Morning at Jalna. Mazo de la Roche
his habit of drinking too much, but he was far cleverer than her brothers and she was both ashamed and sorry she had lost him.
In Lucy Sinclair he had found the perfect object for worship. If Curtis Sinclair was aware of this, he made no sign. Outwardly he was as tranquil, as charming as a Southern gentleman should be. “Ah, what a manner that man has!” Adeline exclaimed to Philip. He demanded:
“What’s the matter with my manner?”
“It’s the manner,” she returned cryptically, “of a cavalry officer.”
At the beginning of the American Civil War, Lucius Madigan was in concord with the North, that is to say, as nearly in concord as was possible for his nature to be. When he heard that Irishmen were in the Northern Army he said fervently, “Ah, those lads would fight for freedom!”
But when he saw the abhorrence in which Elihu Busby held the South his opinion changed. He thoroughly disliked Elihu Busby. Everything connected with Lucy Sinclair must be admired, or at the least defended, by him. Busby had an almost worshipping admiration for Lincoln. Lucius Madigan ridiculed him. “He is the type,” he said, “who sits with his cronies in the little room behind the grocery shop, whittles a stick, and tells dirty stories.”
He said this to the three young Whiteoaks when he met them that same afternoon in the woods. His last words made Augusta turn away her face, and he glimpsed the colour deepening on her cheek.
“My dear,” he said contritely, “forgive my slip of the tongue. I should not have said that in front of you.”
Nicholas winked at his sister, which made her embarrassment even more acute.
“Would you please repeat that, Mr. Madigan?” said little Ernest. “I didn’t hear clearly.”
The tutor ignored this remark and began to talk poetically of the beauty of the trees. Among their branches darted yellow finches, elegant little bluebirds and black and gold orioles. There was a clearing in the forest, carpeted with flowers. Augusta and Ernest began at once to pick them.
Nicholas said to Lucius Madigan, “If I were grown I shouldn’t mind going to that war. The trouble is I shouldn’t know which side to fight on. Our friends are all for the North, but our mother and father and you are for the South.”
“I’m against all wars,” said Madigan. “Life in Ireland was bad enough. I didn’t come to this country to get embroiled in a cause that means nothing to me.”
“But you have principles, haven’t you?”
“Devil a one,” said Madigan. “I had them once but they were swept away when I saw the peasants starving in Ireland.”
Ernest came running to them, his hands full of flowers. “Mr. Madigan,” he said, “wouldn’t you like to free the slaves?”
“They’re a spoilt lot,” said Madigan. “If they were earning a living in Canada, they’d find out what it is to work.”
“But still they’re slaves,” said Nicholas.
“Not since Lincoln’s proclamation. They could leave in a body if they wanted, but they know when they are well off.”
The Southerners and their black slaves fascinated the children. They could talk of nothing else. The boys sought to draw out the Negroes on the subject, but they would give no opinion. Their black faces were a mask. Augusta was herself too reserved to desire to probe the feelings of others.
Before the three reached the house they met their father and Mr. Sinclair. Philip was displaying, with a good deal of pride, the orchard he had planted after coming to Jalna. “I had saplings sent from England and already they have borne good crops for young trees. Such Cox’s Pippins! I never have tasted any better flavoured.”
“Pippins, eh?” said Sinclair. “I should like to taste a pippin.”
“I have some good Canadian apples too. The little snow apples are really a treat. Red skin, white flesh, tender as a pear, with fine red veins. They’ll not be ready till the late autumn, but you shall soon have an Early Transparent. Their sauce is excellent with roast duck — smooth as ointment. We know no such thing as blight; as for insect pests — the birds keep them down.” Philip Whiteoak went on to talk with gusto of his various crops.
“How many labourers have you on the land?” asked Curtis Sinclair.
“Six. Good workers, all of them.”
“I have more than a hundred in the cotton fields, but it needs all of them to do the work of half that number of white men. And there are their large families to clothe and feed.”
“Good Lord! I never could afford that.”
“It’s all right if you sell your cotton, but the Yankees are spoiling that business with their blockade. They’re the people who have made money and still are making it. They sold the slaves to us in the first place.” He spoke with restrained bitterness.
“Yes, I know,” said Philip, though he knew very little about it.
They walked on in silence for a space, then Curtis Sinclair said, “Captain Whiteoak, I think your sympathies are with the Confederacy.”
“They are indeed.”
“The Yankees have ruined my country. My father has large estates. Over seven hundred Negroes. A few of them have drifted away but the great majority remain. To be clothed and fed. All ages — old people — young children.” He hesitated, then raised his fine eyes to his host’s fresh-coloured face. He said, “Captain Whiteoak, I have certain plans in mind. I am committed to an enterprise which, we hope, will put a stop to the activities of the Yankees on the Great Lakes.”
Philip opened his eyes wide. “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he said.
“It’s quite true and I will tell you more about it later. What I wish to know now is whether you would object to some of the men who are engaged in this enterprise coming here to discuss matters with me. It would be less conspicuous than meeting in a hotel. If you have any objection to my using your hospitality in this way, say the word and my wife and I will depart.”
“I’ll be glad to have you meet your friends here.” Philip spoke cautiously; he did not quite understand the possible complications of such a scheme.
“They are scarcely to be called friends,” said Curtis Sinclair. “They don’t want to see our country swallowed up by the Yankees.”
Philip wondered what all this was about, but he was of a sanguine nature and being himself so secure he would have liked to see his friends in security. The two strolling men were now overtaken by the children and their tutor. Ernest was gnawing, with his white teeth, at a hard green apple. This Philip at once snatched from him and gave him a hearty whack on the behind.
“You know very well,” he said, “that unripe fruit gives you a pain in the stomach. Do you want to keep our guests awake tonight with your howls?”
Ernest hung his head. “I forgot,” he said.
He wanted to be again in favour. He pressed between the two men and slipped a hand into Philip’s, then, after a moment, put the other hand in Sinclair’s.
Nicholas said, “Gussie told Ernest not to eat it.”
“I don’t think he heard,” she said.
“I continually do what I know I shouldn’t,” Madigan said. “I expect no better of my pupils.”
“That’s a bad way to talk in front of them,” said their father.
“I’m sorry, sir, but if I set myself up on a pedestal, would they believe in me?”
Philip turned to his daughter. “Gussie, do you believe in Mr. Madigan?”
“How can I help,” she asked, “with him under my nose all day long?”
“That’s