the village eight miles away.
In rough weather this often was a hardship. Feet and legs would be numb
with cold, faces half frozen. But the Whiteoaks found the climate mild
as compared with that of Quebec. Here zero weather was thought to be
very cold indeed. _There_ twenty below zero had been accepted as no more
than winter's due.

Before long it was seen by all that Kate Busby had transferred interest
from Wilmott to Brent. Before long her interest amounted to attachment.
It was said that Brent himself was smitten. By the time February had
arrived it was obvious that he was smitten. At a St. Valentine's party
given by the Pinks he proposed, and so novel was the manner of his
proposal that the entire community was startled by it. Mrs. Pink's
ingenuity and originality in entertaining her guests were endless. On
this occasion a small gift or favour was laid by the plate of each.
These were in the shape of hearts cut from red flannel. Beneath these
were attached several other hearts, cut from white flannel, and the
whole held together by rosettes of red and white wool. In the case of
the ladies, bright new needles were stuck in the white hearts, thus
converting them into a needle-book. In the case of the gentlemen, a fine
new goose feather was thrust through the rosette, only needing to be
sharpened to the required point for a pen. And there was the penwiper!

On the spot and before he would eat a mouthful, Brent took out his
penknife and sharpened the quill to a long graceful point. He then got
possession of Kate's needle-book. After the meal he disappeared into
another room and when he came back restored it to her--but how changed,
how glorified! He had cut out a heart from a sheet of notepaper and
fixed it among the white flannel hearts. On it he had written:

                            _To My Valentine_

    DEAREST KATE:

          I ask no better fate
          Than that the rest of my life should be with you spent.

                                                    Your adoring
                                                     MICHAEL BRENT.

His intentions were of the best. If Kate would not live in Ireland he
would settle down to live in Ontario. The one obstacle to their marriage
was religion. Elihu Busby would not give his consent to his daughter's
union with a Catholic. Every man in that group of friends tried his hand
at persuading him--they all liked Brent--but to no avail.

The weather was so severe in February that work on the building of Jalna
all but ceased, though the sound of a lonely hammer or saw preserved the
sense of continuity. The felling of trees still went on in full swing of
axe. The noble growth of fifty years was felled, dismembered and neatly
piled in as many minutes. The men made great fires, partly to warm
themselves by, partly to get rid of the wood. In heedless extravagance
they heaped the finest oak, maple and pine on the blaze; just as the
deer-hunters farther north would kill five deer where one would have
sufficed and left the surplus carcasses to rot; just as the wild-fowl
were shot down in mad excess of need, and the singing birds for
pleasure.

Adeline expected her child in April and her most cherished hope was to
be established in her own home before the birth. In February, with the
almost cessation of work, she saw this hope fade. Long ago the
architect, the contractor and the foreman had promised that the house
would be ready by April the first. She had never doubted the fulfilment
of that promise. When doubt and disappointment crowded in on her she was
in despair. One might have thought, as Philip said, that her life and
the life of the child depended on the removal. To which, with her head
buried in the pillows of her bed, she replied that it was probably so.
He said that, if anyone had reason to be worried, it was he. Sitting up,
with blazing eyes, she demanded what he had to worry about. In terse
language he told her. They forgot they were visiting and quarrelled with
the abandon of people who have been snowbound for a week and are
frustrated in all their plans. They raised their voices and tried to
talk each other down. Mrs. Vaughan, in the room below, could hear them
and was mortified for them. Daisy, just outside their door, was so
fiercely on Philip's side that she could barely refrain from rushing in
and taking part.

Mrs. Vaughan, in her restrained way, was almost as deeply disappointed
in the delay as Adeline. The thought of having a birth in the house was
terribly upsetting. It was so long since she herself had been confined
that the complications of such an event seemed unbelievable. What, for
instance, was she to do with Robert who at that time would be home from
his university? Certainly he must be sent away somewhere and her
pleasure in his vacation ruined. Then there was Daisy. There seemed no
prospect of her visit ending for some months to come. In truth, Mrs.
Vaughan felt fairly certain that nothing save marriage would remove
Daisy from the family circle. She had settled herself far too
comfortably into it. Her behaviour had not shown the propriety which
Mrs. Vaughan would have liked. Indeed, she had more than once been
driven to speak to Daisy because of the lack of delicacy she showed in
her pursuit of Dr. Ramsay. He dropped in several times each week to see
Adeline and, on his way in or out, Daisy was certain to waylay him. She
was knitting an immense muffler for him and this had to be tried on. The
doctor surrendered himself to this operation with a rather grim grace
but he did surrender, and Mrs. Vaughan could not help thinking that in
his heart he enjoyed it, though what could be more futile than to
attempt to make a _muffler_ fit?

The thing that worried Mrs. Vaughan about Daisy was that she appeared to
be not only after Dr. Ramsay alone. When the doctor was with Adeline,
Daisy was certain to be with Philip, if he were in the house. In these
days, Adeline felt a weariness on her and retired early to bed. Daisy
always manoeuvred to sit up with Philip, who did not care when he went to
bed. She would go with him over the snowdrifts on snowshoes which she
had been given at Christmas, to visit Jalna. When Adeline was present,
Daisy was circumspection itself, but when Adeline was not there, Daisy
directed almost all her conversation to Philip, and laughed a good deal.
Mrs. Vaughan had tried hard to love Daisy but had not succeeded. She was
critical of Adeline but could not help loving her.

Even more than she loved their mother, Mrs. Vaughan loved the children.
They grew more charming every day, she thought, yet they filled the
house with their noise and the confusion of their living. Nicholas was
developing a temper and when he was frustrated would make the echoes
ring with his screams of rage.

Then when things were at their gloomiest, March came in like a lamb. It
did not come in like an ordinary lamb but as a gay, sweetly gambolling
lamb whose bleat was the gurgle of running water, whose eyes shone like
summer stars, whose tail flicked all care aside. In short, the weather
was unseasonably warm. But now the work on Jalna boomed and buzzed. The
workmen rose early and worked late. Things which it seemed never would
happen, took place in the twinkling of an eye. Plaster was slapped on.
Window-glass was puttied in. Door-knobs and locks were screwed into
place. The spindles and rail of the banister miraculously appeared and,
at the foot of the stairs, the carved newel-post, smooth as satin with
its clustering grapes and their leaves. The men sang as they worked. The
hot sun beat down on the roof and blazed in at the new windows. Great
clouds of migratory birds passed overhead. The earth was teeming with
vitality. The melting of the snow had been so quickly accomplished that
the stream had been fed beyond control. It raged through the ravine,
sweeping away the bridge of logs and carrying it to the lake. Wilmott's
river was in spate also. One night it came to his very door and he began
to pack his books. He dared not go to bed but remained watching. Every
now and again he would open the door and, holding a lantern above his
head, survey the threatening flood. But by sunrise it had a little
subsided and by noon his books were again on their shelves.

It was a great day for Philip and Adeline when a van, drawn by four
horses, stopped in front of the door of Jalna. Here was their furniture
at last! Here were the painted leather bedstead they had brought from
India and the chest of drawers with its ornate brass trimmings, the
cabinet and the packing-case full of jade, ivory and silver ornaments to
grace it. Here were the rugs that had taken generations of work to make,
the draperies with delicate embroidery; here were the very scents and
sounds of India! Here were the delicate Chippendale chairs and tables,
given Philip by his sister, the Empire sofa they had brought from
Quebec, the massive wardrobe they had bought in London! Here the Irish
silver and linen given by Lady Honoria! Here the old life in the new!

March had only three more days to go, and still it was gentle. If only
Adeline might have her own room in order--the rest of the house could
wait--so that her child might be born in peace under her own roof! Day
and night she strained toward this object. She could scarcely sleep for
the planning in her head and the weariness of her body. The thought of
time became palpable to her, as an antagonistic something with which she
was running a race. Once, in the middle of the night, she pictured the
unborn child as timekeeper in this race. She pictured him as a little
gnome sitting cross-legged with a gold watch in his hand. At this fancy
she burst out laughing.

"What's the matter?" exclaimed Philip, starting up.

"I laughed--so that I should not cry."

"Nonsense. Why should you cry?"

"I'd better be dead than go through all I have to go through."

"Now, Adeline, behave yourself and think of all your mercies," he said,
for something to say.

"Do you count yourself one of them?"

"Assuredly."

"Then you count one too many."

He raised himself on his elbow and looked down at her. Bright moonlight
was shining through the window into his face. His sister, Augusta, had
sent him an embroidered nightcap and it was perched jauntily on one side
of his head.

"Oh, Philip, you look enchanting!" she exclaimed. She drew down his head
and kissed him.

"Now you must settle yourself and go to sleep," he said, patting her
shoulder.

She sighed. "I think I might if the window were open."

"You know very well the doctor has warned you most particularly against
night air, since you had whooping-cough."

"Oh, do let us have it open, just a tiny way!"

He got up grumbling a little and opened the window a few inches. Then he
drew a chair between her and the window and spread her great flounced
petticoat across it.

"There," he said with satisfaction, "that will keep the draught off
you."

"Oh, thank you, Phil," she said, breathing deeply. "How sweet the night
air is! What a pity it should be so dangerous!" She snuggled down.

The petticoat did not keep the night air off Philip. He could feel it
fanning his cheek in the most disagreeable way. But he did not like to
change his position for fear of disturbing Adeline. He began to be
miserable. He was not afraid of what the night air would do to him. He
just did not like it.

Finally he solved the problem by pulling his nightcap right down over
his eyes, down over his uppermost cheek, till he was sheltered but still
could breathe.

April came in wild and windy. The wind, discovering the five tall new
chimneys, blew down them, shrieked and roared through them, as though
they were outlet enough for all its energy. The new doors slammed and
banged; shavings of wood blew in all directions; workmen whistled at the
top of their lungs; one of them was blown from the top of a ladder and
might have been killed, but was scarcely hurt. The furniture was
uncrated and the canvas wrappings removed. Rugs were heaped in corners.
The great painted bedstead, with its design of rich-coloured flowers and
fruit, through which the forms of birds and monkeys could be glimpsed,
was set up in the principal bedroom. Fifty times a day Nero went
upstairs and down, overseeing all.

With the furniture from Uncle Nicholas' house in Quebec had come the
grand piano. It was delivered in a wagon by itself. When it arrived
there was so much else to be done that it was decided to unload it and
let it stand in its case, covered by tarpaulin, till men could be spared
for the handling of such a load. The wagon was backed toward a
convenient spot near the ravine. But the ground still was icy in the
shade. The wagon wheels began to slip. The whole great weight began to
move backward into the ravine, dragging the horses with it. Philip and
Adeline looked on, with dismay on his part, horror on hers. In another
moment the plunging horses would be over the edge.

"Loose the traces!" Philip shouted.

Adeline shrieked, "Loose the traces!"

Two men sprang forward. Massive shapes strove together above the ravine.
The driver leaped from his seat in time to save himself. The heavy
draught horses moved forward lightly, free of their load which crashed
inexorably to the stream. It broke off branches and young trees as it
fell, then came to rest supported by two boulders, so that it was not
actually in the water.

"By the Lord Harry," said Philip, "that was a close shave!"

"I'll bet that pianner is bust to bits," said a man with a red
neckerchief. "Nobody'll never play on it no more."

All but the driver ran through the icy slush to look down at the piano.
It had been made in France, crossed the ocean, stood for many years in
the drawing-room of the house in the Rue St. Louis, travelled by barge,
boat and wagon to this place, and now lay, dumb and disgraced, at the
bottom of the ravine.

"Can we get it up, do you think?" asked Adeline, still white from the
shock.

"It'll take four horses to haul it up and it'll fall to pieces on the
way," said the man who had spoken before.

"Certainly we shall raise it," said Philip comfortingly to Adeline. "You
will play 'The Harp that once through Tara's Halls' on it yet." He
turned to the man with the red neckerchief. "It was you who directed the
driver. Otherwise the piano would not be where it is. Now you say it
can't be raised whole. I don't want men like you working on my place.
Ask the foreman for your money. You're discharged."

The man stared at him. "The foreman engaged me," he said. "It's for him
to discharge me. Not you."

Philip took him by the red neckerchief. "I have a mind," he said, "to
throw you down on top of the piano." He gave him a hearty push. "Now go,
and be quick about it." The man skulked off.

All the rest of the day Adeline felt shaky. Her knees trembled as she
hastened to and from the bedroom she was preparing. They had chosen the
room at the end of the hall behind the drawing-room as their own; cool
in summer and warm in winter, far from the noise of the children. A
servant had been engaged, the daughter of a farm labourer, who followed
Adeline about, getting in her way rather than helping her. The girl
could neither read nor write. Her incompetence and stupidity were a
marvel to Adeline, but she was good-natured and strong as an ox.

A married couple, the man a trained gardener and the woman a good cook,
were on their way from Devon. They had been engaged by Philip's sister
and it was hoped that they would be installed in the house before the
time of Adeline's confinement, a fortnight or more hence. Their bedroom,
comfortably furnished, in the basement awaited them. They were bringing
with them a supply of kitchen utensils and garden tools such as they had
been accustomed to. Adeline wished with all her heart that they were at
Jalna as she strove to bring some slight order out of the chaos which
surrounded her. Everywhere she went the girl, Lizzie, followed her,
tripping over the litter on the floor, dropping things, exclaiming at
the wonders from India.

"Sakes alive!" she said, pointing to the painted bedstead. "Is that
there to sleep in?"

"Yes. Draw the mattress toward you. It's not on straight."

"Land sakes, I'd have bad dreams if I slept in it."

"I dare say. Now help me to open this chest."

"What's them things all over it?"

"Dragons."

"They look heathenish."

"They are."

"Your furniture don't look like Christian furniture."

"It isn't. What have you dropped now?"

"It looks like a doll."

The small porcelain figure had been wrapped in a piece of Eastern
embroidery which the girl had taken from the chest. Adeline snatched it
up from the floor. She examined it anxiously. "Thank God," she
exclaimed, "it isn't broken! If you had broken that, my girl, I'd have
made an end of you." She held the porcelain figure tenderly in her
hands. It was the goddess Kuan Yin.

"Is it a doll?" asked Lizzie.

"It is a Chinese goddess. Oh, how beautiful and wise she is! How glad I
am she wasn't broken! See her sweet hands and her little feet like
flowers!"

"She looks comic," said Lizzie.

"I wish I could put you down in China for five years, Lizzie, and see
what would happen to you."

Lizzie giggled. "Perhaps I'd come back looking like that there," she
said.

Adeline set the goddess on the mantelpiece. "There I shall place her,"
she said, "to guard this room. She shall stay there always."

"It's sinful to worship images," said Lizzie. "My pa wouldn't let me
work for folks that worship images."

"Well, when next you see him, you can tell him I say my prayers to this
one. It will be fun to see what happens."

"I won't do that, Ma'am. I want to stay here."

"Good for you, Lizzie! Now gather up some of the paper and shavings from
the hall and lay a fire here. It's very cold."

"You don't look cold," observed Lizzie. "Your cheeks is red as if you
had the fever." She crammed paper and shavings tightly into the grate.

"No, no, not that way, Lizzie!" Adeline was worn out by the girl's
stupidity but she liked her. She wondered what the well-trained Devon
servants would make of her.

Mrs. Pink came in later to see what she could do to help but her
admiration for what was already unpacked, and her shock over the
disaster to the piano, took most of her energy. Mr. Pink called for her
and he too joined in the inspection and condolence. Still later Philip
came, accompanied by Captain Lacey, Thomas D'Arcy, and Michael Brent. It
was like a party. Philip tore down to the wine-cellar, where already a
case of wine was installed, and brought up a bottle of Madeira.
Wine-glasses were discovered. Wilmott appeared and at once said that he
knew the proper method for rescuing the piano from the ravine, and that
if he had been there it never would have fallen. Adeline was suddenly
gay and full of confidence. When she and Philip drove back to
Vaughanlands, she felt strong and hopeful of having everything in order
before the arrival of her child. It was disgraceful, Mrs. Vaughan
thought, the way Adeline laced herself, though, after all, who could
blame her, considering how she was exposed to public view? Her condition
might well pass unnoticed, so small was her waist, so voluminous her
skirts.

When Adeline woke in the dawn with a mild rain pattering on the roof and
the song of a chickadee coming from the maple tree outside the window,
she had a startled feeling as though someone had put their hand on her
and roughly disturbed her. She lay very still, her heart beating
quickly. She lay waiting, her wide-opened eyes fixed on the window, pale
in the early light.

Then she felt the touch again. It was a sharp pain that stabbed her very
vitals. She was filled with apprehension. Was this the warning of her
confinement? Was she to be caught here, be forced to have her child
where she was determined not to have it? Sweat broke out on her
forehead. She gave a little moan.

Then she felt better. Probably it was a false alarm. She had had others
in her time. But she would take no risks. Let Philip oppose her as he
might, she would sleep that night in her own house! She lay planning
each step of the day. After a while she slept.

When she woke it was still gently raining. Though the unseasonable heat
was gone, there was a feeling of spring in the air. She found that
Philip had dressed. The house was very quiet. She had slept late. At
breakfast there were only herself and Daisy. The men had gone out and
Mrs. Vaughan was not well. She had come down, had a cup of tea and been
forced to return to her bed. She was subject to severe headaches.

Daisy talked volubly. The subject which enthralled her at the moment was
the love affair between Kate Busby and Michael Brent. In her opinion
Kate should defy her father and elope with her lover. She herself had
counselled Kate to do this. Did not Adeline think she was right? After
all, what was there in life greater than sincere attachment?

Adeline was somewhat taciturn. She ate oatmeal porridge, cold ham and
several sausages, with expedition. Then she went to Mrs. Vaughan's
bedroom door and tapped.

"Come in." Mrs. Vaughan spoke in the tone of one who had prayed to be
left alone.

Adeline came to the side of the bed. "It is a pity you are feeling so
ill," she said.

"Oh, I shall be all right. You know I have these miserable times."

"Yes. 'Tis a pity. I myself am not too well. I had a heavy pain at
dawn."

Mrs. Vaughan was startled. "Do you mean--Oh, surely your pains aren't
coming on yet! You told me the third week in April!"

"Yes. That's when it's due. But I think I shall make haste and get under
my own roof today."

"No, no, you must stay where you are. You must take things quietly. We
can manage."

Suddenly Adeline knelt down and took Mrs. Vaughan into her strong arms
and kissed her.

"You are so kind," she said. "How can I ever repay you!"

"Then you'll stay?" asked Mrs. Vaughan faintly.

"No. I have a fancy to have my child at Jalna."

"But those pains!"

"Oh, I warrant I shall hold out till the third week in April."

Mrs. Vaughan burst into tears of relief, mingled with real affection.

"I am very fond of you," she said, "much fonder than I am of Daisy."

Adeline gave a little laugh. "Who wouldn't be?" she said.

As she passed the children's room she heard them prattling at their
play. They were all right. No need to worry about them. She went to her
own room, found a portmanteau and began to pack it with toilet articles.
To them she added two nightdresses, heavily trimmed with embroidery and
stiff with tucks from collar to hem, and a red velvet peignoir. She felt
a little giddy and sat back on her heels to collect herself. It took
some time.

Was there anything else she should take? Yes, the silver flask of brandy
they had on shipboard. She found it in Philip's top drawer. She shook
it. It was quite half full. Another pain struck her, tearing at her like
a wild beast. She gave a cry, then pressed her hands over her mouth. She
ground her teeth together. She would not give in. She would have her
baby in her own bed.

The pain passed. She groped in the wardrobe for her bonnet and cloak. As
she was putting them on she remembered that she had not ordered the
horse and buggy to be brought to the door. She saw Patsy O'Flynn
crossing the lawn and opened her window and called out to him:

"Patsy-Joe, bring round the grey horse and buggy. If ever you moved
quickly in your life, move quickly now. Just throw the harness on to the
beast and gallop back to the house."

"What's up, yer honour, Miss?"

"I'll tell you later. Hurry--hurry! Run!"

Patsy-Joe ran to the stable, swinging his arms like flails to propel
himself. When he returned it was obvious that he had thrown the harness
on the horse. He met Adeline with a wild look. His sandy whiskers stood
out on either side of his thin face. He snatched the portmanteau from
her hand and hurled it into the buggy.

"Run to the parlour," she said, "and fetch Boney! He must not be left."

Patsy-Joe flung himself into the house and flung out again, the
bird-cage swinging from his hand. Boney, hilarious at this sudden break
in the boredom of his present life, hung head downward from the top of
his cage, uttering cries of delight. In his travels he had learned the
word "good-bye" and he now screamed it repeatedly though without any
accent of affection or gratitude.

"Good-bye--good-bye--good-bye!" he screamed, and his mouth curved upward
beneath his dark beak.

Tremblingly Adeline climbed into the buggy. The parrot's cries had made
the old horse restive and he rolled his eyes and tried to move forward
and backward simultaneously. Adeline caught up the reins. "My baby will
be coming before long," she said.

"Be quate, will you?" cried Patsy-Joe to the horse, putting the
bird-cage in with the portmanteau. "D'ye want to put me lady onto the
gravel, you brute?" He scrambled to the seat beside Adeline. "Och, Miss
Adeline, yer honour, I can see by the look in yer eyes that you have
great pain in you and no wonder, the way you have run up and down thim
stairs and lugged great armfuls of linen about! 'Tis himself will be
vexed with you for lavin' Mistress Vaughan's house when naught is ready
at Jalna." He looked anxiously into her face. "But don't worry. I'll get
ye there in good time."

"You must not breathe a word of this to anyone till I tell you. I feel
better now. Drive fast but be careful of the ruts." She took the cage on
to her lap to steady it. Patsy had put up the buggy-top, so she was
sheltered from the rain that fell like a silver veil from the dim grey
sky.

Patsy set the portmanteau and the bird-cage on the bed in Adeline's
room. "Shall I unpack the bag for ye, Miss?" he asked, bending over and
peering into her face. She had dropped panting into a chair. Loud
hammering resounded through the house. It beat cruelly on her nerves.
She said, "Tell them to stop the hammering, Patsy-Joe. Say that my head
aches. Just that. Nothing more, mind. Then find Lizzie and send her to
me. Tell her to come at once. Then drive to the Rectory and ask Mrs.
Pink if she will come back with you. She'll understand."

"I will. I'll be back with her before you know it, Miss. Hadn't I better
fetch the doctor--or the midwife if himself is out? Sure, you'll need
all the help you can get."

"Not yet. I have things to do."

"But can ye wait?"

"Yes. Run along, Patsy."

"Hadn't I better fetch the masther?"

"No, no. Do just what I have told you."

He gave her a look of concentrated assurance of his capacity, so intense
as to be comic. Then he tiptoed heavily from the room and clumped along
the hall. In a moment the hammering ceased. She heard the sound of the
horse's hooves and the rattle of the buggy. Now all was silent except
for the quiet drip of rain from the roof. Adeline drew a long, quivering
breath of relief. She sat with arms outstretched in her lap, relaxing
her nerves, resting.

Now she heard Lizzie coming up the basement stairs.

"I was just on my way here," she said, "when I met Mr. O'Flynn. He told
me you are kind of sick. Shall I make you a cup of tea, Ma'am?"

"Yes. I'd like a cup of tea. Build the fire up quickly and put on the
big copper of water to heat."

"Do you want this floor scrubbed and the window cleaned right now,
Ma'am?"

"No. Yes--you had better clean the window. I'll find curtains and we'll
hang them. We're preparing for a confinement, Lizzie." She smiled a
little maliciously at the girl.

"Land's sakes alive!" Lizzie almost screamed, "I haven't had no
experience with them. I'm not twenty yet. You can't expect me to know.
I'd be scared to death."

"I don't expect anything of you except to do what you are told. The
doctor will be here. There is plenty of time. Now--make the tea and put
on the water to heat."

Lizzie clattered down the stairs, almost beside herself from excitement.
Adeline felt strong and capable. She opened the linen chest and took out
sheets and blankets. When Lizzie returned they made the bed together.
Adeline chose two small rugs from the mound in the hall and laid them on
the floor of the bedroom. Lizzie cleaned and polished the window and, as
they had no curtain rings or rods, they tacked up as a curtain a piece
of Indian embroidery. Adeline fortified herself with strong tea. All the
while she talked cheerfully to Lizzie, who gave her frequent looks of
apprehension. Now the room looked really habitable. Adeline could have
sung for joy to think she was in it--safe under her own roof.

At last Mrs. Pink appeared in the doorway.

"Oh, how nice--how very nice!" she exclaimed. Then added, "From what
your man tells me, you're not feeling very well. Really, I think you are
running a great risk in working to the last minute."

"Would you want to have your baby in another person's house, with a
young lad just coming home from college?"

"No, indeed. I don't blame you. But this is much sooner than you
expected, isn't it?"

"Yes. I'm afraid I've been overdoing it. Then there was the piano taking
that tumble--I thought the horses were going over, too--it gave me quite
a start."

"Dr. Ramsay was not at home but his housekeeper will send him here as
soon as he returns."

More tea was made. Mrs. Pink busied herself unpacking the portmanteau,
laying Adeline's toilet articles on the dressing-table. The figure of
Kuan Yin caught her eye. "How pretty!" she said. "It's Chinese, isn't
it?"

"Yes. The goddess Kuan Yin. She has promised to look after me."

Adeline spoke with such an air of sincerity that Mrs. Pink was startled.

"Oh, Mrs. Whiteoak, you're joking, aren't you?"

"Well, I think there's a good deal in those Eastern religions."

"Still, I don't think Christians should countenance them, do you?"

"God has countenanced them for a good many centuries, hasn't He?"

"His ways are beyond our understanding, my husband says."

Adeline moved restlessly about the room, then turned sharply to Mrs.
Pink. "I think Philip had better be sent for. It is well to be on the
safe side."

Mrs. Pink hurried out. She sent one of the men to fetch Philip, then
went down to the kitchen to see that Lizzie had preparations in
progress. Adeline was alone when Philip came to her. He gave an
astonished look about the room and at the freshly made bed where her
nightdress and peignoir were laid out.

"What's this?" he demanded.

"I've moved in." She smiled up at him.

"The house is not ready and won't be for another ten days. You can't do
it."

"I have done it. It's accomplished." She surveyed what she had done with
satisfaction. "Oh, Philip, dear, you'd not want me to have my baby at
Vaughanlands, would you?"

"It's not due till the end of the month."

She spoke in a small voice. "I think it is coming today. I have sent
Patsy for the doctor."

"Good God!" he exclaimed, his blue eyes prominent.

"You wouldn't want me to be out of my own bed, would you, Philip? I've
had a time of it to get everything ready, I can tell you. But doesn't it
look nice?"

"Very nice," he answered grimly.

Mrs. Pink returned to ask Adeline how she was.

"Better. I shall be all right for hours, I expect. Should you like to go
home to see your little boy?"

"If you think you can spare me." She turned to Philip. "My youngest has
a gathering in his ear. I am keeping hearts of hot roast onions in it. I
can't trust the servant to do it. The doctor will be here any moment,
I'm sure, and I shall not be gone long."

Philip went to drive her to the Rectory. Adeline was alone but she did
not mind. She was supremely happy. There, under her own roof, with the
rain pattering lightly on it, she awaited her ordeal with more of pride
than fear. She was in her own house. From now on she would do what she
liked. Oh, how she loved the house! It spoke to her, as though in a deep
reassuring voice. It resolved itself from the chaos of building and took
shape as a home about her. Echoes of footsteps sounded through it,
footsteps to come; unborn voices called out to her, not only the voice
of the child to whom she was about to give birth but of her children's
children. She would spend all her days here. She and the house would
have many secrets together. The house would teem with life, with
emotion. It would hold all together inside its walls, over which in time
vines and their leaves would grow.




                                  XVII
                           SPRINGTIME AT JALNA


PHILIP said, and said it from the bottom of his heart, that he hoped and
prayed Adeline would never have another child. To say nothing of her
sufferings and the risk to her life, it was too hard on him. He felt a
nervous wreck after this last. The doctor had been so long in coming
that it looked as though the infant might be born without his
assistance. The midwife had never arrived, being engaged in another
confinement. It seemed for a time that Philip and Mrs. Pink would be
Adeline's sole support. At the mere thought of such a contingency, a
cold sweat broke out on him. Adeline had more than her share of
endurance but, for some reason, her self-control deserted her and she
cried out with every pain. Time and again she declared that she was
dying. When Dr. Ramsay came at last she faced him with defiance and
momentary calm. Before he did anything for her relief he told her his
opinion of her actions of the morning. In half an hour the child was
born.

Though Adeline had gone through so much, her recovery was quick. This
was probably because of her great content. The weather too became sunny
and warm. All about her, indoors and out, the work went forward. There
was jubilation among the workmen at the news of the birth in the new
house. To the best of their ability they did their work quietly. When
the infant was ten days old, Philip carried him out to show him to them.
He was a smaller, weaker child than Nicholas had been but he had pretty
features, an exquisite skin, and his eyes were like forget-me-nots. The
woodsmen, horny-handed and unkempt, crowded about him. They were pleased
by the fineness of his long white robe and the little lace cap he wore.
He looked up at them reflectively, placing the finger-tips of one hand
against those of the other.

Philip was delighted because he was the first of his children to show a
resemblance to his own family. Adeline, with him on the pillow beside
her, would study the small face and declare that, though his colouring
was Philip's, his features never would be. There was some discussion
over his name. Philip chose Charles, his own father's name. Adeline
chose Dennis as the name least aggressively her father's. Certainly, she
declared, she would never name him after their doctor, as she had
Nicholas after her loved Dr. St. Charles. But they could not decide
which of his names he should go by. Each disliked the choice of the
other. "Charles is a stern name," she affirmed.

"Nonsense," said Philip. "It's as agreeable a name as there is. Dennis
sounds like a comical Irish story."

"You just show your bad feeling when you say such a thing," she
retorted. "'Tis a grand name!"

But the problem was settled by a book Wilmott sent her. It was _Ernest
Maltravers_, by Lord Lytton. Adeline had not read half-way through the
book before she cried, "His name shall be Ernest!"

Philip had to acknowledge that the name was a good one and Wilmott, when
he came to see the infant, said that nothing could be more suitable and
expressive of the tiny personality. So he was named Ernest Charles
Dennis, but continued to be called Baby for some time.

Philip's heart glowed with pride when he sat by Adeline's bed and saw
her propped on the pillows, the week-old infant snuggled in the curve of
her arm, the two older children perched beside them. Adeline's pallor
brought out the superb contours of the bones of her face which would,
even in age, be arresting. Her hair, massed on the pillow, made a
striking background. Her white arms curved about her children with
maternal satisfaction.

The children had been brought from Vaughanlands by their nurse to
inspect their baby brother for the first time. Augusta, now three years
of age, sat decorously at the infant's feet, her hands crossed in her
lap, her eyes fixed in wonder on his pink face. Nicholas, however, was
more excited by the painting on the head of the bed. The brilliant
flowers and fruit with their strange sensuous beauty filled him with
delight. He bounced on his plump behind, his hands now clasped
ecstatically beneath his chin, now stretched out to grasp the fruit. He
laughed and shouted.

"Dr. Ramsay says," remarked Adeline, "that I might have a child every
year without harm, if only I would take care of myself."

"Not one more," said Philip, "unless Ramsay promises to sit on our
doorstep for the last month. In any case, three is enough. We have a
daughter to comfort our old age. We have two sons, so we are certain of
an heir. Surely you don't want more!"

"No. Three is enough."

He folded his arms on his broad chest. "I have made up my mind to one
thing, Adeline. This boy, Ernest, shall be christened in our own church.
Of course, you know that Pink and I have talked a good deal of the
desirability of a church in the neighbourhood. You remember what we went
through last winter in discomfort in those long drives to the service.
Now, I am willing to give the land for the church and we might, with a
great deal of effort, raise a fund sufficient for a poor-looking
edifice. But I want a substantial church to sit in on a Sunday and, if I
am to be by far the largest subscriber, I say that I might as well build
the place myself. Then I shall have it as I want it and no bickering."

"It would take a lot of money just to build one little church."

"Adeline, that church will provide for your spiritual needs for the rest
of your life, and for these children after you. That is not a little
thing, is it?"

"You have the Church in your blood," she said. "I haven't."

"But you would like to _own_ a church, wouldn't you?"

"It would be heavenly. If I didn't like the clergyman I should just put
him out."

"Oh, you couldn't do that! But--you would have a good deal of
influence."

"But, if it were _my_ church, I could," she said stubbornly.

"Once the church is consecrated it is under the jurisdiction of the
bishop of the diocese."

The dimple flashed in her cheek. "I should attend to the bishop."

Their talk had been punctuated by Nicholas' shouts. Now he became too
noisy to ignore. He crept to the head of the bed to kiss the grinning
face of a monkey that peered between bright blossoms. He knelt on his
mother's hair.

"Young rascal!" exclaimed Philip, picking him up and setting him on his
knee. He took out his big gold watch and held it to Nicholas' ear.

"Ga--ga--ga--ga!" shouted Nicholas, his eyes dancing like stars.

"You see," said Philip, "the time is as propitious as ever it will be
for building a church. I have the men on the spot. I have the money to
spare. Large amounts of material left over from the building of the
house and barn can be utilised. The Rector has a book of excellent plans
for churches in the Colonies where there are not great sums of money
available. It will be an unpretentious building but in time as the
community grows it can be added to. The Rector is most enthusiastic, as
there are a good many of the poorer people who seldom have the
opportunity of attending a service. You can imagine how they would
welcome a church and a parish room where they could meet and be
sociable."

"Ga--ga--ga!" shouted Nicholas. "Ga--ga!"

"My sister would be tremendously pleased. I am sure she would send a
substantial donation. I should screw something out of the Dean also."

"If you think you will get anything out of my people, you're mistaken,"
said Adeline.

"I had no such thought," he returned.

"But my mother would embroider a beautiful altar-cloth."

"That would be very nice."

"My grandfather might give a pair of silver candlesticks."

"I doubt if candles on the altar would be acceptable. The Rector is
against ritualism."

"Ga--ga--ga--ga!" said Nicholas, violently shaking the watch, then
biting on it.

Philip returned it to his pocket. He rose, took his elder son beneath
the arms and tossed him in the air. Nicholas' face became a mask of
hysterical delight. He would not have minded if he had been tossed clear
into the sky.

Adeline smiled lazily, her hand rhythmically patting the back of her
last-born. Gussie was enraptured. She scrambled down from the bed and
ran to her father and clasped him about the legs. If any hard feeling
existed between them it was now forgotten.

"Me too!" she shrieked. "Gussie too!"

Philip set Nicholas on the floor and snatched up Gussie. He tossed her
up and caught her. Again and again. Higher and higher, till she almost
touched the ceiling. At each upward flight she uttered a cry of mingled
fright and joy. Her dark curls stood on end. Her dress of pale-blue
merino, cut low at the neck and with short sleeves, blew out like a
little balloon. Her tiny kid-clad feet hung helpless beneath her white
pantalettes.

Adeline lay laughing at them. Nicholas pouted a little. But Ernest kept
his forget-me-not blue eyes fixed on space and the tips of his pink
fingers just touching.

"Stop," said Adeline at last. "You will make her giddy."

He desisted but before he put her down he gave her a hearty kiss on the
mouth.

"Little daughter!" he said. "Little daughter!"

When he had led the children away to their nurse Adeline lay still,
savouring her happiness. She lay on her embroidered pillows, relaxed but
not drowsy, her difficult undertaking of giving birth accomplished, a
thousand pleasant things waiting to be done as soon as she had the
strength to do them. Her mind travelled back over her past life and she
felt she really must have lived quite a long time to have experienced so
much. There were the young, untrammelled, headstrong days in Ireland,
full of the sound of boys' voices, the music of the hunting-horn, the
drift of fine rain against green leaves. There was her married life in
India, the bold bright colour of it, the passion of her love for Philip,
her friendship with native princes. It began to seem strangely unreal.
She thought of the voyage from India and remembered rising early one hot
morning, having a glimpse of Philip stripped on deck while two sailors
dashed buckets of cold water over him. She remembered the pleased look
on the faces of the sailors. None had seen her looking on.

She thought she would have a lilac tree planted outside the window of
this room. Lilac had such a lovely scent in springtime. Mrs. Pink had
promised her a root of it, as well as other garden plants. She would
have flowers all about the place and an orchard with fruit of all sorts.
She would plant a peach tree and a grape-vine and ask Captain Lacey to
show her how to make peach brandy and grape wine.

Oh, how she wished she were able to unpack the chest of ivory and jade
ornaments! And she was able--if only Dr. Ramsay would let her! Suddenly
she grew restless. She tossed herself on the pillows. Was she to lie
here for ever, doing nothing? The infant was sunk in deep, almost
pre-natal slumber.

Half an hour later she was in her clothes, with the exception of her
stays. But she had put on her linen chemise, her long, lace-edged
drawers, her hand-knit silk stockings with clocks on the sides, her
white flannel petticoat, her voluminous finely tucked cambric petticoat,
her dark-red skirt with flounces edged with ruby-coloured velvet ribbon,
her little sacque with lawn and lace undersleeves, her gaily embroidered
Indian slippers. She felt oddly weak when she had finished dressing and
did not attempt to arrange her hair. It hung to her waist in a rich
russet mane. She opened the door and looked into the hall. Then she cast
a backward glance at Ernest. At this moment there was no tenderness in
it. He had been with her too much. She wanted to get away from him.

Though she felt a little giddy there was an exhilarating lightness in
her body as she moved along the hall. In the dining-room she saw the
heavy cornices above the windows waiting for curtains to be hung. She
saw the massive sideboard and dining-table, the chairs from the house in
the Rue St. Louis not arranged but standing just where they had been
uncrated. She would have yellow velour curtains for this room, with
heavy cords and tassels. Already richly embossed wallpaper from France
had been ordered in Quebec. She stood a moment, caressing the satin
smoothness of the newel-post, while her eyes roved speculatively from
the library on her left to the drawing-room on her right. She smiled to
think that Philip insisted on having a library, because there had been
one in his home in England. They had brought few books with them but she
was fond of reading. They would acquire a good collection in time. The
light from the coloured glass windows on either side of the front door
cast bright patches of green, purple and red over her. What lovely
windows, she thought, and they had been her very own idea! By their
brightness she saw that the sky had cleared. The sun was shining. She
opened the door and stepped into the porch. She found herself face to
face with Dr. Ramsay.

He reddened with anger. "Mrs. Whiteoak, how dare you!" he exclaimed,
taking off his hat and throwing it on the floor of the porch.

She had known he had a temper but such an exhibition of it filled her
with amusement. She clung to the door-handle, laughing at him.

"How dare you!" he repeated. "I have given my permission for you to be
up in your own room in two days and here you are in the porch! And
alone! Let me tell you, you may bring on trouble that will keep you in
bed for weeks."

"I'm as right as rain," she said, using the new slang of the period.

He looked down at his hat as though he had a mind to kick it. Then he
said, still looking at it:

"If you feel so capable of looking after yourself you may do so at your
next confinement."

"There is not going to be another," she answered loftily.

He gave an ironic smile. "You tell me that--a passionate woman like
you!" Now his eyes were on her.

"I have a husband who considers my health," she returned, still more
loftily.

"Does he give you permission to ignore my orders?"

"I do what I like!"

"Well, you shall go back to bed now."

"I will not."

"You shall!"

"I defy you!"

He caught her by the arms and turned her round. His grip was like iron.
For a moment she felt helpless, then she threw her weight against his
shoulder and stretching up her hand took a handful of his rather long,
wiry hair.

"Will you loose me!" she panted.

He gave a little excited laugh. With a sharp intake of breath he bent
his head and kissed her lips.

Both stood motionless a space. They heard a light step on the newly
spread gravel of the drive. Dr. Ramsay picked up his hat and, still more
flushed, turned to face Daisy Vaughan. She was astonished by the sight
of Adeline.

"Why, Mrs. Whiteoak--you up!" she cried. "How lovely!"

"Yes, isn't it?"

"And how well you look! You have an enchanting colour. Hasn't she, Dr.
Ramsay?" She gave him an intent look.

"Quite," he returned stiffly.

There was a somewhat embarrassed silence but it was soon broken by
Daisy's exclaiming:

"What do you suppose has happened? Kate Busby has eloped with Mr. Brent!
Her father is in a towering rage and says he will never forgive her. Do
you think he ever will, Dr. Ramsay?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"I think an elopement is so romantic. Nothing would hinder me from
marrying the man I loved. I would fly with him to the ends of the earth.
Everyone seems to think Mr. Brent is a quite good match, even though his
means are uncertain. What do you think of such infatuation, Dr. Ramsay?
I'll wager you disapprove of it."

"I'm in no position to judge anyone's conduct," he returned.

Adeline's eyes were laughing at him. She leant against the stone wall of
the porch, folding her arms. "Both parties are lucky," she said.
"They'll make a nice pair."

"I'm so glad you think so," said Daisy. "But I wish there had been a
wedding. Even though I shall never be a bride I should love to be a
bridesmaid."

"You'll be a bride, without doubt," said Adeline.

A faint cry came from her bedroom. She turned her eyes in that direction
with something of the expression of a fine Persian cat, aloof yet
attentive to the cry of its young.

"Oh, the darling baby!" cried Daisy, darting down the hall and throwing
herself on her knees by the side of the bed. "Oh, you darling, angelic
little Ernest!" She clasped him to her breast. But she had nothing he
wanted. He continued to cry.

He thrived in the weeks that followed and continued to be an object of
great interest to all about, for he had set the seal of birth on the new
house. Nicholas found himself of less consequence.

Frequently Gussie was set to minding Nicholas, amusing him while the
baby slept. Though so young, she had a capable way with her and often he
would do her bidding. But, when he set his will against hers, she had no
power to control him. He would shout and scream in her face. He would
pull her curls. He now weighed more than she and would push her aside to
grasp a toy or reach his mother's knee. Gussie loved little Ernest. He
was sweeter than her best doll. But she did not love Nicholas. There
were times when she liked him very much but there were other times when
she would have liked to get rid of him.

On a warm bright morning in May the nurse had set Nicholas in his
perambulator on the grass. It was near the ravine where passing workmen
or the flight of returning birds might amuse him. The birds came in
great numbers, in clouds, filling the air with their song. Always there
was some living thing to watch at Jalna.

A farm-hand led past a fine team of Percheron horses, just bought by
Philip. They trotted by in gentleness and strength, moving obediently to
the slight drawing of the rein. Nicholas ceased to play with his woolly
lamb and leant forward to watch them as though appraisingly; his
brilliant dark eyes looked out from under the frill of his pale-blue
silk bonnet. The great glossy flanks of the Percherons jogged up and
down, the bright metal trimmings of the harness jingled. Nicholas saw
how their cream-coloured tails were caught in a knot with red ribbons.
He turned over his lamb to see if its tail was the same, and finding it
had nothing more than a little scut of wool, he pushed out his under lip
in disapproval. Gussie, sitting on a little stool by his side, thought
he was about to cry. She joggled the perambulator up and down with an
experienced hand.

He turned his gaze somewhat resentfully on her. He did not want to be
joggled. He wanted to get out and walk. He tried to unfasten the strap
which held him.

"No, no," said Gussie. "Naughty."

She rose and held his two hands in hers. This infuriated him. He glared
at her and struggled. She thought she would push the pram about to quiet
him. The ground was level and smooth here so she managed very well. It
was a great pleasure to her to push the pram, though their nurse had
strictly forbidden it.

But Nicholas was thoroughly disgruntled. He could not forget how she had
held his hands. He hurled his lamb overboard. He lay down on his back
and kicked. With a great deal of effort she moved the pram to where the
resurrected piano stood in its case at the edge of the ravine.

"Nice piano," she said. "Gussie will play on it." Then she added, "But
not Nicholas."

He could not understand that there was a piano in the big box but he did
understand that he was going to be denied something she was to have. He
turned over and struggled to his knees, still encircled by the
restraining strap. She did not see what he had done, for her head was
bent in herculean efforts. The ground had become rougher.

Nicholas leant over the back of the pram and gripped Gussie's hat by the
crown. He dragged it forward over her eyes, badly pulling her hair that
was caught in the elastic. She gave a cry of pain and rage but continued
to push the pram with all her might.

Only the day before the piano had, with much shouting and cracking of
whip, been dragged up from the brink of the river. Every carpenter,
plasterer, woodsman and farm-hand had left his task to share the
excitement. All the neighbourhood had gathered to see the four horses
strain and stamp, in their efforts to raise the piano. Once the ropes
had slipped and it had all but plunged back again, but at last it stood
safe on the top. Today it was to be carried into the drawing-room.

All that she had borne from Nicholas now crowded upon Gussie. Whatever
she had, he wanted. Whatever she did, he interfered. He was the centre
of everything. Mama, Papa, Nurse, Lizzie--everyone liked him best. Even
Patsy O'Flynn had put her down from his shoulder this morning to elevate
Nicholas to that eminence. Little Ernest was nice. She could do with him
but Nicholas she could not abide. The long sharp slope, up which the
piano had been dragged, lay before her. It had been scraped to
comparative smoothness by the weight of the piano. Gussie put all her
strength into a last push to the pram. She let it go.

Down the slope it hurtled, Nicholas still clinging to the back of the
seat. His expression changed from surprise to joyful devil-may-careness.
A wheel striking a stone caused a bump that threw him into the air. He
landed in the pram again but in a different position. Gussie could no
longer see his face.

Now the perambulator reached the river's edge. It overturned, with
Nicholas beneath it. He did not move. The front wheels were above the
water. Suddenly Gussie was frightened. She felt alone in an immense
world. She looked down the steep. The piano had been at the bottom. Now
it was at the top. The pram had been at the top, now it was at the
bottom. Nicholas had been noisy, now he was silent. Things changed too
much. Gussie was afraid.

She trotted in the direction from whence came the sound of an axe and
voices of the two French-Canadians singing. Their singing reminded her
of something long past, something that was pleasant and soothing. She
stood concealed, watching the swing of the axes and the way the muscles
rose in lumps on their brown arms.

Gussie gave a little skip of pleasure. For an instant the forest was
blotted out and she saw the kitchen of the house in the Rue St. Louis
and felt Marie's arms about her, rocking her, heard Marie's voice
singing.

                   _"Alouette, gentille Alouette,
                   Alouette, je te plumerai..."_

She discovered tiny pink flowers starring the young grass at her feet
and bent to put her face down to theirs. She heard Nurse's voice
calling.

"Augusta! Augusta!" There was a frantic note in the voice.

Then Nurse saw her and ran to her.

"Where is Baby?" she panted.

"Down there," said Gussie, pointing to the bottom of the ravine.

"Merciful heaven!" She ran to the verge and peered over. Gussie followed
her, watched her run frantically down the steep. Finger in mouth, she
saw Nurse lift the pram, take Nicholas into her arms and examine him,
then toil up again, her face crimson.

Nicholas had been no more hurt than the piano had been, Gussie decided,
staring up into his face. He looked quiet and puzzled. His bonnet was
down over one eye. Nurse set him on the ground, then again descended
into the ravine and brought up the pram. She was completely winded. She
took out the pillow and coverings and shook the earth from them. She
plumped up the pillow and rearranged all. Every now and again she cast a
fearful glance toward the house. When Nicholas had been embraced and
tenderly kissed, Nurse bent over Gussie.

"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 first her hands, then her cheeks.
"Take that!" she said, "and don't you dare tell Mama 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 be seen 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 candle-holders, 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. "Houp-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 the 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 at 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 in the candelabra 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 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."

"Houp-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
extraordinarily sweet whistling.

"I have something I want to tell you," said Wilmott to Adeline, taking
Gussie's tiny slippered foot into his hand. "But we never have an
opportunity to talk nowadays."

"Once that 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 disposed to converse for
ever."

"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. Gussie
slid down from the sofa and followed him. She strummed on the bass
notes.




                                 XVIII
                          VISITORS FROM IRELAND


AS 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 from 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 one 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
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 shot-gun 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, utilising 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
birds. 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, thick-set 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.

"Just look, Mrs. Coveyduck," cried Adeline "at the dear little birds!
What do you think of a gentleman who would kill dear little birds--just
for fun?"

"It wasn't for fun," said Philip.

"It was for fun! Else why should he have galloped over here to show his
spoils?"

"He didn't gallop," said Philip, "he walked. He thought you'd be
pleased."

"I don't care _how_ he came!" screamed Adeline. "He came, bringing his
little victims, and that is enough! I always felt something wicked in
him. Now I remember hearing how he shot down natives in India for just a
little tiny uprising."

"Those natives had killed English civilians. One of them a woman.
Anyhow, it wasn't this Vaughan but the other Vaughan."

"Ah, trust you to cover up your friend's misdeeds!"

"Trust you," returned Philip, glaring at her, "to think the worst of
people."

"I can see as far through a stone wall as anyone. I know sport when I
see it and I know cruelty when I see it. And this is cruelty."

"Eh, well," said Mrs. Coveyduck soothingly, "I'll fetch 'ee a nice cup
of tea to comfort 'ee. As for thickey birds, we'll have a proper funeral
for they. I'll find a nice box and line it with leaves. Coveyduck shall
dig the grave and the children shall strew flowers over top. Would you
like the cherries stewed, or in a tart, ma'am?"

Neither Philip nor Adeline replied. Both would have preferred a tart but
neither would, in the stress of the moment, admit it.

"Stewed, or in a tart?" repeated Mrs. Coveyduck, fixing them with eyes
as blue as the sky.

"I have no preference," answered Philip stiffly.

"Nor I," said Adeline.

"Then stewed--with Devonshire cream," said Mrs. Coveyduck, well knowing
their preference. She took the basket and turned to go.

Emotion always made Adeline hungry. She turned a look of hate on Philip
to think he had not said cherry tart.

He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and whistled between his
teeth.

"This is no stable," she said, "nor you a groom."

"I want cherry tart," he returned.

Adeline smiled broadly at Mrs. Coveyduck. "The master demands cherry
tart," she said.

****

It was on the very day when the little birds were buried that Adeline
had a letter from her brother Conway, saying that he and Mary were in
Montreal and would soon come to Jalna for a visit. They were in that
town to look after the affairs of Mrs. Cameron, who had died in the
early spring, leaving Mary a modest but not inconsiderable fortune. Both
were well and longing to see Philip, dear Adeline and the children.
Sholto had accompanied them.

Adeline was divided between delight and dismay. If only they had waited
a little longer for their visit, delight would have been unalloyed. But
the house was not yet in order. The walls of the drawing-room and
library had been papered, the curtains hung. They were inviting but not
yet complete. No pictures were on the walls, no ornaments arranged. As
for the dining-room, it was still in chaos, the furniture swathed,
scaffolds erected for the paper-hangers. Meals were eaten in the
library. There was as yet no furniture in the guest-rooms.

Fortunately a private sale of household effects was advertised at no
great distance. Philip went off to it, a little disgruntled because he
had his hands so full at home. But it was always pleasant to spend money
and he returned in great good-humour having acquired two bedroom suites,
one of walnut with much carving, the other of mahogany and of a good
design. He also acquired complete toilet sets with enormous ewers,
basins, soap-dishes, slop-bowls, chamber-pots and toothbrush-holders,
tall enough for the toothbrushes of mastodons. Added to this were a
large tin bath painted green, a wire stand for potted plants, a cuckoo
clock, a stuffed deer's head, a huge volume of British Poets, and a
dog-kennel. Adeline had to leave her hanging of curtains to inspect
these. She declared them all to be beautiful and, clasping the anthology
of British Poets to her breast, flew with it to the library and placed
it conspicuously on the bookshelves. She and Philip stood hand in hand
admiring the effect.

Mrs. Coveyduck was without peer in the process of settling in. She never
became confused or irritated. She went from attic to basement and never
seemed to tire. Tranquilly and without fuss she had her own way. The
young girl, Lizzie, under her guidance, was rapidly becoming an
efficient housemaid. She thought Mrs. Coveyduck perfect and it was
amusing to see her modelling herself in imitation.

Oh, the joy to Adeline and Philip to be in their own house! No longer
was he obliged to put his head out of the window to smoke his cigar.
Now, with his velvet smoking-cap on his head, the gold tassel dangling
jauntily over one eye, he could smoke where he chose. She would run from
room to room, singing as she went. She could drop things wherever she
chose, secure in the knowledge that Mrs. Coveyduck or Lizzie would pick
them up. The children might cry at the top of their lungs, she had no
need to worry. As for Nero, no longer was he an outcast. He so suffered
from the summer's heat that Patsy O'Flynn clipped him to his shoulders
like a young lion. He was here, there and everywhere. Already the new
front door was scored by his scratchings to be admitted.

The party from Montreal arrived on a hot, bright but windy day.
Everything seemed in motion, from the waving of branches to the waving
of Nero's tail.

"How heavenly to see you boys again!" cried Adeline, clasping her
brothers to her in turn.

"Dear Sis," said Conway, submitting languidly, "it is heaven to be here
after the discomforts we have endured. How well you look!"

He himself had not at all changed, nor had Sholto. There they stood,
slim as wands, their pale red hair worn too long, their long pale faces
with the pointed chins and supercilious nostrils reminding Philip as
always of the faces on playing-cards--looking little older than when
they had run away from the ship. But Mary had changed from a colourless
child to a fashionable young woman, though, on close inspection, she
looked a little overshadowed by the clothes which she had bought in
Paris. Though she had all the money, Conway had firmly impressed on her
that he had done her a great favour in marrying her. Her adoring eyes
followed him wherever he went and, when he was absent from her, she
waited in dejection for his return. She often bored him and he preferred
the more congenial company of his brother.

"What a dear little house!" he exclaimed. "And all so fresh and clean!
And what a wilderness surrounding it!"

"Heavens! Look at the dog!" Sholto simulated terror. "Or is he a lion?
What a creature!"

"He comes from Newfoundland and he's more lamb than lion," answered
Adeline, patting Nero.

"What sweet babies!" Mary ran to inspect the children. "There's nothing
I want so much as a baby but I don't seem able to have one."

Conway winked at Adeline. "There is nothing on earth I want less," he
said, arranging his silk cravat.

"What perfect repair everything is in!" remarked Sholto, staring about
him.

"Child," said Adeline, "the house is barely built. It's as fresh as a
daisy."

He looked at her blankly. He could not imagine a new house.

"How is dear Mama?" she asked.

"Looking lovely," answered Conway. "You remember that she lost a front
tooth? Well, she has had a beautiful new one put in its place. It is a
miracle. A new discovery. You should see it."

"She says she is coming over here just to show it you," said Sholto.
"Both she and Dada are coming."

"Really!" Philip could not help looking a little aghast. "You say they
are coming to Jalna?"

"Yes. Dada doesn't believe half of what Sis writes of the place. He's
coming to see with his own eyes."

"How is Dada?" asked Adeline pensively.

"Beastly as ever," returned Sholto emphatically. "He beat me till I was
black and blue just two days before we sailed. I thought I should have
had to remain at home."

"It served you right," said his brother.

Mary asked, "Where are the two Irish gentlemen?"

"Mr. D'Arcy returned to Ireland some months ago. Mr. Brent eloped with a
Canadian girl. They have lately returned and been forgiven by her
father."

"Had she money?" asked Mary.

"Her father is quite well off--as riches go in this country."

"How well off is he as riches go in Ireland?" asked Conway.

"Rolling in wealth. Now come and see your rooms. Then we shall have
dinner."

She led them upstairs. They ran from room to room, examining them with
the curiosity of children. Adeline herself felt like a child again. It
was delightful having them with her.

They made quite a sensation in the neighbourhood, with their odd looks,
their clothes in the extreme of European fashion, their free and easy
manners. The Laceys gave a lawn party for them but, as it turned out,
they were not the centre of interest at it, for Michael Brent and his
bride, newly returned and forgiven by her father, were surrounded by a
welcoming circle.

Brent disengaged himself as soon as he could and drew Adeline aside. He
said:

"I have good news for your gloomy friend."

"I have no gloomy friend," she returned. "I demand good spirits in any
friend of mine. If, by chance, it is James Wilmott you refer to, you are
mistaken. He would be the happiest man here, if----"

"There need be no if, from now on," interrupted Brent. "Do please
capture him and let me relieve his mind."

Adeline found Wilmott in the midst of a group engaged in the sport of
archery. He had just raised his bow to his shoulder and was looking
intently at the target. She waited till the arrow pierced the bull's-eye
and amid applause he gave way to another player before she spoke.

"Oh, James," she said, "can you leave this game and come with me?
Michael Brent has just told me that he has good news for you. He is
waiting near the summer-house. Do excuse yourself and come."

"I have won the contest," said Wilmott. "I can come with you at once."

Adeline lingered a moment to watch Daisy Vaughan who, bow in hand, was
about to play in a new round. She was the subject of much banter because
she could not be made to understand how to hold her bow.

"But I never _could_ hold a bow!" she cried.

"The thing is to _catch_ your beau," laughed Kate Brent. "Once you've
caught him it's very easy to hold him."

"What does she mean?" asked Daisy innocently.

"Oh, Daisy, how slow you are!" cried Lydia Busby. "Don't you see? Bow
and _beau_--b-e-a-u?"

"I declare," said Daisy, "I don't see any connection. I repeat that, if
I had a dozen bows, I could not hold one of them."

There were peals of laughter.

Philip came to her side and put his arm about her, placing her hands
correctly on the bow. She smiled helplessly up at him.

As Adeline and Wilmott turned away she asked:

"What do you think of Daisy, James?"

"I think she's a hussy," he returned curtly.

"I thought so too, at the beginning. Then I thought she was just a silly
girl. Now I don't know what to think. She calls herself my friend."

"She's no friend of yours. Nor of any woman's! Adeline, she is
_man-mad_. The bachelors have not come up to the scratch. I think she
has given up her ambition for Dr. Ramsay. Now I believe she is after
Philip."

"She has always laid herself out to allure him. But I have been only
amused by her tricks."

"Philip is the most attractive man in the place."

"But he's mine!"

"What does she care? Adeline, that girl told my boy, Tite, that he had
enchanting eyelashes and a mouth like a pomegranate flower."

Adeline laughed delightedly. "Oh, James, to hear you say that!"

He replied, with some heat, "Poetic phrases might not come so ill from
my lips as you imagine."

She gave him an almost tender look. "I never should have laughed if they
had been your own, but to hear you repeat them, as from Daisy to Tite,
fills me with hilarity. How did Tite take it?"

"The young devil liked it. He has taken to looking at himself in my
looking-glass--trying to see his eyelashes and making mouths."

"He's more French than Indian, by a long shot, Philip says."

They found Brent hiding in the lattice summer-house. He called out
softly:

"Here I am. Come and hear the news, Wilmott."

They went in. Adeline seated herself by the side of Brent. Wilmott
stood, as though defensively, in the doorway. Brent's ruddy face was
wreathed in a smile of good-fellowship.

"I have seen your wife," he announced.

"Yes?" Wilmott spoke quietly.

"You know Kate and I went to New York on our honeymoon. We had been
there only a few days when Mrs. Wilmott discovered me, looking in at the
window of a bookshop. She was coming out with a book she had bought. It
was almost a year since I had seen her and my first thought was how well
she was looking. Really like a different woman."

Wilmott just stared.

"She is not worrying over your whereabouts any longer. She is
immersed--literally up to the neck--in the anti-slavery campaign!"

Wilmott's jaw dropped. He uttered an incoherent sound.

"You see," continued Brent, "she is by nature a woman with a mission.
She is completely carried away by this. She never reached Mexico, for
she made friends with people who warned her what a precarious and almost
hopeless expedition it would be. These friends are anti-slavery
enthusiasts. She became one. She travelled with them through the South.
Now she is on a lecturing tour in the North, arousing feeling there. She
is returning later to England to lecture."

"_Lecture!_" ejaculated Wilmott.

"Yes. Lecture. She pointed out a card in the window of the bookshop,
advertising the one she was giving that night. She begged me to attend
it. Fortunately Kate was a little indisposed, so I was able to go
alone."

"And Mrs. Wilmott mounted a platform and lectured!" cried Adeline. "Eh,
but I should have liked to hear her. Was there a crowd?"

"The hall was not very well filled but those who were there could not
have been more enthusiastic. She roused them to a really vindictive
anger. They would have marched forth and set fire to the house of any
slave-owner--if they could have found one."

"It puzzles me," said Wilmott, "how she could have kept to the one
subject. Her tongue had a fashion of running away with her."

"It did run away with her!" exclaimed Brent. "That's just the point.
Words literally poured from her. She submerged the audience with words.
She gave us statistics and tortures in the same breath. For my part, if
it hadn't been for Kate, I was almost ready to join in the campaign. In
a small clear penetrating voice----"

"Ah," said Wilmott gloomily. "I know that voice. It used to beat on my
brain for hours after we had gone to bed and something had started her
lecturing."

"Lecturing--ah, there you are! She's a born lecturer. In your day, she
had an audience of only one. Now she has hundreds and it will not
surprise me if, before this controversy is finished, she has thousands.
After the lecture she was besieged by people who were interested. Then I
escorted her to her hotel and we had a long talk. That is to say, I
listened and she talked."

"Did she speak of me?" asked Wilmott.

"She did that. She said that your leaving her had been the greatest
mercy of her life. She said that, with the exception of giving her
Hettie, it was the one good thing you had ever done for her."

"She said not a word of my having crippled myself financially to leave
her in security?"

"Not a word. She even spoke of your indolence, your lack of ambition.
She said that, having dedicated herself to her great mission, she never
wanted to hear of you again and that if you should, in time to come,
seek her out and beg for forgiveness, she would cast you off."

"She did, did she, eh?" said Wilmott, with a savage grin.

Adeline sprang to her feet. She embraced Wilmott.

"Oh, James," she cried, "what glorious news for you!"

She then turned to Brent and embraced him.

"How splendid you have been!" she exclaimed. "Have you breathed a word
of this to Kate?"

"Not a word--and never shall. As a matter of fact, dear Mrs. Whiteoak,
there are so many little incidents in my own past which I must conceal
from Kate that _this_ from _Wilmott's_ is imperceptible."

"Oh, you rogue!" said Adeline, kissing him.

No one could call Wilmott a rogue. He stood glowering at them.

"Aren't you delighted?" asked Brent.

"Yes. I am delighted. Did Mrs. Wilmott speak of my daughter?"

"Hettie! Ah, yes, Hettie! Her mother is very pleased with Hettie. That
girl is transformed. She too has thrown herself into the work. She has
grown tall and strong and serious. She was seated at a small table
inside the door of the lecture hall. She was distributing pamphlets
against slavery. Selling autographed copies of a booklet written by her
mother, at fifty cents each. The proceeds to go to the Cause. I bought
one for you. Here it is."

He unbuttoned his coat and took the booklet from his inner pocket.
Wilmott accepted it gingerly.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, very much."

"You know," said Brent, "if ever this affair should leak out--as, so
help me God! it never will through me--you can say quite simply that you
and your wife separated because of her views on slavery. You can express
a profound sympathy with the South."

"He could say nothing that would make him more unpopular here," said
Adeline. "We're all against slavery."

"Then say," continued Brent, unabashed, "that she would never stay at
home as a wife should but was always gallivanting over the country,
lecturing. Say you parted by mutual agreement, which I can certify you
have."

"Thank you," said Wilmott, turning over the booklet in his hands.

"Splendid," Adeline agreed. "The very thing."

Kate Brent came seeking them.

"There are strawberries and cream!" she called. "Do come, everybody! The
berries are monstrous big and the cream as thick as Michael's brogue."

"My treasure," said Brent, "I will follow you to the ends of the
earth--if you offer me strawberries."

"Will you kindly give my excuses to Mrs. Lacey?" said Wilmott. "I have
to go home."

They could not dissuade him. Adeline lingered a moment. "It's ended
better than we could have hoped for, hasn't it? And you think I did well
in making Michael Brent our confidant, don't you?"

"I think you did superbly well. But, all the same--in spite of my
relief--I feel that I cut a comic figure in all this."

"That is the trouble with you!" she cried. "You are always thinking of
people's opinion. Now I never consider what people will think."

"It is a part of your charm that you don't. But I have no charm."

"James, you are one of the most charming men I know. And you ought to be
one of the happiest."

"So I shall be. I promise you."

They parted and he followed the path through the luxuriant growth of
July, to his own house.

Whenever he had been away, his first thought on returning was to wonder
what Tite was doing. Now he found him by the river's edge, painting a
wheelbarrow bright blue from a new pot of paint.

"Well, Tite," he said, "what are you up to?"

Tite made a graceful gesture with the paint-brush.

"Boss, my grandfather gave me this wheelbarrow because he is old and has
no more use for it. But I do not like a red wheelbarrow, so--I paint it
blue!"

"And a very good wheelbarrow it is. Tite, are you sure your grandfather
gave it to you? You told me he was very poor."

"So he is, Boss. That is why he has nothing more than a wheelbarrow to
leave me. He guesses he's soon going to die."

"And where did you get the pot of paint?"

"Boss, I found it floating on the river."

Wilmott sighed and went into the house. There was an ineffable sense of
peace in it. He sat down by the table and took out Henrietta's booklet.
He read it through. Then he laid it on the hearth and touched it with a
lighted match. In an instant it was blazing. One word stood out from the
printed page. _Slavery._

A quiet smile lighted Wilmott's face.

"Well," he said aloud, "she's set me free, thank God. I can begin
again--in peace."

Tite put his head in at the door. "Boss," he said, "I want to say
something."

Wilmott raised his head. "Yes, Tite?"

"Boss, the folks where the garden-party is gave me a basket of
strawberries. I've a dish of them ready for your tea. There's cream from
our own cow."

"That sounds appetising, Tite. I'm hungry. Bring the strawberries
along."

Tite draped himself gracefully against the side of the door.

"Boss, the servant-girl at the place they call Jalna gave me a slab of
plum cake."

"She did! Well, that was handsome of her. Let's have tea."

Tite made a sudden leap forward, like a young animal galvanised by
pleasure. He pulled off the red felt table-cover and in its place laid a
square of clean white linen. He began to place the dishes in orderly
fashion. Wilmott put on the kettle. At first he had eaten his meals
alone but he had grown so fond of Tite that he had enjoyed his company
at table. The boy was slim, clean, well-behaved. Physically he was
beautiful. Wilmott had ambitions for him. As they sat eating their
strawberries and thick cream, Wilmott said:

"I am going to teach you many things, Tite. History, geography,
mathematics, English literature and even Latin."

"That is good, Boss," answered Tite, cutting the plum cake carefully in
half. "I am always ready to learn."




                                  XIX
                            THE BATHING PARTY


"THESE croquet and archery parties are all very well," said Conway, "but
I should like to see you give something more spirited in the way of
entertainment. Now, where Mary and I were in the south of France, we
went to some parties on the seashore where the diversions were drinking
champagne and bathing."

He raised his greenish eyes to his sister's face, from where he sat on
the floor at her feet, his head resting against her knee. Sholto sat in
an identical position with his head against her other knee. Mary sat in
a straight-backed chair opposite, crocheting fine lace for a border on a
cambric nightcap. She said:

"Yes, indeed, dear Adeline, we had the most heavenly time you can
imagine. Some of the bathing-costumes were as pretty as pictures and
when we were tired of the water we lay on the sands and sang."

"I can't picture it taking place here," said Adeline.

"It can take place quite simply," said Conway, "if only you will let me
engineer it. First of all we must eliminate those oldsters who carp at
the licence the young take. You need only get together a congenial
party, provide the refreshments, and I shall look after the rest."

"This lake is not the Mediterranean," said Adeline. "It's likely to be
cold."

"In this torrid weather! No--it will be deliciously cool. Come along,
Sis, say you will!"

"Do say you will," repeated Sholto, turning Adeline's rings about on her
fingers.

"We have no bathing-costumes."

"Conway and I have," said Mary. "The rest of you can easily buy or make
them. Lydia Busby tells me she has a pattern for one. Do say yes!"

"There really is nothing to do," said Sholto. "We might as well be in
Ireland."

"The moon is at the full," said Conway, "and would give us all the light
we should need."

"You intend to stay after sunset, then?" asked Adeline.

"Assuredly," said Mary. "We'd die of the heat if we went before late
afternoon. Oh, if only you knew the pleasure of such a party! The
freedom from long skirts and tight shoes and--above all--convention!"

"I didn't know that convention had ever troubled any of you," returned
Adeline.

"We feel it here," said Sholto. "We hate being hampered."

"Then go home," retorted his sister.

"What a beast you are, Sis," he returned, kissing her hand.

She took a handful of hair on each of their heads and gave it a tug.
"Have your way, then. But there will be no champagne. A good claret cup
must suffice. Make out your list, Conway. Get the pattern of the
bathing-costume, Mary. If we're to have the party before the dark of the
moon, we must make haste."

They did make haste--the principal obstacle to overcome being lack of
covering for their bodies. Those bidden to the party included Robert and
Daisy Vaughan, the Brents, the four young Busbys, Dr. Ramsay and
Wilmott. Including the five from Jalna there were to be fifteen at the
bathing party. A sewing-bee was held at Jalna where, with great speed
and small consideration for the peculiarities of figure, costumes were
produced. There was a singular likeness among them all. A bolt of
dark-blue flannel had been bought, along with several bolts of white
braid, for the female costumes. The males were to wear their own white
shirts but, for their nether parts, white flannel knee-length trousers
were made. The cutting-out of these, the sewing together of the two
halves, produced such extraordinary results that shrieks of hysterical
laughter resounded through the house. Mary laughed till she cried so
that water had to be thrown on her and work was at a standstill for some
time.

Finally Sholto, as the youngest and most innocent of the males, was made
to dress in the first costume completed. His shirt of course fitted
admirably, but the trousers, reaching midway between knee and ankle, had
such a comic effect that the work was once more held up by unrestrained
laughter. Sholto capered about the room shamelessly, his pale-red hair
on end, his thin legs flashing. Whether the trousers should be
lengthened or shortened, trimmed with braid or left plain, was the
subject of excited talk. It was a blessing that neither Mrs. Vaughan nor
Mrs. Lacey was present.

When Philip tried on his in the privacy of his bedroom, he found he
could not sit down in them.

"Adeline," he shouted, "come here at once!" She came expectantly.

"You may have the damned party without me," he said. "I can't sit down
in these."

She walked round him, examining him critically.

"You don't need to sit down," she said. "They're for swimming in, not
sitting in. You can swim, can't you?"

"Certainly I can. But do you expect me to swim about continually while
the rest of you sit on the shore drinking claret? Also, I doubt very
much if I could swim in them. They are extraordinarily tight and a most
evil shape."

"Faith, they are," said Adeline. "I shall give them to Wilmott and make
you another pair. He's much thinner in the thigh."

Another pair was made of the very last of the flannel and, though from
scarcity of material they had to be made rather shorter than the others,
Philip did not object, for now he would be able both to swim and to sit
down.

The heat was unusual. There had been nothing to equal it in the
preceding summer. Toward the full of the moon it grew even more intense.
It seemed almost too great an effort to set out for the bathing party.
At four o'clock the shadows of the trees made the road to the lake less
glaring. But the leaves were as motionless as though carved from metal.
The sky had the hard brightness of a gem. The Whiteoaks' new wagonette,
drawn by a pair of spanking bays, bowled down the drive and through the
gate, driven by Philip. He was a fine hand with the reins. The horses
moved beautifully.

As well as their own party, there sat on the seats facing each other the
two Vaughans and Wilmott. Hampers of food were disposed beneath the
seats, as well as the boxes containing the bathing-costumes. On the road
they discovered the Brents in a shiny new buggy and the four Busbys in
an old phaeton. Young Isaac Busby was determined to race his raw-boned
wild-looking horses against Philip's, in spite of the heat. Weather
meant nothing to the Busbys.

"Come on--come on!" he shouted, cracking his whip, but Philip kept his
horses at a gentle trot.

They could smell the freshness of the lake before they came upon it. A
breeze rose from its faintly ruffled surface. All about it the forest
crowded. It was like a guarded inland sea. Flocks of sand-pipers moved
trimly across the smooth beach. A cloud of kingfishers rose and cast
their blueness upon the blue of the lake. A dozen ruby-throated
humming-birds hovered above a tangle of honeysuckle that grew near the
beach. The road ended in a rough field and there the horses were
unharnessed and tethered. Dr. Ramsay came last, riding his grey gelding
and throwing a bundle on to the beach with the remark that no one was to
bathe till thoroughly cooled off.

"Then I shall never bathe," cried Mary, "for I am sure I shall never be
cool again."

"You should take great care of yourself, Mrs. Court," said the doctor.
"You are very thin."

"I bathed twice a day in the Mediterranean," she said defiantly.

"That was very reckless of you." He came to her side with a professional
air. "May I feel your pulse?" he asked.

Childishly she laid her thin wrist in his fingers.

"Just as I thought. You have a very quick pulse. You should not
over-exert."

"Do feel mine," said Adeline, "for I do believe it has stopped
entirely."

"There is no use in my telling you to take care of yourself, Mrs.
Whiteoak," he said severely.

She gave a little grimace that made him smile in spite of himself. He
coloured, for he had hoped to make her forget, by his severity, how he
once had given way to amatory impulse.

A thicket of wind-blown cedars grew where sand and soil met. Here
Adeline, Mary, Daisy, Kate Brent and her two sisters disrobed themselves
and put on their bathing-costumes. With the exception of Mary's, these
were identical. Their full flannel skirts reached to the knees, the
blouses had elbow-length sleeves, the shirts and sailor collars were
edged with white braid. All wore long white cotton stockings.

Mary had kept her costume as a surprise. Now she appeared rather
self-consciously out of the thicket, wearing a sky-blue bathing-dress
with bright-red sash and scarf knotted beneath the sailor collar, and a
little red silk cap. The others were enraptured, though the shortness of
her skirt made Kate and her sisters gasp and filled Daisy Vaughan with
envy.

"I do wonder if I could pin mine up a little," she said wistfully to
Adeline. "Are there any safety-pins about?"

"Not one," said Adeline firmly, "and you are showing quite enough leg."

"It does seem hard that Mrs. Court should display limbs that are so
spindling while mine, which are neither like broomsticks nor too plump
like the Busby girls', should be concealed."

"Girls are expected to be modest."

"At any rate, I shall let down my hair."

She unloosed the pins which restrained her ringlets and they fell
luxuriantly about her shoulders. Placing her hands on her hips she
caught up her skirt in her finger-tips so that, as she advanced with the
other females out of their retreat, she displayed as much leg as did
Mary. The group made such a picture that the gentlemen, already
assembled at the lake's rim, stared in admiration.

Conway's costume, like his wife's, was different. It was in red and
white stripes running horizontally, and so much of his thin white person
was exposed to view that only his youth and a fawnlike quality in him
preserved him from the appearance of immodesty. He flew to meet Mary who
flew to meet him.

"My treasure," he exclaimed, "let us be first in the briny deep!"

"It isn't briny, you idiot," said Isaac Busby.

"Then I shall shed tears in it and make it briny."

The two, taking hands, skipped into the water.

Mary gave a cry as the chill of it touched her body. "Oh, how cold! How
lovely and cold!"

"She could not do a worse thing," said Dr. Ramsay. He stalked
judiciously to the lake's edge and took its temperature with his toes.
He had provided his own bathing-costume which consisted of a grey
flannel shirt and an old pair of breeches.

"Houp-la!" cried Philip, "let's make the plunge!"

He caught Daisy's hand in his and they ran laughing after Conway and
Mary. In another moment all were disporting themselves in the grateful
coolness of the lake. It was perfect.

Nero, who had run all the way from Jalna after the wagonette and was
more dead than alive on arrival, now began to notice what was going on.
He came from under the willows where he had lain, loudly panting, and
advanced to the shore. From beneath his curly black thatch he observed
many people apparently drowning.

As it was against his principles to allow people to drown, he uttered a
loud bark of assurance, as though to shout, "Hold on! I'm coming!" and
plunged into the water.

He had no especial gallantry toward the female sex. A man's life was to
him as valuable as a woman's. Therefore, as Dr. Ramsay happened to be
nearest him, he swam with all his strength to rescue him.

"Call your dog, Whiteoak!" the doctor shouted, warding off Nero with an
upraised arm.

Nero took this gesture as one of supplication and made haste to grasp
the doctor's shirt in his powerful jaws. He then began to drag him
toward the shore.

Dr. Ramsay, in a fury, caught him a clout on the head but Nero's head
was so protected by thick curly hair that it did not really hurt him
and, if it had hurt him very badly, the result would have been the same.
He would have tried only the harder to save the doctor.

"Nero!" shouted Philip, controlling his laughter. "Here, sir! Nero!" He
swam toward Nero.

Dr. Ramsay continued to clout him. But, by the time Nero had got him to
shore, his shirt was half off his back. Nero then swam toward Daisy.

"Help!" she shrieked. "Oh, Captain Whiteoak, save me from Nero!"

Philip now had the big fellow by the collar. He dragged him to the shore
and discovering a stout stick of wood threw it far out for him to
retrieve. Nero gave not another glance to drowning human beings but
concentrated all his life-saving proclivities on the stick. Again and
again he brought it safely to shore till at length, quite tired out, he
retired with it beneath the willows.

There was now an exquisite coolness abroad. It was exhilarating to swim
or merely to bob up and down in the bright water. Little waves were
beginning to rise and there was a faint line of foam on the beach. When
they came out of the lake to lie on the warm sand they had a feeling of
something new and strange in their relations. The old conventions seemed
cast aside and they lay relaxed in childlike abandon. Brent put his head
on Kate's arm, while she wound his closely curling hair about her
fingers. If ever she had had a fancy for Wilmott it was forgotten now.
She was utterly satisfied with her husband.

Young Vaughan had managed to draw Adeline a little to one side.

"I wish we two were the only ones on the beach," he said, his blue eyes
drinking in the lithe beauty of her form.

"We shall have to come together for a bathe one day."

"Would you really? But you're not in earnest. Your eyes are smiling."

"What harm would there be in it?"

"None. But people are so abominable." He took a handful of sand and let
it trickle through his fingers. "May I call you Adeline? Surely I have
as much right as that man Wilmott."

"He's an old friend. I've known him for ages."

"You only met him on board ship."

"That seems ages ago. But--call me Adeline if you like." She scarcely
heard what Robert said. She was looking across the sand at Daisy and
Philip. There was an intangible something in their attitudes, a look in
their eyes, that arrested her. Daisy was suddenly different. She was no
longer the irresponsible girl, given to poses and extravagances, but a
deliberate woman, filled with almost uncontrollable passion for a man.
Her eyes devoured Philip. She was a huntress who, having made many
experiments in the chase, now drew her bowstring taut, having discovered
the coveted prey. That Philip was married meant little to her. She
hungered for experience rather than permanence in the field of her
emotions. Adeline could see how conscious Philip was of the unleashing
of something wild in Daisy. Her heart gave a leap of anger, then she
turned to Robert with a smile.

"I'd love to have you call me Adeline," she said.

"Thank you--Adeline.... Of course, I've called you that a thousand
times in secret. I seem always to be thinking of you."

"You're a dear boy, Bobbie." Again her eyes moved toward Daisy and
Philip. They were motionless, gazing at the rose-stained blueness of the
lake. A single cloud hung like a crimson banner. The colour was
reflected on their faces which seemed flushed by their own turbulent
thoughts. Again Adeline's heart gave a leap of anger--anger too at
herself for being so blind. Her first thoughts about Daisy had been
right. She was dangerous. Yet she had been foolish enough to laugh at
Daisy--to pity her for her ineffective poses. Curiously, at this moment
Daisy looked beautiful.

Generous Kate Brent put the thought into words.

"Doesn't Daisy look beautiful!" she exclaimed.

Everyone looked at Daisy who, with an enigmatic smile, continued to gaze
at the lake.

"What a lucky dog you are, Philip!" said Conway. "Here am I completely
under the dominance of my wife--not daring to glance at another woman."

"You two must learn to be tolerant, as Adeline and I are," returned
Philip.

"Pray do not believe a word that Conway says," said Mary. "It is quite
the other way about."

"Mary is right," put in Sholto. "It was only yesterday that he slapped
her and pulled her hair. I can vouch for it because I was present."

Conway leaped up. "You'll pay for that!" he said.

With an exclamation of terror, Sholto fled along the beach, Conway in
pursuit. Their pale-red hair flew backward from their pale brows.

"Will he hurt him?" asked Kate anxiously.

"He will not kill him," returned Adeline, "but we are an untamed family.
You never can tell what we shall do when we're roused."

"Conway is not really angry," said Mary.

Moved by irresistible curiosity for everything that Conway did, she rose
and followed the youths who were now out of sight.

The three did not return till the picnic meal was ready to sit down to.
The clothes of the bathers had been completely dried by the warm sand
and the sun. They had regained appetites which the heat of the preceding
days had taken away.

The young Busbys had gathered driftwood for a fire, and its bright blaze
rose crackling from the beach. It was now past sunset and a deep velvet
darkness was resting in the shadows. A kettle was boiled. Tea was made.
The tempting dishes prepared by Mrs. Coveyduck were arranged on the
cloth. The mysterious light, the unconventional costumes, the excellent
wine produced by Philip, the relief from enervating heat made the
atmosphere gay, with an almost Gallic liveliness. This was partly due to
the constant reference by Conway and Mary to life in the south of
France. French interjections made the two seem almost foreign, and
Sholto imitated all they did. It was surprising how the behaviour of
these three, the youngest present with the exception of the youngest
Busby who was almost speechless from shyness, affected the behaviour of
the more sedate. No one had ever seen Dr. Ramsay in such spirits. With
his arm about the plump waist of Lydia Busby, he waved his glass aloft
and recited some of the more amorous poems of Robert Burns. Wilmott
obviously had taken too much wine. Adeline was in wild spirits. Together
she and Wilmott sang "I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls." There were
tears in Wilmott's eyes as they recalled the night in Quebec when they
had heard Jenny Lind sing. Life seemed strange and full of beautiful and
violent possibilities. The moon rose out of the lake.

"Let's bathe again!" exclaimed Conway suddenly. He stood slim and white
at the water's rim.

"In the dark?" cried Lydia Busby. "Oh, surely not!"

"We did in the south of France," said Mary. "It was lovely. Far nicer
than in daylight because the glare was gone."

"It's a grand idea," said Isaac Busby. "I shall be first in!" He ran
into the water and plunged.

"It's glorious," he shouted. "Come on, everybody!"

They threw themselves into this new pleasure with the abandon of
children. Adeline freed herself from Robert Vaughan and, taking
Wilmott's hand, led him across the rippling sand till the water reached
their breasts. She smiled into his eyes.

"Do you feel better now, James?" she asked.

"Better? There is nothing wrong with me."

"Duck down, James. Let the water go over your head."

"Adeline, you don't understand me in the least. When I am at my
happiest, you think I am tipsy or ill. But I do feel a little confused
in the head and perhaps a ducking would help me." He looked submissively
into her eyes. "Shall we do it now?"

"Yes. Take a deep breath first and hold it."

Down they went under the water. A singing, prehistoric world was theirs
for a moment. A world where they had strange adventures, holding fast
each other's hands. Then they came up and rediscovered the moon and
their companions.

"I'm divinely happy," said Wilmott. "I really haven't a care in the
world since I know that Henrietta is satisfied and is no longer seeking
me. I was wrong in saying you don't understand me. You are the only one
who understands me. I have told you that I am writing a book. I should
like to read the first chapters to you. I want your opinion of it."

"Oh, James, how lovely! Will you bring the manuscript tomorrow morning?"

"Yes. I think you will find it quite moving. Shall we go under again?"

"Yes, let's go under."

Again they disappeared and again rose out of the lake. The voices and
laughter of the others came to them softly.

Lydia Busby looked lovelier in her bathing-costume in the moonlight than
anyone had dreamed it possible for her to look. The curves of her arms
and neck were bewitching. There was an almost seductive sweetness in her
smile, a new consciousness of her own charm. Hitherto she had seemed but
a tomboy.

The fire had died down. Someone went to the shore and rebuilt it so that
its flames rose bright. Suddenly, moved by a common impulse, all
gathered round it, posturing and gesticulating in extravagant fashion.
Dr. Ramsay picked up an empty bottle and waved it while he quoted Burns.
At this moment Elihu Busby appeared from among the willows and stalked
across the sand. Before he raised his voice to speak they realised that
his sense of decorum was outraged. He flourished the stump of his right
arm.

"I never thought," he said, "that I'd live to see the day my children
would take part in such a scene."

"'My heart's in the Highlands,'" chanted the doctor, "'my heart is not
here. My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.'"

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dr. Ramsay--you who should be an
example to the others."

"I have nothing to be ashamed of. I was invited to a party and I came. I
am only making myself agreeable."

"If strangers choose to come here and bring outlandish habits from the
Old World we can't prevent 'em, but we can refuse to take part in 'em."

Again the doctor quoted Burns. "What does old Bobbie say?" he declaimed.
"He says:

                 "The social, friendly, honest man,
                   Whate'er he be,
                 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,
                   And none but he."

Elihu Busby turned from him to his eldest son.

"I'm sick at heart, Isaac," he said, "to think that you would allow your
sisters to take part in such a dissipated scene--hopping about like
grasshoppers, half naked and streaming with water."

Lydia and her younger sister began to cry.

Young Isaac said, "Father, we meant no harm and you and Mother knew we
were coming on a picnic."

"Would you have behaved in this fashion if your mother and I had been
here? This picnic will be the talk of the countryside if it gets out. So
far we have been a moral community."

Dr. Ramsay laid down the bottle and folded his arms. Again he quoted
Burns:

              "Morality, thou deadly bane,
              Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain."

Elihu Busby ignored him. He said to his daughters:

"Get into your clothes, girls. As for you, Kate, you are married now,
and if your husband chooses to allow you to remain I can't force you to
leave, but if I had known what his tastes are, I might not so soon have
forgiven you your marriage to him."

Now Kate also began to cry.

"Really, sir," said Brent, with his disarming smile, "this has been a
most innocent affair. I only wish you had been here from the first to
see for yourself. But, if Kate's sisters are leaving, she and I will
leave too. Come, Kate, gather up your things."

Weeping, Kate and her sisters fled to the shelter of the cedars.

With dignity and a little truculence, Philip came to Elihu Busby's side.

"I take it hardly," he said, "that you should come here and criticise my
way of entertaining myself and my friends."

Busby liked Philip and admired him. With some softening in his manner he
said:

"I don't contend, Captain Whiteoak, that anything disgraceful took place
at this picnic. What I do say is that so much licence is not good. In
time it will lead to disgraceful things. If you drink wine and dance
about a fire like pagans, what will your grandchildren do when they set
out to have a good time? They'll probably get drunk on gin and dance
naked. Manners and morals are never at a standstill. Either they rise or
they decline. Like Empires."

"Then your ambition is," said Philip, smiling, "to have your
grandchildren enjoy a picnic thus. The young ladies, after dipping a
lily-white toe in the lake, will sit in a circle with their knitting
while the most devil-may-care of the young men will read aloud from the
works of Mr. Longfellow."

Dr. Ramsay had overheard. He sprang up. "Yes," he said, striking an
angular attitude:

                 "Lives of great men all remind us
                   We can make our lives sublime,
                 And, departing, leave behind us
                   Footprints on the sands of time."

So declaiming he planted a naked foot firmly on the moist sand. He then
lifted it and carefully examined the imprint. "Picture the joy of the
wanderer, ninety years hence, when he comes upon this! He'll immediately
set about making his life sublime also." He stamped on the footprint.
"Bah," he exclaimed, "I wouldn't give one line of old Bobbie's for
everything Mr. Longfellow has written or ever will write!"

Elihu Busby turned to Philip.

"Is Dr. Ramsay drunk?" he asked.

"No, no, not in the least."

"He waved that bottle about as though he were."

"That bottle, Mr. Busby, contained nothing but mineral water."

"All that is the matter with me," said the doctor, "is that I am
relaxing. I work too hard. There should be three doctors in this
neighbourhood instead of one. Yet can you say, Elihu Busby, that I ever
have neglected a patient?"

"Indeed I cannot," said Busby heartily. "More than a few of us would be
dead if it weren't for your devotion."

"Thank you," said the doctor, only a little mollified.

The three sisters now appeared from the cedar thicket, fully dressed and
carrying their bathing-costumes in a basket. Kate had recovered her
spirits and walked with the assurance of a married woman to her
husband's side. He greeted her with a sly wink. Lydia, too, was now
composed but her colour was high and her eyes downcast till she passed
Dr. Ramsay. Then she raised them and a look was exchanged, so warm, so
full of tenderness that each was surprised and bewildered. The youngest
sister, Abigail, was still weeping. But she was only sixteen. Their
brothers joined them, and their father, with a commanding gesture,
marched them away. Exhortations to the horses came out of the darkness
beyond the willows. Then came the sound of wheels. Six of the party had
departed. Nero, who had been exploring farther along the shore, had not
become aware of Elihu Busby's presence till he was leaving. To make up
for this laxness he followed his buggy for some distance, uttering loud
threatening barks. After this demonstration of his watchfulness he
padded back across the beach and asked Adeline for something to eat. She
went to where the hampers stood and proceeded to pile high a plate for
him.

Sholto raised his young voice loudly. "Who was the old gaffer?" he
asked.

"The Busby girls' father, you ass," returned his brother.

"We should have ducked him in the lake for a spoil-sport."

"Hold your tongue," said Philip laconically, "or I shall duck you."

"I wish you would duck me, Philip," cried Mary. "I'm longing for another
dip."

The words had scarcely been spoken when Conway and Sholto seized her and
carried her into the lake. With their pale hair flying in the moonlight
the three resembled a mermaid captured by two mermen, and being carried
off by them to their ocean cave. So thought Wilmott and he said so to
Dr. Ramsay. They had separated themselves from the others in a new-found
congeniality and were strolling along the beach.

"The lady whose appearance most struck me," said the doctor, "was Lydia
Busby. To tell you the truth, I am pretty badly smitten. And this with a
girl whom I have known for years and scarcely noticed, except for her
healthy good looks. It is quite extraordinary what propinquity and a
moonlit night will suddenly discover."

"Yes, yes," agreed Wilmott absently, his eyes on their two shadows on
the beach. "Miss Lydia is a lovely girl."

"I admire her more than I admire Mrs. Whiteoak," went on Dr. Ramsay.
"Certainly Mrs. Whiteoak has a very arresting face--" he fell silent a
moment in thought, then continued, after a deep breath--"but she isn't
the sort of woman I should care to marry--even if I had the chance." He
laughed.

"Of course not. You would require quite a different sort of
companion.... Do you know, I was surprised to hear you quote poetry
this evening. I had not guessed that you have literary tastes."

The doctor laughed again. "Oh, I don't show my real self on all
occasions. I am a reserved man. But I read a good deal when I can find
the time."

"You have an excellent memory."

"It's a pernicious memory. I never forget anything."

"I, on the contrary, find great pleasure in forgetting. I'm piling up
new experience. And--at the same time--" he looked out across the still
lake and spoke softly--"at the same time, I'm writing a book."

Dr. Ramsay looked impressed. "Now that is just what I should expect of
you!" he exclaimed.

Wilmott was pleased. "Is it?"

"Yes. And I make a guess that it is a work of the imagination."

"You are right."

"Are you getting on well with it?"

"I have the first five chapters written."

"Can you tell me something about it?"

Wilmott launched forth. They strode on. A lovely freshness was rising
from the lake. Dew was falling on the shore. Whip-poor-wills called and
called again from the nearby woods. A loon uttered its wild laugh.

Robert Vaughan felt himself to be unwanted by Daisy and Philip, who
talked in a low tone. He was angry at Daisy, ashamed of what he
considered her shameless overtures to Philip. Himself she ignored. He
would have liked to order her home but instead sprang up and left them.
Adeline was still among the willows with Nero. Robert felt alone,
unwanted by anyone--not by the three disporting themselves in the lake,
not by the two striding in the opposite direction, not by Philip and
Daisy, in the intimacy of the firelight, not by Adeline, feeding her dog
among the willows.

There was just moonlight enough for her to see what was in the hamper.
She heaped a dish with slices of ham and pieces of bread but, instead of
setting this before Nero, she fed him from her fingers. This suited him
well because he already had had a good deal to eat and food tasted
better when Adeline fed him. He loved her with a deep, warm, dark
devotion. She was barely conscious that his lips touched her fingers.
Her eyes were fixed on Daisy with an expression so cold, so hard, so
almost blank that an observer might well have wondered if they could be
the luminous and changeful eyes with which she generally looked out on
the world.

Philip sat in the glow of the fire, motionless, but with an enigmatic
smile. His shirt, open at the neck, revealed his white chest, his
up-rolled sleeves his rounded yet muscular arms. Daisy sat close to him,
almost leaning against him. She thought Adeline had gone along the beach
with Wilmott and the doctor. Daisy, with her narrow slant eyes, her
short face, her turned-up nose, had a kind of savage primitive beauty.
Her mouth was upthrust toward Philip as though in preparation for a
kiss.

"Is the girl mad or just a fool?" thought Adeline. "She might be sure
someone would see her. Why doesn't that brute Philip push her away? By
heaven, if he kisses her I will kill him!"

Suddenly, as though in uncontrolled passion, Daisy threw herself across
Philip's thighs and, twining her arms about him, drew his head down to
hers. Adeline could hear her speaking but not what she said.

Philip took hold of Daisy and lifted her upright but he kept his hands
on her. Now he was speaking. The fire was between them and the lake. The
bathers could be heard splashing and romping toward the shore. Daisy sat
tense, turning a look of hate on them. They ran toward the fire. Mary
huddled up to it.

"Oh, how cold it has got!" she cried.

"Cold!" laughed Conway. "It is just heavenly cool."

"Well, I am cold."

Sholto peered into Daisy's face.

"How odd you look, Miss Vaughan! Are you angry?"

"Angry!" she repeated, in a high voice. "I never was happier in all my
life. I'm in the seventh heaven of content. Please stop staring at me."

"Oh, how cold it has got!" cried Mary, spreading her hands to the fire.

"Have a drink of lemonade," said Conway callously.

"What have you been saying to my brother-in-law, Miss Vaughan?" asked
Sholto, still peering into Daisy's face.

She struck at him. "You are an odious boy," she said.

Dr. Ramsay and Wilmott now returned from their ramble. They had been
happy in each other's company, but when the doctor saw Mary shivering by
the fire, he came to her frowning.

"I warned you, Mrs. Court," he said sternly. "Yet you have bathed three
times. Now, I am afraid, you have really taken a chill." He laid his
fingers on her pulse.

Mary looked ready to sink.

"She could not have taken a chill," exclaimed Conway. "She only wants to
be fussed over!"

"See this long mane of wet hair down her back," said the doctor,
collecting it in his hand like seaweed.

Conway brought a cloak and threw it carelessly about her shoulders.

"Where is Adeline?" he asked.

She came out from among the willows followed by Nero. She looked calm
yet brilliant. Her white teeth flashed in her face as she came smiling
toward the others.

"Where have you been?" asked Philip suspiciously.

"Among the willows," she returned gaily, "feeding Nero. Ah, what a day
it's been! What a success! Don't you all agree? But the moon is sinking.
I think we ought to collect our things and return home or we shall be
lost on the way."

All agreed that this was so and, with a sense of haste and yet regret,
they collected their belongings and smothered the fire. With its dying,
the bathing party was over. They had a time of it to capture the horses
in the nearby field; they had broken from their tether and were grazing
at will. Out of the darkness appeared Tite. He had been waiting a long
while with Wilmott's horse. Wilmott had only lately acquired it, was
proud yet half-apologetic for it.

"What do you think of my mare?" he asked of the doctor.

Dr. Ramsay screwed up his eyes to examine its dark bulk. He broke into a
laugh.

"What a back!" he exclaimed. "Certainly you can't fall out of that
hollow!"

"She answers my purpose very well," answered Wilmott stiffly.

"I'm sure she does. I've known her for years. She's perfectly reliable.
You did well to acquire her."

But Wilmott was offended. He climbed into the saddle. His feelings were
hurt for his mare. He had pictured himself as cutting rather a fine
figure on her.

"Good night!" he called out to the others and, without waiting for their
company, rode away.

Tite trotted along the soft, sandy soil of the road beside him.

"You need not have brought the mare, Tite," said Wilmott. "I could very
well have returned with the party to Jalna and from there walked home."

"I wanted to come, Boss," said Tite. "I wanted to see what a bathing
party was like."

"And what did you think of it, Tite?"

"Well, Boss, I only wash to be clean and, when I see folks wash
themselves again and again, I am surprised. I am surprised to see white
folks do a war-dance round the fire like Indian folks did in the old
time. It made me want to do a war-whoop."

"It is well for you that you restrained yourself, Tite."

"Boss," went on Tite, "it surprised me to see the ladies undressing
among the trees."

"Gad," exclaimed Wilmott, "you came early to the party!"

"It made me laugh," went on Tite happily, "to see that one, which my
grandmother calls the harlot, lay herself across Captain Whiteoak's
knees and draw him down to her. I was sorry you were not there to see,
Boss."

"If you do not come to a bad end, Tite," said Wilmott grimly, "it will
be a wonder. Remember, you are not to talk of this to anyone--not even
your grandmother!"

"Very well, Boss. But it is a pity I cannot tell my grandmother, for she
does enjoy a good laugh."




                                   XX
                        THE GALLOP IN THE FOREST


MARY looked wan and blue about the lips when she reached Jalna. Adeline
made her go to bed while she herself descended to the kitchen to prepare
a hot drink for her. Her brothers followed her. They were as curious as
monkeys and ran here and there carrying lighted candles in their hands
and peering into every cupboard and corner. They went down the brick
passage, past the rooms where the Coveyducks and Lizzie slept, to where
they knew was the wine-cellar. Philip had had it well stocked. He prided
himself on his knowledge of wines and their qualities. When he
entertained his friends he was able to give them the best.

Adeline heard the boys whispering outside the door of the wine-cellar. A
low fire was smouldering on the hearth and she put on a saucepan of milk
to heat. She went on tiptoe to the arched doorway of the passage and
listened. Sholto was saying:

"I saw tools in the scullery. If I had a screw-driver I could easily
take off the padlock. It would be fun to find what Philip has in there."

"Wait till they're in bed. We'll come down again and explore."

"No, you won't, you young ruffians!" said Adeline. "Come along out of
there, and if I have to complain of you to Philip you'll be sorry."

They came unrepentant, candle in hand. They looked strange and beautiful
in the dim passage, with the flickering light in their faces. As they
passed the Coveyducks' door Conway gave it a thump with his candlestick.
A groan came from within.

"Up with you!" he called out. "The house is on fire."

"How dare you!" said Adeline. "What a mischief you are! 'Tis nothing,
Coveyduck! Go to sleep again. I have but come down for a drink of milk."

"The milk is boiling over," observed Sholto.

"Snatch it off, you ninny!" said his sister.

Coveyduck sank to slumber again.

Adeline put a pinch of cinnamon in the milk and carried it up the two
flights of stairs, the boys following her. Mary drank it gratefully.
Sometimes she missed her mother's petting. She now put her thin arms
about Adeline and kissed her.

"Good night," said Adeline, kissing her in return. "Sleep tight."

"It was a lovely bathing party."

"It was indeed."

"When may we have another?"

"When I can get the taste of this one out of my mouth." She turned
abruptly and hastened from the room and down the stairs.

She set her candlestick on the dressing-table and looked toward the bed.
Philip was not there. He had driven the wagonette to the stable and
probably was lingering to talk to the groom. She could not trust her
self-control in the exchange of a word with Philip that night. She
undressed in haste and put on her long, heavily embroidered nightdress.
Her thick hair was still moist and when she lay down she spread it over
the pillow away from her. She left the candle burning for Philip. It
lighted the room but dimly, yet, in an odd way, brought out the
colouring of the bedstead and hangings more richly than a brighter light
might have done. Boney, perched on his stand, glowed like a green and
vermilion flower. Adeline composed her features, facing the candlelight.
Her heart beat heavily in a primitive, wild anger at Daisy Vaughan.

The candle was burning low when Philip came. Between her lashes she saw
him cast a look at it as though wondering if it would hold out for his
undressing. He had left the front door wide open for the sake of
coolness. The cool night air filled the hall and overflowed into their
bedroom, meeting the air from the window. He too undressed quickly and
lay down beside her. Before he had blown out the candle he had given her
a long look, being suspicious of her sleeping. Now he laid his hand on
her side and snuggled his head into the pillow.

As though galvanised, she sprang away from him.

"Don't put a hand on me!" she exclaimed.

"Now, what's up?" he asked.

She threw herself on her other side, her long damp hair streaming behind
her.

"Very well," he said, "if you're going to be like that." He rolled over,
turning his back on her.

"Like what?" she asked between her teeth.

"Hoity-toity." Again he snuggled into the pillow, breathing deeply as
though consciously content.

Did he feel as innocent as he sounded? No--a thousand times no! She
longed to turn and face him, grasp him by the shoulders and pour out on
him all that rankled in her mind. Ah, it was lucky for him that he had
put Daisy away from him! Lucky for him that he had a wife of character!

It was not Philip but Daisy who filled her heart with rage. Daisy was
not only designing. She was unscrupulous. She was _bad_. There was
nothing she would not do to take your man away from you, if she wanted
him. The desire in Daisy's face as she drew Philip's down toward hers
had filled Adeline with a horrid fear of the temptress. How could a man
be held responsible for what he did, with such a woman about? After all,
he was but flesh and blood.

Yet, as Adeline lay awake hour after hour, she was not so much
apprehending what Daisy might do, as considering her punishment for what
she had done. The grandfather clock in the hall struck one, two and
three. Still she had not slept. She resigned herself to a sleepless
night. She relaxed and drew the sweet night smells into her nostrils.
She was glad that Dr. Ramsay considered the night air of summer
harmless. Yet she doubted if he would have approved of quite so much as
now swept into the room.

The house seemed singularly alive tonight. It stood, in the hushed
indrawn beauty of the night, hunched against the darkness, as though
feeling in every stone the sting of the first unhappiness it had
sheltered. They had been so happy here! Their very embraces had had in
them an earthly pride that had risen out of the virgin land. The cycle
of the days was not long enough for the expression of their content.
"Think of the time when we shall see our own grain cut!" they had said.
"What a Christmas we shall have! The house will be hung with pine and
spruce boughs.... What will it be like to watch the spring coming to
Jalna?"

She felt as though a catastrophe had fallen on the house. She saw the
house as old, crumbling, weighed down by the sorrows that had been
enacted there, sunk beneath the great creeper that would cover it.

She opened her eyes to reassure herself and saw a paleness where the
window was. Morning was on the way. She must remember to water the
little Virginia creeper Mrs. Vaughan had given her. It had been planted
beside the porch and thriven well till the dry, hot days came. Suddenly
she put her hand toward Philip. It touched his back between the
shoulders. He was breathing deeply. Drowsiness stole over her.

When she woke it was past nine o'clock. Mrs. Coveyduck was standing
beside the bed with her morning tea on a tray. Already she had taken a
comfortable motherly attitude toward Adeline.

"Bless my soul," she said, "what a way to treat your beautiful hair,
Ma'am! It looks as though you had dragged it through a hedge. You must
let me give it a good brushing for 'ee. Come, drink this warm tea and
tell me what I shall give 'ee for breakfast."

"Bacon and egg," answered Adeline promptly. "Is it a fine morning? I
want to ride."

"Ay, 'tis as luvely a day as you could see in a whole zummer-time. But
surely you will want to rest after such a late party on the beach."

"No, no, I am not tired."

She sat up while Mrs. Coveyduck arranged the tray, with its pot of tea
and two slices of thin bread and butter, in front of her.

"Coveyduck told me, Ma'am, that you were down in the kitchen heating
milk when you came home. You should have called me to get it for 'ee. He
had no right to let me sleep like a gert log while you waited on
yourself. But he has no sense except to make things grow."

"I told him not to wake you."

"Ay, but there's times to obey an order and times not to obey 'em. Now
drink your tea and I'll give the bird his seeds."

She filled Boney's seed-cup from the canister of parrot seed that stood
on the mantelpiece. Boney looked on with interest and when she had
finished he flew to the top of his cage, scrambled over it in great
haste and went in at the door. He thrust his dark beak into the
seed-cup.

All the while Mrs. Coveyduck brushed Adeline's hair he talked in a
cooing voice to her.

"_Dilkhoosa--Dilkhoosa--Mera lal_," he said, wriggling his body on the
perch.

"What does he say, Ma'am?" asked Mrs. Coveyduck.

"He calls me Pearl of the Harem."

"Does he now? Well, well, 'tis a clever bird and no mistake."

"Mrs. Coveyduck, I want you to tell Patsy O'Flynn to go to Vaughanlands
and give my compliments to Miss Vaughan and ask her if she will do
Captain and Mrs. Whiteoak the honour of riding with them this morning."

"Yes, Ma'am, I'll send him off at once."

Adeline wore her riding-habit and hat to breakfast. She was alone, for
Philip was always early about the estate and the others still slept. She
could hear Gussie and Nicholas prattling at play under the young
silver-birch tree. She heard Ernest crying with the intonation of
hunger. Thank goodness, she was not still nursing this baby! Once again
the milk from Maggie, the little goat, was succouring an infant
Whiteoak. She heard the nurse going to the basement for Ernest's bottle.
Adeline ate heartily.

Almost as soon as Patsy returned with the news that Miss Vaughan would
be delighted to ride with Captain and Mrs. Whiteoak, Daisy herself
appeared.

Really, thought Adeline, she was shameless! Adeline regarded her
appraisingly as she sat before the door on Robert's own saddle horse, a
charming young mare named Pixie. Daisy was dressed with great care. Her
hair, caught at the nape, hung in three long curls that reached the
saddle. And, oh, those little curls in front of the ears! Adeline could
gladly have pulled them off. And her tasselled boots and her gauntleted
gloves! And the false smile on her face! Adeline could gladly have
killed her.

But she gave her a cheerful good-morning and, Patsy assisting her,
mounted her own horse. He was a pale chestnut, graceful and of perfect
motion, Philip's present to her on her birthday.

"How well you are looking, dear Mrs. Whiteoak!" cried Daisy. "I have
never seen you look better. And what a sweet horse! Oh, I envy you the
way you ride! You make me quite ashamed. And there are the pet
children!" She threw kisses to them. "Good morning, Nicholas! Good
morning, Gussie! What eyes they have! And where is Captain Whiteoak?"

"He is where they are building the church. He may join us there. But I
hope you won't be too disappointed if we take our ride without him."

"Not at all. There is nothing I enjoy more than a _tte--tte_ with
you."

Somewhere there had been a storm. It had cleared the air and there was a
pleasant freshness abroad. Axe-men were still at work uprooting stumps,
levelling the ground, while carpenters were doing the last jobs to house
and barns. Still, there was now a finish about the place. It was
surprising how much Coveyduck had already accomplished in the way of
lawn and flower border. Every day he sang the praises of the power of
the virgin soil.

Side by side the two horses trotted, past the new herd of Jersey cattle,
past the pigs and ducks in the farmyard. They followed the cart-track
through the estate to the road where the church was being built. Philip
had given this road for public use and already many a vehicle had passed
along it, but still it was rough and the forest pressed close to it.

Now they saw the walls of the church rising solid on a tree-crowned
knoll. Loud hammering filled the air. The forest birds liked the noise
of the hammers and sang their loudest to its accompaniment. The river
circled below the graveyard where there was, as yet, no grave. They
could see Mr. Pink in shirt-sleeves working among the men. But there was
no sign of Philip. Daisy could not quite conceal her disappointment when
he was not to be found. She looked suspiciously at Adeline.

"Are you sure," she asked, "that he said he would ride with us?"

"Well, I think he did," returned Adeline, with a little laugh. "But we
are happy enough without him, aren't we? Let's gallop!"

The horses broke into a gallop, their hooves thudding on the sandy soil.
Trees arched overhead with boughs almost touching. The morning sunshine
sifted golden through their greenness. When they drew rein, the sound of
hammering was far behind. Daisy's colour was high.

"Please let us not gallop again," she said. "The ground is too rough. It
makes me nervous."

"Very well," answered Adeline affably, "we'll not gallop. We'll go at a
nice walk. Let us follow this path that branches off. I've never been
here before."

They turned into the path, which was too narrow for them to ride
abreast. Adeline led the way, her anger seething within her. At last in
a grassy opening she drew rein, wheeled and faced Daisy.

"Now," she said, "you are to answer for the way you tried to seduce my
husband last night."

For a moment Daisy was stunned. She could not take in the words. Then
they sank into her, and the look on Adeline's face. She turned her horse
sharply and made as though to gallop back.

"Stop!" exclaimed Adeline, and brought the weight of her riding-crop
across Daisy's back.

Daisy turned her mare and faced Adeline.

"You devil!" she said.

"If I am a devil," said Adeline, "it is you who have roused it in me.
The men of my family would take their riding-crop to a man who would
play loose with their women. What did you do? You fairly wound yourself
around my Philip's body! You threw yourself across his knees last night
by the lake! What do you think I am? Blind? or a creature of no spirit?
Let me tell you--I have been watching you. Ah, my eye has been on you.
Take that!" she shouted, brandishing her riding-crop.

If Adeline had expected Daisy to fly in terror she was mistaken. Daisy
was indeed terrified but she was furious also. There was a snakelike
quality in her sinuous body, crouched on the saddle, in her short,
slant-eyed face with the lips drawn back from the teeth. She raised her
own riding-crop in menace as she avoided Adeline's blow.

"Don't you dare to strike me again!" she cried.

"I'll flog you as you deserve," exclaimed Adeline, but her horse was
nervous. He struggled against the bit and danced here and there. She
could not reach Daisy.

"What do you know of love?" Daisy cried out. "You're wrapped up in
yourself. You're too proud to love Philip as he deserves. I'm not proud.
I've always wanted him! I'm going to have him. He loves me. What you saw
last night, that wasn't the half. We're lovers, I tell you!"

"Lies! Lies! There's no word of truth in you! But now you _shall_ have
your lesson."

She rode close to Daisy and again and again she struck her with the
crop. At each blow Daisy gave a cry of rage, for she was scarcely
conscious of pain. She struck at Adeline but the blow descended on the
horse. In a convulsion of surprise he reared himself on his hind legs.
Daisy's mare, as though in emulation, reared also. And there for a short
space they faced each other immobile, like two riders cut from bronze,
the green forest standing in its denseness about them, the lustrous blue
sky arching above. It was a pity that there was no spectator of this
scene or that none of the four participants was conscious of its beauty.

Then suddenly Adeline's horse began to plunge. He wheeled and galloped
violently in the direction whence they had come and, as though in a
concerted plan, the mare flew along the path into the forest. There was
soon a wide space between them.

Adeline let him gallop but she spoke soothingly to him and bent forward
to pat him.

"It was not I who hit you, Prince. It wasn't I, old man. It was that
villain Daisy. We've always known in our hearts she was bad. But I
flogged her! Lord, how I laid it on!"

Her cheeks blazing, her eyes ashine, she galloped home.

It was now high noon and very warm. She went to her room and changed
into a cool flowing dress. She went to the dining-room and busied
herself in arranging rows of delicate glass goblets in a French cabinet.
The room was now papered; rugs were laid on the floor; the long
curtains, of a golden yellow with heavy cords and tassels, hung from the
ornate cornices. The portraits of herself and Philip were side by side,
above the silver-laden sideboard. It was a handsome room, she thought.
She would not be ashamed to entertain here.

She busied herself, humming a little tune. But one part of her mind she
kept locked.

The Laceys came to dinner and it was not till they were leaving and the
shadow of the young birch lay at length on the grass that Robert Vaughan
drove up to the door. His face was pale.

"What has happened?" he demanded, as though all were aware of something
unusual.

"Happened?" answered Philip. "What do you mean?"

"Is Mrs. Whiteoak safe?"

"She is."

"Well, my cousin isn't! Pixie has come home without her!"

Philip turned in astonishment to Adeline.

"You were riding with Daisy, weren't you?"

"Yes.... We had words... a quarrel... and we separated. I came
home alone."

"Oh," cried Mrs. Lacey. "I'm afraid the poor girl has had an accident!
Oh, dear--oh, dear!"

"We must organise a search party at once," said Captain Lacey. He turned
almost accusingly to Adeline. "Where was Miss Vaughan when you parted
from her, Mrs. Whiteoak?"

Adeline knit her brow. "I don't know. It was quite a long way off. On
the cart-track leading from the church. Then along a narrow path to a
clearing. We separated there."

"You must come and show us," said Philip.

Mary asked, "Do you think there are wolves about?"

"Not a wolf," answered Captain Lacey, but he spoke uneasily.

"I'll bring Nero," cried Sholto. "We shall need something in the way of
a bloodhound."

"What I am afraid of is that she has been thrown and injured. How was
her horse behaving when you parted from her, Mrs. Whiteoak?"

"She was a little restive."

Robert found the opportunity of saying to Adeline:

"I have quarrelled with Daisy too. I thought her behaviour last night
was detestable. But now I feel frightened."

"Nothing has happened to her."

"But how can you know?"

"Something tells me."

While Adeline and Philip were changing into their riding-clothes, he
exclaimed, "This is a pretty kettle of fish! If anything has happened to
that girl, you will be blamed. You need not have said that you
quarrelled."

"I am of a frank nature," she returned.

"There is no need to disclose everything."

"I did not disclose the cause of our quarrel."

There was complete silence for a space. Then Philip said, "I don't want
to be told what it was about."

"No. Because you already know."

He stared, his blue eyes prominent. "I know?"

"Of course you know. We quarrelled about you."

"Well, all I can say is, you were damn silly women."

"We were. But that is our nature, and our misfortune. She was lucky that
I did no more than take my riding-crop to her back."

Philip stood transfixed. "Good God!" he exclaimed.

Adeline laughed. "Oh, she struck back at me! She was not at all crushed.
She rode off in a rage. She is probably playing a game of being lost in
the forest, just to frighten me."

"A risky game. Adeline, you may be sorry for this."

She flung out, "Sorry for punishing a base female who tried to seduce my
husband! No--if a thousand wolves, bears or wildcats tear her to bits, I
shall not be sorry! In any case I did not lose her. She lost herself.
And she will be found. I'm certain of that."

They joined the others who were mounted for the search. All the
labourers from the estate, the farm-hands from the neighbourhood, the
men and boys from the village, armed with guns or lanterns, riding or on
foot, were gathered by nightfall to help in the recovery of Daisy.

Adeline led them to the spot where the two horses had risen on their
hind legs to face each other like symbolic beasts on a coat-of-arms. A
good deal of speculation was caused by the scattered and uneven
hoofprints. What had the two ladies been doing? She herself was
surprised by the hoofprints. What had passed now seemed like a dream.

It was easy to follow Pixie's hoofprints to where she had turned
homeward. They ran on smoothly for about three miles, following the
path, then abruptly wheeled. The ground was trodden a little as though
she had stood for a space. But there was no trace of Daisy. Adeline
returned to Jalna with her brothers for escort. All night, in moonlight
and after the moon sank, the search went on. Guns were fired; the men
shouted; the beams of lanterns penetrated dark thickets where the foot
of man had not yet trodden. A thousand birds were startled from their
sleep. A thousand wild creatures trembled in their burrows. But there
was no trace of Daisy.

When the searchers returned the next morning, worn out, a fresh party
was formed. It was headed by Colonel Vaughan and, though Philip had been
out all night, he returned to the search. Men came from a distance. The
whole countryside was aroused. Daisy's tragic case laid a shadow across
every hearth.

At the end of the fourth day, Philip came into the library where Adeline
was embroidering an altar-cloth for the new church. He looked tired out.
He threw himself into a chair opposite her and remarked:

"You look nice and cool."

"I am," she returned, putting her needle into the heart of a lily. But
her hand trembled.

"It is well," he observed severely, "to be able to detach yourself so
completely from what is going on about you."

"If you mean that I should be rending my garments in anguish over Daisy,
I don't see any sense in it. She will be found."

"I wish you'd go out and find her, if you're so damned sure. Egad, I'm
tired enough!"

"She'll come back." Adeline spoke doggedly.

"How can you know?"

"I feel it." Never must she let go that feeling!

"You have never before pretended to any occult power."

"It isn't occult. It's just a feeling."

"Well, I wish the rest of us felt that way. We are getting discouraged.
The farmers are neglecting their crops. David Vaughan has offered a
hundred pounds' reward for her discovery."

"That ought to help."

"Your attitude," he said, rising, "is odious."

"So is Daisy," she returned hotly.

The next day Wilmott came to see Adeline. He looked pale and anxious.
Adeline was wheeling the perambulator up and down in front of the house
with her two sons in it. After greeting her and admiring the babies,
Wilmott fell into step with her and exclaimed:

"I am worried almost to death."

She turned to him in dismay. "Have you heard from Henrietta?"

"No, no, not that. But bad enough."

"What then, James?"

"It's about Tite. He has disappeared."

"Since when?"

"Since the morning Miss Vaughan was lost. He set out that morning to
spend two days with his relations. He has not come back. I grew so
anxious yesterday that I rode to where the Indians live. I found his
grandmother and she told me very vaguely that he had gone to an Indian
Reserve to visit some cousins. He had left no message. That wasn't like
Tite. It is now five days since he left. My God, I'm afraid something
terrible has happened."

"But Indians are vague as to time, aren't they?"

"Not Tite. He has a cool, clear-cut mind. What is tormenting me is the
thought--the suspicion--well, I may as well tell you... Daisy Vaughan
was attracted by him. She let him see that she was attracted. He
repeated things she had said to him. To be sure he is only a boy. But he
is of mixed blood--savage blood! What if he discovered her that morning
in the woods?"

Thoughts of rape and murder flashed like horrid lightning through
Adeline's mind. Her heart trembled. Still she said as sturdily as
before:

"Daisy will be found alive. I'm sure of it."

She was right. Two days later Philip came to her, almost running in his
excitement.

"She is found!" he cried, his blue eyes bright in his relief. "Daisy
Vaughan is safe at her uncle's!"

"I told you!" she cried, her voice very young and clear. "I told you!
Who found her?"

"That half-breed boy of Wilmott's. Young Tite. He'd been visiting his
people and he was on his way back. He found her in a shelter some
Indians had once built of boughs when they were hunting. She'd lived on
berries all the while."

"Have you seen her?"

"No. Robert Vaughan just galloped over to tell us. There'll be great
rejoicing. Come, and he'll tell us all about it."

"Is she well?"

"Quite uninjured but pretty bedraggled, poor girl. Oh, Adeline, when I
think of your part in this, I'm thankful she is found, I can tell you!"

"So am I!" she cried. Bursting into tears, she flung herself into his
arms. "Oh, Philip, let this be a lesson to you!"




                                  XXI
                               THE REWARD


ADELINE and Philip found Robert Vaughan sitting on the porch. He did not
look as elated as she had expected. But he smiled as he rose and came to
shake hands.

"I could not go indoors," he said. "My boots were so muddy. Well, what
do you think of the news? We're thankful, you may be sure. My mother
especially. She has worried herself ill."

"I know," said Adeline, "and so have I. Even though I felt from the
first that Daisy would be found."

"It's a miracle she survived," said Philip. "Now sit down and tell us
all about it. Is she pretty weak?"

"No, she's not particularly weak," answered Robert almost guardedly.
"But she's very thin. Her riding-habit is fairly torn to ribbons by the
brambles."

They sat down on the oak bench and Adeline's eyes searched Robert's
face. She wished she had him alone. She said, "Now begin at the very
beginning and tell all--when did you get the first word of her?"

"My father was dozing in his armchair on the verandah. He was done out,
for he'd been away from home for the last two days and had almost no
sleep or rest. He's not a young man, you know. Well, he heard a step and
he gave a great start because he was always hoping Daisy would walk in
just that way. But it was Mr. Wilmott's half-breed boy, Tite, and he
came right up to father and said, 'Boss, I've found your lost girl.'"

"What a moment!" exclaimed Adeline. "Ah, I wish I'd been there!"

"My father could scarcely believe Tite at first but he was soon
convinced. Tite had been visiting in the Reserve and on the way home he
heard a voice crying in a sort of wigwam of boughs and saplings that
Indians had made a long while ago. He went in and there was Daisy lying
on the ground weeping. She'd given up all hope."

"Poor girl," said Philip, in a tone not too heartfelt, for Adeline's
eyes were on him. "Poor girl."

"Yes, indeed," agreed Adeline. "Poor girl."

Robert went on in the same curiously guarded tone:

"Well, Tite's story was that having his gun with him he at once set out
to find some food for her. He shot a grouse, built a fire and roasted
it. Daisy was ravenous. When she had eaten and slept for a little he
supported her as far as a certain clearing he knew and left her there
while he came home for help."

"And she hadn't heard our shouting or the reports of our guns!"
exclaimed Philip.

"She says she heard nothing."

"She must have wandered a long way."

"Yes, she had wandered a long way."

"That boy, Tite, must know the forest well."

"He knows it like the palm of his hand. Well, to make a long story
short, I went back with Tite while my father set about spreading the
word to the other searchers that Daisy was found. When we reached the
clearing there she was, sitting waiting for us in rags and tatters, with
her hair down her back and her face dirty. We put her on the horse
behind me and brought her home. My mother almost fainted at the sight of
her. Mother had got the big tin bath full of hot water, and fresh
clothes laid out for her. I came straight over here."

Adeline laid a gentle hand on Robert's arm. "You must be tired and
hungry," she said. "Philip, dear, would you ask Mrs. Coveyduck to bring
us some of the hot scones she's just made--and a pot of chocolate? My
limbs are trembling so from excitement that I fear they'd fail me.
Otherwise I'd never ask you to run my errands, Philip. You know I'm not
the sort of wife to do that, am I?"

"Listen to her!" said Philip, giving Robert a wink. He went in search of
Mrs. Coveyduck.

"Now," said Adeline, her face close to Robert's, "tell me what you think
about it all."

He turned his face away.

"You don't believe this story, do you, Robert?"

"Not a word of it," he answered, his face sombre.

"But you believe that Tite found Daisy."

"Yes, I believe he found her."

"But not just today?"

"I tell you," he cried fiercely, "I hated to have her on the horse with
me! I hated her arms about me!"

"She couldn't have helped but hear the guns and the shouting, could
she?"

"Don't ask me."

"Why don't you believe Tite's story, Robert?"

"Because it was false. The story she poured out to me when I met her was
false. Every tree in the forest shouted that she was false--false as
hell!" He wrung his fingers together. "And when I saw my mother
embracing her, weeping over her--my father shaken and aged by this week
of misery--I could have killed her!"

"She can't help what she is, Robert," said Adeline, taking his hand. "I
don't feel angry at her now. If it isn't one man, it's another--with
her. How did she greet your mother?"

"Oh, I don't know! I came away."

Philip returned through the hall. He said:

"Mrs. Coveyduck is delighted. The chocolate is preparing. The scones
smell delicious. What about that reward of a hundred pounds which your
father offered for Miss Daisy's discovery, Robert?"

"Oh, Tite had heard of that and claimed it in the first breath!"

"What a windfall for Tite!" exclaimed Philip, laughing. "He will
probably leave Wilmott and set himself up as Chief of his tribe."

As they spoke of him, they saw Wilmott hastening along the drive. His
face was alight. "Have you heard the news?" he cried. Then, seeing
Robert, added, "But of course you have. What a relief! I was with the
search party when Colonel Vaughan appeared. We had given up hope of
finding Miss Vaughan alive." He sat down beside the others. He fanned
himself with his hat. Then he turned to Robert. "There must be great
rejoicing at Vaughanlands."

"Yes," answered Robert, with a smile that had more of pain than
happiness in it. "But my mother is feeling quite ill."

"I am sorry to hear that." Wilmott's face was alight with sympathy.

"Faith," exclaimed Adeline, "we all have been under a cloud! But now
it's lifted." Her eyes smiled into Robert's. "Now we must put all
unhappy things out of our minds. We have a great deal to be thankful
for."

"Listen to her!" said Philip. "She sounds like a preacher. She really is
a bit of a devil but she has these pious spells. I am always afraid of
what she may say at such times."

"You all know," said Adeline, still smiling, "that Daisy and I
quarrelled. Shall I tell you what I did to her?"

"No," answered Philip. "No one wants to know. Here comes the chocolate.
While we drink it, Robert must tell us more of what happened this
morning." He placed a small table and Mrs. Coveyduck beamingly set down
a laden tray.

An hour later Robert returned to Vaughanlands. Philip hastened with
relief to his workmen. Adeline and Wilmott were left alone. He said,
with a somewhat remote expression on his thin face:

"Now that this excitement is over perhaps you will be a little
interested in my manuscript."

Her eyebrows flew up. "Is it possible, James, that you have been able to
do any writing in this past week?"

"I had a considerable amount written at the time of the bathing party. I
had intended reading it to you the next day, then--this fantastic thing
happened. Perhaps you are no longer interested."

"I am indeed. Please bring the manuscript tomorrow morning. I promise
you we shall be quite undisturbed. I am pining to hear it read."

"If it bores you, you must stop me."

"Nothing you write could bore me.... James, do you think Tite will
get the reward?"

He flushed a little. "I imagine he will."

"Do you think he deserves it?"

"Well, it is certain that he found Miss Vaughan."

"Do you feel anything mysterious in his finding her?"

"Yes."

"What did Tite say when he came back?"

"Simply that he had found her and wanted the reward."

"It has been a strange affair," she said.

"Very strange."

"I was terribly frightened, James."

"I know."

There was a silence, then she said:

"James, it's a fine thing to live with a forest all about you, you
writing a beautiful book and fishing in your river, Philip building a
church and raising crops; and as for me--" she laid her hand on her
heart--"here am I in the midst--happy as a queen with my own roof over
my head and my babies all about me!"

Wilmott's smile was curiously both tender and grim. "You deserve to be,"
he said.

The next day he brought the manuscript and seated in the cool shade of
the drawing-room he read aloud to her. While she listened, her gaze was
intent on his face, across which many expressions flitted, but through
them all showed a certain battered wistfulness and an inviolate dignity.
In repose, Wilmott looked singularly undefeated and even cold. As
Adeline listened to the unfolding of the tale she recognised herself in
the heroine and, for all his attempts at disguise, Wilmott in the hero.
But this only increased her enjoyment. With her elbow on the arm of her
chair and her chin in her palm she drank in every word and pronounced it
a masterpiece. She could scarcely bear to wait for the ending. She
begged him to waste no more time but to concentrate with all his might
in completing the romance. It would be a great success. It would rival
_The Mysteries of Udolpho_.

When Wilmott returned home he found Tite cleaning a fine salmon for
their evening meal. The bright scales flew from the sharpness of his
knife like sparks from an anvil. His slim brown torso was bare but he
wore an old straw hat. He looked up smiling, showing white teeth. He
held up the fish for Wilmott's inspection.

"Boss," he said, "it is a fine fish."

"Yes, Tite, it's a fine one, and especially as the fishing has been poor
of late. That is a good knife you have."

Tite turned the knife over in his hand and gazed reflectively at it.
"Boss, it is a present from my cousin on the Reserve."

"Your relations are very kind to you."

"Yes. My cousin is descended from a great Chief. He is all Indian but I
am part French."

"I know. Tite, do you feel yourself different from the pure Indians?"

"Boss, if pure means good, I am as pure as they are." He sat back on his
heels and looked up at Wilmott. "But that Mees Daisy says I have an
Indian mouth and French eyes. Do you think I have?"

Wilmott exclaimed, in sudden anger, "If you mention Miss Daisy's name
once more to me, Tite, I will throw you out, neck and crop!"

"Very well, Boss. But I have something I want to show you." He took off
his hat and out of its crown brought a paper packet. He opened it and
showed it to be made up of clean bank-notes.

"The reward!" ejaculated Wilmott. "Is it all there?"

"Yes, Boss. But we had better take it into the house and count it." He
held the bank-notes to his nose and sniffed them. "I like the smell of
money, Boss, but it smells better when it has been about more."

"Mr. Vaughan should not have handed over such a sum to a boy like you.
He should have given it to some responsible person to keep for you. But,
of course, I shall do that."

"Mr. Vaughan said he would keep it for me but I said I wanted it
all--right away. He seemed to want to get rid of me."

"Well, wash your hands and we'll go in and count the notes."

Tite obediently laid the fish in a basket and washed his hands at the
river's edge. In the house Wilmott sat down by the table in the kitchen
and counted the money.

"One hundred pounds," he declared. "It is a lot of money for you to have
earned so easily, Tite."

"Boss, it was not so easy. I searched the bush for a long while before I
found her. You see, I do not say her name, Boss, as you told me not to.
I wonder if my grandmother will still think she is a harlot when she
hears of the good fortune she has brought me."

"We shall not discuss that."

Wilmott looked reflectively at Tite. What a change had taken place in
the boy during this year of their close association. He could write a
good clear hand. He could read any book Wilmott gave him and reading
absorbed him completely. Every day his vocabulary was enlarged. He was
studying history, geography, mathematics and Latin. He was worthy of a
good education, Wilmott thought. He said:

"Your future is now assured, Tite. This reward, added to what I can do
for you, will put you through college. You may be able to enter a
profession if you work hard. What do you think you would like to be?
Have you thought of it?"

Tite drew up a chair and faced Wilmott across the table.

"I want to be just what you are, Boss," he said.

Wilmott gave a bark of laughter. "That's no ambition at all," he said.

"It is enough for me, Boss," Tite returned. "Just to live here alone
with you and fish in the river and grow a few things on the land and
read books in the evenings, is all I want."

Wilmott was touched. "It suits me, too," he said, "better than any other
life I can imagine. You've been a good boy, Tite, and I'm very fond of
you."

"And I am very fond of you, also, Boss. Like mine, your eyelashes are
long and your neck like a bronze column. But I cannot say that your
mouth----"

"What did I tell you, Tite?" said Wilmott. "If you think you will please
me by applying to me the foolish things that girl said of you, you are
much mistaken."

"Of course I am, Boss. I am sure she is a harlot."

"Now," said Wilmott, ignoring the last remark, "I am going to deposit
this money in the bank for you, to be drawn on as needed. Do you agree?"

"Oh, yes, Boss. But could we keep back a pound or two to buy us a few
treats, such as candied fruit and bull's-eyes?"

"I shall buy those for you," said Wilmott.

"But I should like to buy them with my own money, Boss. You see, the
wages you pay me are not very high and I give something to my
grandmother. Now that I come to think of it, I give all my wages to my
family."

"Balderdash!" said Wilmott, but he flung him a pound note. "Take it," he
said testily, "and do what you like with it."

"_Mille remercements_," said Tite, smiling. "You see I can speak a
little French, on occasion, Boss."




                                  XXII
                               THE CHURCH


A WEEK later, Daisy Vaughan left her uncle's house and returned to
Montreal. It was understood that the nervous and physical strain she had
been under had made a complete change necessary. The Whiteoaks did not
see her before her departure but those who did declared that she looked
not in the least ill or dejected. Indeed, Kate Brent said that Daisy had
never looked better or been more talkative. It had been as good as a
play to hear her description of the days she had been lost in the
forest. She had had encounters with wild animals which had been seen by
no other in that vicinity for a generation. But she seemed willing to
return to Montreal. She could no longer endure, she said, to remain in
such a backwater.

Colonel Vaughan accompanied his niece on the journey. Her visit had been
an expensive one for him. Besides providing for her for a year, which
included the buying of some quite expensive clothes, there had been
considerable cost connected with the search parties, to say nothing of
the large reward paid to Tite. Now there was the expense of the journey.

After Daisy's return to Montreal she corresponded regularly with Lydia
Busby for some time. She wrote of the gaiety of that town, the soires,
the balls. She filled Lydia with a mad desire to do something of the
sort. At last came the news of Daisy's engagement to a South American
artist who had been painting in the Laurentians; and finally invitations
to her wedding. She and her husband were to leave at once for Paris
where they would for some years make their home.

But though these letters caused much disturbance in the breasts of the
young Busbys, so that their father was put to it to keep them in order,
they made little impression at Jalna. There, with the harvest to be
garnered, the winter quarters for the growing number of livestock to be
got ready, the house to be prepared for an impending visit from
Adeline's parents, the building of the church to be sufficiently
completed for consecration and the christening of Ernest, little
interest was left over for the doings of the outer world. Adeline and
Philip consigned Daisy to the accumulated incidents of their varied
past.

In truth, Philip could have very well done without this visit from his
parents-in-law. He was somewhat tired of the three Courts who were still
at Jalna. However, it had been arranged that they were to return to
Ireland with the older members of the family. Otherwise Philip feared
they might have remained throughout the winter, for they had already
expressed a desire to indulge in skating and snow-shoeing.

Philip's face, in those days, expressed a serenity that might well have
aroused the envy of men of a later day. He was up almost at dawn. At
night he was no more than healthily tired and was still so full of
interest in all he had to do that he could scarcely bear to go to his
bed. When he saw his heavy wagons, drawn by his ponderous farm horses,
roll into the barn with their weight of barley, wheat or oats, his heart
swelled with pride. It was not that he had much land under cultivation
as yet but that what was cultivated had borne so well. Then there were
his cattle, his pigs and his sheep, all flourishing and with good
shelter and plenty of fodder for the coming winter. Above all, there was
Adeline, the picture of glowing health and so happy in the new life!
There were his children growing each day in strength and intelligence.
Gussie already knew her letters, was learning to sew and could say by
heart and without a mistake several poems suitable to her age. Nicholas,
not yet two, might have passed for three, so upright, so full-chested,
so stirring was he. His mop of curls now touched his shoulders and the
combing-out of their tangles caused him to fill the house with his cries
of rage and pain. Ernest was an angel with his downy fair head, his
forget-me-not blue eyes and his smile that was even sweeter because it
was toothless.

Nero worshipped all three children with a dark, stubborn, masterful
worship. He would endure all three sprawling on his back at once, but if
Nicholas went too near the edge of the ravine, he would draw him back by
his dress, for somewhere in Nero's mind there remained a picture of
Nicholas shooting downward to the river in the perambulator.

One morning in September, when golden-rod and Michaelmas daisies blazed
in bloom about the new church, Adeline and Philip were standing together
inside its doors, admiring the effect of the long strip of crimson
carpet that extended from where they stood, up the chancel steps to the
altar. Every day they came to the church. They had followed each step in
its progress. They had a peculiar sense of achievement in it quite
different from their feeling about Jalna. Jalna had beauty and some
elegance. But here was a plain building with shiny, varnished pews, grey
plaster walls and no stained-glass windows to mellow its light. Yet here
was to be their spiritual home. Here was the link between them and the
unknown forces of creation. Here their children would be baptized, their
children married. Here, when their time came, would be read their own
burial service. But this last was so distant, so misty in the mysterious
future, that the thought of it gave them no pain.

The crimson carpet had put the final touch to the building as a church.
It was of excellent quality and had been expensive. But both felt that
it was well worth the cost. The fact was, it made the church look holy.
It was a glowing pathway from entrance to altar. When the foot touched
it, calmness and peace stole upward into the soul. The money for it had
been sent by Philip's sister, Augusta. This evening Adeline would sit
down at her writing-bureau and tell her just how imposing it looked.

The Dean had put his hand into his pocket and paid for the organ. It was
not a pipe organ. No one would have expected that, but it was of a
reliable make and guaranteed to have a sweet tone. It stood to one side
of the chancel, the pulpit towering above it. Wilmott had agreed to be
organist and was expected that very morning to try it. As for the
pulpit, Adeline had paid for that. From the first she had wanted a
substantial pulpit. "I don't like to see the preacher popping up like a
jack-in-the-box out of a little pulpit," she had declared. "What he says
will go down better if he mounts three steps to say it and is surrounded
by massive carving. The same man who carved our newel-post can do it and
I'll foot the bill." There were a few who thought the pulpit was a
little too ornate for the church but on the whole it was much admired.

Adeline took Philip by the hand. "Let us go," she said, "and sit in our
own pew and see what it feels like."

She led him to the pew they had chosen, directly in front of the pulpit,
and they seated themselves decorously but smilingly. The pulpit rose
portentously before them, as though already overflowing with sabbatical
wisdom.

"Confess now," said Adeline, "I could not have done better in the way of
a pulpit."

"My one objection is that I am afraid Pink will feel himself so
impressive in it that he will preach too long. He is already inclined
that way."

"Then I shall go to sleep and snore."

They heard a step behind them and turning saw Wilmott coming down the
aisle. He was carrying a large music-book.

"Here I am!" he said. "Have you waited long?"

They had forgotten he was coming but agreed they had been waiting for
some time.

"I have been to the Rectory," said Wilmott, "and Mrs. Pink has given me
a hymn-book. I'm rather sorry I promised to play this organ. I don't
feel capable of playing church music properly. But I seem to be the only
one willing to attempt it."

"Kate Brent could have," said Adeline, "but she is now a Catholic.
Anyhow, I like to see a man at the organ."

"Play the Wedding March," said Philip. "Let's hear something lively."

"I have not the music." Wilmott seated himself at the organ, opened it
and placed the hymn-book on the rack. He remarked, "I admire the red
satin behind the fretwork. It's a pretty organ."

"Yes," agreed Philip. "My brother-in-law donated it, and my sister the
carpet."

"I know," said Wilmott. "You are a generous family. Even if I had the
money, the community would go churchless for a long while before I
should build one."

"That's not stinginess, James," said Adeline. "It's prejudice."

"Yes. I'm not sure religion is good for people."

"What could take its place?" asked Philip. "I'll wager you have nothing
to offer."

"Life itself is good."

"Come now, Wilmott, be sensible. A man can't live by material things
alone."

"Then let him gaze at the stars."

"The stars aren't comfortable on a stormy night. Religion is."

"You had better not let Mr. Pink hear you say such things," put in
Adeline, "or he'll not allow you to play the organ."

"He has heard me on many occasions."

"And doesn't mind?"

"Not a whit. He is a bland, dyed-in-the-wool Christian, and he is
convinced that everyone will eventually come round to his way of
thinking."

"And so will you," said Philip. "So will you."

"Perhaps." Wilmott pressed the pedals, touched the keys. He began to
play a new hymn that only recently had been translated from the Latin.
But Philip and Adeline knew the first verse and sang it through.

                 "O come, O come, Emmanuel,
                     And ransom captive Israel,
                 That mourns in lonely exile here,
                 Until the Son of God appear.
                     Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
                     Shall come to thee, O Israel."

Neither Philip nor Adeline considered how extraordinary were these words
coming from the green heart of a Canadian woods. They sang them with
gusto and at the end Philip exclaimed:

"It is a capital organ."

"I don't see how you can tell," said Wilmott drily, "singing as you were
at the top of your voices."

"Oh, James, you are a cross old thing!" cried Adeline, going to his
side.

"Well, you seem to have a service in full swing," came a voice from the
door.

It was Dr. Ramsay. He entered and, after inspecting the new
acquisitions, said, "Congratulate me. Lydia Busby and I are to be
married."

Adeline clapped her hands. "Splendid! I've seen it coming. Oh, I am
glad!"

"A delightful girl," said Philip. "I congratulate you most sincerely."

Wilmott came forward and added his more guarded felicitations.

"It will be the first ceremony in the church," said the doctor. "We want
to be married without delay."

"No," said Philip. "My son's christening is to be the first."

"And we cannot have him christened," added Adeline, "till my parents
arrive from Ireland."

Dr. Ramsay regarded the Whiteoaks truculently. "Do you mean to say that
my marriage must be postponed to give way to your child's christening?"

"I am sorry," said Philip. "But I'm afraid that is so."

"Then you consider that you own this church?" exclaimed Dr. Ramsay, his
colour mounting.

"Well, not exactly," said Philip.

"I suppose," said the doctor, "that Lydia and I can be married somewhere
else. There is a church at Stead."

"No need to get huffy," said Philip.

"I'm not huffy. I'm simply astonished that I should be asked to postpone
my wedding ceremony for the baptism of an infant."

Adeline folded her arms across her breast and faced the doctor.

"I should think," she said, "that as you brought the infant into the
world, you would show a little consideration for him."

Dr. Ramsay had nothing to say in reply to this.

Adeline continued, "And, if I know Lydia Busby, she will want time for
her preparations and not to be rushed to the altar as though there were
need for urgency."

Again Dr. Ramsay could think of nothing to say.

As they stood staring at each other they little thought that her unborn
son was to marry his unborn daughter and that these two were to become
the parents of a future master of Jalna.

The embarrassing situation was pushed aside by the entrance of Conway,
Sholto and Mary, from the vestry. Sholto at once mounted the pulpit and,
with a sanctimonious expression, intoned:

"In the beginning God created the Courts."

"Come down out of that, you young rascal," said Philip.

But Sholto continued, "And God saw that the Courts were good. And later
on God created the Whiteoaks. And the son of the Whiteoaks looked on the
daughter of the Courts and he perceived that, although ill-favoured, she
was lusty and he took her to wed."

Now Mr. Pink also entered from the vestry. He came up behind Sholto and
lifted him bodily from the pulpit and deposited him on the floor.

"It is well for you, my boy," he said, "that the church is not yet
consecrated, but as it is, I must severely censure you for making light
of the Holy Scriptures."

"I was just telling him to stop it," said Philip.

Adeline exclaimed, to cover her brother's delinquency:

"Oh, Mr. Pink, you should have come sooner and heard Philip and me
singing a hymn!"

Coming to her aid Wilmott added, "The organ has an excellent tone, sir.
Should you like to hear me play on it?"

In the vestry a carpenter began loudly to saw and, in the vestibule,
another to hammer. Peace was restored.




                                 XXIII
                           A VARIETY OF SCENES


ADELINE'S parents arrived three weeks later. They were just in time for
the ceremony of consecrating the new church. After the service the
Bishop spent the night at Jalna. There had been a large dinner-party and
the neighbourhood was happily excited. It was agreed that the church was
handsome, the Bishop affable, and that Mr. Court and Lady Honoria were
the most perfectly bred, good-humoured, and likeable people imaginable.

This praise included Adeline's brother, Esmond Court, who had
accompanied his parents without any previous warning. It seemed that
they had had no time to write because Lady Honoria had decided only at
the last moment to bring him. As Conway, who was not nearly so
attractive, had picked up a quite well-off Canadian girl, Lady Honoria
saw no reason why Esmond should not do even better for himself. He was
the opposite of his two brothers already at Jalna, being dark and
handsome, with a resemblance to Adeline. He made himself very agreeable
to Philip but Philip could not help feeling that six of his wife's
relations in the house at one time was rather a lot.

Some days after his arrival, Renny Court took to his bed with an attack
of lumbago. He might have been the first sufferer from that ailment, so
loud were his complaints and so convinced was he that it would be the
end of him. He constantly demanded applications from without and doses
from within so that the house was in a ferment of attendance on him.
However, when he at last threw off the attack, his cure was complete. He
appeared downstairs supported on either side by Lady Honoria and
Adeline. They progressed along the hall to the dining-room with him
leaning heavily on them, while he now and again uttered ejaculations of
pain. The rest of the family followed with expressions of commiseration.
But once he was seated at table with the roast quail on toast in front
of him, with a glass of excellent claret by his plate, he was himself
again. He was delighted by everything. If he had said things in
disparagement of Canada, he now took them back. Jalna was a marvel of
achievement. When he was sufficiently recovered to inspect the estate
with Philip, he could not say too much in praise of its shipshapeness.
There was nothing he liked so much to see as a place in good order and
Philip was forced to admit that any suggestions he had to make were
excellent.

As for Lady Honoria, the visit was one long happiness to her. To see her
daughter so well established, where she had feared to find her in a
wilderness, was a joy. To be reunited to her younger sons, even though
they gave her so much worry, was a satisfaction. Above all, her
grandchildren were a delight to her. Gussie was so intelligent, already
so womanly in her ways, that she was a pleasing companion. To be sure
she had a temper, but what Court had not? She and Nicholas did a good
deal of hair-pulling. But what a darling he was! And Ernest was an
enchanting baby. He seemed to know that he was to be the centre of
attraction at the next party.

Lady Honoria herself seemed rejuvenated by the acquisition of the new
tooth, a miracle of dentistry. She looked more like a sister to Adeline
than a mother. In the exhilarating October weather, with the countryside
aflame in scarlet and gold, she inspected the flower border and kitchen
garden in the making. The little goat, on whose neck she had tied the
bell, seemed to remember her, for it followed her everywhere. She would
collect the most brilliant of the autumn leaves to take back to Ireland
with her. She herself originated a design of them for a mantel-drape she
was embroidering for Adeline. As for the church, Lady Honoria was never
tired of doing things for its embellishment. Before she left home, she
had embroidered an Easter altar-cloth in a design of lilies, and a
beautiful stole for Mr. Pink. Now, out of her own slender purse, she had
ordered a crimson cushion and four crimson hassocks for the Whiteoak
pew. Sometimes she and little Augusta would go to the church together
and wander happily about it. Gussie was so good you could trust her
anywhere. When the little girl grew up, and even when she was an old
woman, she could remember this companionship between herself and her
grandmother and could recall Lady Honoria's lovely smile quite clearly.

Jalna was teeming with vitality and Esmond Court had added a large share
of it. He had a talent for bringing out the liveliness of others. He was
pleased with himself and the world from morning to night, unless he were
crossed, when he would display a most violent temper. But it was soon
over. Philip had an exhibition of this in a fencing contest between
Esmond and Mr. Court. Both were expert fencers and were giving an
exhibition of their skill in the library. Suddenly something went wrong.
It was a question of rules. An argument broke out. The faces of the
fencers became masks of fury. Each set about demonstrating his own point
of view. The foils flashed. It seemed for a moment that one or the other
would be pierced to the vitals. Lady Honoria and Adeline shrieked. Mary
turned faint. Recklessly Conway and Sholto flung themselves between the
fencers. To Philip's astonishment the storm subsided as suddenly as it
had arisen. With Sholto still clinging to him, Esmond apologised to his
father and was forgiven but he was still trembling with anger, while
Renny Court's features showed a triumphant grin.

"Oh, Dada," cried Adeline, "you were by far the most to blame! You
nearly ran Esmond through!"

He made a grimace of annoyance. "Always against me, aren't you, Adeline?
If my son cut me piecemeal you'd declare I was to blame!"

"Well, well," said his wife. "It's all over and do put those nasty
swords away, children."

In these days much of Adeline's time was given to preparation for the
christening. It turned out that Lydia Busby was quite willing to wait
till that event was past before marrying. On his part, Dr. Ramsay was
anxious to hasten the event, so that he might join the shooting party
Philip was organising for his father-in-law. Renny Court was eager to
make such an expedition for the sake of seeing the northern wilds and
such deer, elk, moose, bears, wildcats or apes as might inhabit them. As
his visit drew on he became less complimentary about the country.

Lady Honoria had a friendship of many years with Lord Elgin, now
Governor-General of Canada. His duties had brought him to Kingston and,
having received a letter from Lady Honoria, he was willing to extend his
journey westward in order to renew their friendship and to act as
godfather to her grandson. Accompanied by Lady Elgin, he arrived at
Jalna on the day before the christening, a handsome gentleman of strong
will who had a liberal and emphatic interest in the country. A few years
before he had been the centre of a storm, when he had, as the
English-Canadians thought, favoured the French. In Montreal he had been
attacked with stones and his carriage badly broken and battered. But he
had come through the trouble victorious and was now the most popular man
in the entire country. He seemed not at all tired by his journey and he
and his wife and Lady Honoria made lively conversation, talking of
mutual friends. All was easy and natural. Even the weather, when the
morning of the christening came, was perfect, a summer-like warmth
blessing the autumn brilliance of the woods. Carriages conveyed the
party from house to church where windows and doors stood open and
Wilmott, in his best broadcloth, was already seated at the organ.

The church was half filled with invited guests, for the Whiteoaks by
this time had a large acquaintance. To be sure, the church was small and
it did not take a crowd to fill it. Soon the vacant pews were
overflowing with the country folk who had come from far and near to have
a glimpse of Lord Elgin. Never had there been such a christening in
those parts. The centre of it all lay dozing in his mother's arms, his
long, tucked, embroidered and lace-trimmed robe almost touching the
floor. His cape, his bonnet, were a marvel of elegance and intricacy.
His two pink hands, with fingers extended like starfish, lay helpless as
though washed up on the expanse of satin. In addition to Lord Elgin,
Colonel Vaughan and Captain Lacey were godfathers and Mrs. Vaughan his
godmother. Surely no godmother ever looked more benign than she, in her
lavender silk with her prematurely white hair in full waves beneath her
flowered bonnet! Adeline placed the infant in her arms and she stood,
flanked by the three godfathers, facing Mr. Pink across the font. This
font, which was her gift to the church, was a handsome one and Ernest
was the first child to be marked with the sign of the Cross from its
blessed brim. Adeline and Philip, with her parents and brothers, stood
in a group nearby. Lady Honoria held Gussie by the hand and Gussie's
other hand held Nicholas. The two were dressed alike, in short-sleeved,
low-necked frocks with pale-blue shoulder knots and fringed blue sashes.
As a matter of truth they looked so lovely that even the presence of
Lord Elgin was overshadowed by them.

Mr. Pink's sonorous voice now came:

"'Dearly beloved, forasmuch as all men are conceived and born in sin;
and that our Saviour Christ saith, none can enter into the Kingdom of
God, except he be regenerate and born anew of water and of the Holy
Ghost...'" The service proceeded, the congregation taking their part,
according to the ancient form. At last Mr. Pink, turning to the
godparents, asked the prescribed and searching questions regarding the
spiritual convictions of Ernest Whiteoak. Mr. Pink asked of the
godparents:

"'Dost thou, in the name of this child, renounce the devil and all his
works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desires
of the same, and the carnal desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not
follow, nor be led by them?'"

And they responded: "'I renounce them all.'"

Still Ernest slept.

But when the moment came when Mr. Pink took him into his own arms and,
saying his name in full tones, sprinkled him liberally with water from
the font, Ernest opened wide his forget-me-not eyes and uttered a loud
cry of protest and alarm. When Nicholas saw his little brother so
treated, he thrust out his under lip, tears rolled down his cheeks and
he sobbed. Seeing Nicholas weep, Gussie also broke into tears.

Nero, who was patiently waiting in the porch, could not endure the sound
of the children's crying. He pushed open the door with his strong muzzle
and put his head into the church. He looked about him with a lowering
expression till he saw the white-robed figure at the font with the baby
in its arms. Nero advanced into the church, fixing Mr. Pink with his
eye, and lifting his lip.

"For heaven's sake, take that brute out!" muttered Philip to Sholto, who
sprang forward, grasped Nero by the collar and dragged him back to the
porch. A titter ran through the church. Lady Honoria comforted the
children.

Ernest Whiteoak, having renounced the devil and his works and recovered
from the shock of baptism, looked about him and smiled. He placed the
finger-tips of one tiny hand upon the finger-tips of the other and
regarded the assemblage magnanimously. Wilmott pressed down the loud
pedal and all joined their voices to the organ accompaniment. They sang:

              "'Tis done! that new and heavenly birth
              Which re-creates the sons of earth,
              Has cleansed from guilt of Adam's sin
              A soul which Jesus died to win."

The hymn swelled onward and upward into the Doxology.

There were white flowers on the altar, and the silver candlesticks
presented by Lady Honoria. All the red and gold and green leaves, with
bits of blue sky showing between, gave the windows an aspect even richer
than that of stained glass. The congregation moved happily down the
aisle, the little Pink boys in plaid dresses being barely restrained
from capering by their mother's hand. The church overflowed into the
churchyard where as yet there was but a single grave, that of a young
bird which Lady Honoria and Gussie had found and buried there. The
church bell, presented by Elihu Busby, pealed forth in rejoicing.

At Jalna, the doors between library and dining-room were thrown open and
long tables were loaded with refreshments. The infant's health was drunk
in punch made from Lady Honoria's own recipe.

Another and more substantial meal was partaken of by a more intimate
party before Lord and Lady Elgin left. In addition to the family there
were the Pinks and the churchwardens and their wives. Elihu Busby could
not restrain himself from being critical of the policy of the
Governor-General toward French Canada.

"It is no wonder," he said, "that the English-Canadians showed
resentment and threw stones at your Lordship's carriage!"

Lord Elgin laughed tolerantly. "Well, I have got even with them," he
said. "For I have never yet had that battered vehicle repaired but drive
everywhere in it so that the world may see how badly they behaved."

"I can't agree," said Busby, "in your coddling of the French. Make 'em
English by force, I say."

"No, no," returned Lord Elgin. "I encourage them to use their native
ability for the Empire, while assuring them of protection. Who will
venture to say that the last hand which waves the British flag on
American ground may not be that of a French-Canadian?"

He talked to Philip and Adeline about their experiences in India, and
confessed that it was his ambition to go there himself one day as
Governor-General. Renny Court exclaimed:

"Then indeed you might congratulate yourself, sir! Who would not prefer
India to this wilderness? Yet here my daughter and son-in-law came of
their own free will and already I see the moss collecting on them.
Philip's sword has become a ploughshare and as for Adeline--why, that
girl was a beauty once and look at her now! A rough-handed, red-faced
country wench!"

"If," said Lord Elgin, "I ever meet anyone half so delightful in India,
I shall be content."

****

The guests were gone. It was afternoon of the following day. Philip and
Adeline were strolling hand in hand across the lawn in the tranquil
sunlight of declining Indian summer. They had talked over the events of
the day, agreeing that all had passed off well and that Lord Elgin was a
man of merit. Now they wanted only to be happy in each other's company,
to look with satisfaction on the home they had built. It stood solid
among its trees with an air of being ready for what might come.

"And look," cried Adeline, "the little Virginia creeper! It has turned
bright scarlet just as though it were a grown-up vine!"

And so it had. Its tiny tendrils clung almost fiercely to the bricks, as
though it were in some way responsible for the staunchness of the house,
and every leaf was crimson.

Then Philip exclaimed, "See the pigeons, Adeline! They are going south!
Gad, what a horde of them!"

A number were flying overhead and these increased till they hung like a
swift-moving cloud. The cloud was grey-blue but the wings in it made
flashes of fire. Their strength reached from house to church and it was
four hours and almost dark before they had passed. Then darkness closed
about the house, the candles were lighted and extinguished. With her
head on Philip's shoulder, Adeline slept.

                                THE END






[End of The Building of Jalna, by Mazo de la Roche]
