Morning at Jalna. Mazo de la Roche
In spite of her youth she was impressive, her sallow face intense, her black hair hanging in ordered ringlets to her waist. When she spoke the words “Half a league, half a league, half a league onward,” she slightly waved her right hand and gazed into space, “Into the jaws of death rode the Six Hundred ...”
It was more than Lucy Sinclair could bear. She burst into tears. As he witnessed her emotion the Admiral’s eyes also filled with tears. Adeline put an arm about Lucy and patted her back. Lucy sobbed:
“It was noble and heroic. You recited it beautifully, Gussie.”
“I always want to cry when I hear that piece,” said Adeline, “but it is hard for me to shed tears.”
Lucius Madigan’s voice, as though talking to himself, came from where he sat. “I can’t understand,” he said, “why such a tragic mistake should be celebrated. It is best forgotten.”
“What would you have done if you’d been given that order?” asked Nicholas of the tutor.
“Run the other way as fast as I could,” he answered without hesitation.
As he was an Irishman, this was considered to be funny. Everyone, with the exception of Lucy, laughed. She was wiping her eyes. Mrs. Lacey regarded her without sympathy. What right had she, an American, to work herself up over the Charge of the Light Brigade!
“I wish,” said little Ernest, “that Mr. Madigan would sing one of his Irish songs.”
“Ah, yes, do.” Adeline spoke with rich emotion. “Though it breaks my heart to hear them.” Always she spoke as though her poor torn heart were in Ireland, but in reality she had been glad to leave that country. Though she loved her family, she couldn’t get on with her father. “Mrs. Sinclair will play your accompaniment, I’m sure. She plays so beautifully. Her fingers ripple over the keys like a brook over its pebbles.”
Soon Madigan’s cool Irish tenor voice charmed all in his rendering of “The Last Rose of Summer.”
IV
IV
Night
When the guests had gone Philip Whiteoak and Curtis Sinclair went out into the velvet darkness of the summer night, for there was now no moon. They paced up and down in front of the house talking, talking. The door stood open and the lamplight from the hall fell on the figures of the two men when they passed. They were in striking contrast. Both were bareheaded and Philip Whiteoak was a head taller than the other. His fresh complexion, his bold handsome features, broad shoulders and flat back, his look of being accustomed to command, would make many another man wish he might be in Philip’s shoes. He restrained his stride to suit the awkward walk of the southerner. Yet, in spite of the hump on his back, Sinclair was a figure of dignity. An arresting figure. A face subtle and sensitive.
When at last they turned into the house the Southerner held out his hand. “Goodnight, Captain Whiteoak,” he said, “and thank you. I hope I shall do nothing to make you regret your kindness.” They shook hands with warmth and Philip went straight to his own room.
He expected to find Adeline asleep but the moment he tiptoed into the room she sat up in bed. The candle nightlight on a table by the head of the bed barely revealed his stalwart figure.
“Whatever have you been up to?” she demanded. “What were you two men talking about?”
“Go to sleep.” He spoke peremptorily.
“I will not go to sleep. I must know what all this talk is about.”
“Why?” He came to her side.
“Because,” she cried, “I am a woman and cannot rest till I know.”
“Behave yourself and go to sleep,” he said.
She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “I’m burning with curiosity,” she declared.
He gave her cheek a playful pinch.
“Good God,” she cried, “can’t you recognize that I am a woman of character, able to take part in any scheme that’s afoot?”
Her parrot, roused by her raised voice, uttered loud protests in Hindustani, opened his beak, and showed his dark tongue.
“What possessed me to marry an Irishwoman I can’t fathom,” Philip said, and sat down on the bed beside her.
However, he was so full of Curtis Sinclair’s plan that he could not restrain himself from imparting some of it to her. In fact it would be necessary for her to know. She was not an ordinary female to be put off with a few half-truths. She was a person to be reckoned with. Sometimes he almost wished she were of weaker fibre but, looking into her luminous eyes that had nothing wistful in them, seeing her proud and forward-looking profile, he could not wish her to be different. The snowy frill of her nightdress came up to her chin. He put his finger under her chin and remarked, “Well, here goes.”
“Yes?” she breathed eagerly.
“Curtis Sinclair,” he said, “is one of the organizers of an underground group — agents of the Southern Confederacy. They are being sent to Canada by President Jefferson Davis.” Philip hesitated. He fingered his cravat. “I doubt if I should be telling you this, Adeline,” he said.
“In any case, I’d get it out of Lucy,” she retorted.
He went on, looking suddenly very serious, “These men are to conduct raids across the border with the object of destroying Northern shipping on the Great Lakes.”
Adeline threw herself back on her plump down pillows, her body quivering with excitement.
“What a glorious revenge!” she cried.
“By Jove,” he said, “you have a wicked grin.”
“I feel wicked when I think of those despicable Yankees.” Suddenly she too became serious. “What part are we to play in this?” she demanded. “For the Sinclairs must expect us to play a part, otherwise he would not have confided in you.”
“Our part is to be a passive one,” said Philip. “It simply is to allow Curtis Sinclair to receive certain members of this underground group under our roof and to give them orders.”
“I will receive them.” Again she sat up. “No one shall be able to say that I have not played my part.”
“You have no part in this,” he cried firmly. “All you have to do is to see nothing — say nothing.”
“And all those brave men coming here! Never.”
As she raised her voice, the parrot fluttered down from the head of her bed uttering noises of protest. He alighted at the foot, then walked the length of her body and, when he reached her head, pressed his feathered cheek to hers.
“Dear Boney,” she murmured to him.
In Hindustani, the only language he knew, he muttered terms of endearment to her.
Philip began to undress. He said:
“Put that bird back on his perch. I refuse to get into bed with him.”
Adeline rose and carried Boney to his cage. Through the bars he swore at Philip. “Haramzada — Iflatoon!”
Adeline, looking tall in her voluminous nightdress, went to the open window. “The lilac has almost finished its blooming,” she said, “but oh, how heavenly the scent! Come and smell.”
Together they sniffed the scent of the lilac and the sweet air of the virgin countryside. There was no sound other than the faint rustle of the leaves and the splash of the stream in the green depths of the ravine.
Upstairs in the Sinclairs’ room the two Southerners had been discussing, first the evening that lay behind them, then the problems that lay ahead.
Lucy Sinclair exclaimed, “I am quite in love with these Whiteoaks. They are so