02 Morning at Jalna Read online

  “What then?” she breathed.

  “I can’t tell you. I do things on impulse. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad.”

  In her soft voice Annabelle said: “Ah reckon you’se good, Tite.”

  “Why?” he laughed.

  “You’s so educated.”

  “That doesn’t matter. We’re happy together. As for my education — what chance has an Indian got? Any more than a Negro.”

  “Ah’m part white. My grandfather was a white man. My grandmother was just his slave. But she was pretty.”

  “And so are you, Belle — pretty as a picture.”

  She moved closer to him. He could smell her warm dark flesh and cheap perfume.

  “Tite,” she whispered, “do you love de Lawd?”

  He was startled but he asked, “Do you want me to love Him, Belle?”

  “Ah certainly does. Ah’m religious. All us three — Jerry, Cindy, and me — enjoy a good meetin’. Next to a weddin’ or a funeral.”

  Tite, after a moment’s hesitation, said, in a voice that thrilled the emotional girl, “I too am religious.”

  “You ain’t a Catholic, are you?”

  “What made you think I might be?”

  “Well, you said you was part French.”

  “What denomination do you belong to, Belle?”

  “Ah’m a sort of Baptist. But I enjoy any sort of revival meetin’.”

  “So do I,” Tite said fervently.

  The girl said, in her soft thick accents, “There’s over thirty of us coloured folk in these parts. There’s a preacher among us. Cap’n Whiteoak, he’s lent us a nice clean hayloft for meetin’s. We’re havin’ one on Sunday. We’ll sing and pray for the South, ’cause we want to go home again. Will you come to the meetin’, Tite?”

  “I’ll be delighted,” said Tite, imitating Wilmott’s manner. He put his arm about the girl. Dusky cheek to cheek, they listened to the singing of the stream.

  “Does religion mean more to you than love?” he asked, running his hand through her curls, for her hair was not woolly.

  “Way more,” she murmured.

  He felt a little rebuffed. “Why?” he asked. “Surely a pretty girl longs for love.”

  “Ah likes the love of a man,” came the answer, “but Ah clings to the love of de Lawd.”

  “So do I,” said Tite fervently.

  The following morning he raised his eyes from the fish he was scaling and announced to Wilmott, “I’ve got religion, Boss.” His serious tone was scarcely matched by the expression of his eyes, for two fish-scales clung to his long lashes.

  Wilmott looked down at him doubtfully. “What has brought that about?” he asked.

  Tite winked the fish-scales from his eyelashes.

  “I’ve felt the need of it for a long time, Boss,” he said. “And when I was wandering solitary in the darkness, it struck me like a blinding light.”

  “I hope it will be good for you,” Wilmott said without conviction.

  “I’m sure it will, Boss. A man cannot live by fish alone.”

  “You had better go and tell this to Mr. Pink, the rector,” said Wilmott.

  “Can’t you advise me, Boss?”

  “I don’t consider myself competent for that. Better go to the rector.”

  “But, Boss, I’ve never been baptized or confirmed. He’d likely want to do both to me.”

  “Do as you please,” said Wilmott, and left him.

  In spite of Wilmott’s guardianship, Tite was accustomed to do as he pleased. Now it was his pleasure to seek out Mr. Pink, the rector of the small church that had been built by the Whiteoaks. It was but one of two country churches in Mr. Pink’s spiritual care. Here, beside it, was the rectory, almost as large as the church. Mr. Pink was sitting in the porch enjoying his mid-morning pipe. At the half-breed’s approach he gave him a friendly nod and said:

  “You are Titus Sharrow, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tite answered, in his gentle polite voice. “I have come to ask you a religious question.”

  The rector looked at him keenly. “Yes? Go ahead.”

  “Please tell me,” said Tite, “whether unbelief is a sin.”

  “We all sin in that way, for none of us believes as completely as he should.”

  “How much do you believe, Mr. Rector?”

  “I have never told that to any man.”

  “I am a beginner,” said Tite. “You have told me all I need to know.”

  “Sit down,” said Mr. Pink, “and I will explain further.”

  But Tite had drifted away.

  VI

  The Meeting

  Very soon the loft would be filled with this year’s hay that now stood golden in the ten-o’clock sunshine. The floor of the loft had been swept clean and sprinkled from a watering can to lay the dust. A pulpit had been fashioned out of clean boards. On it lay a Bible. The window had been washed and over it a pink calico curtain was hung. The mulatto girl, Annabelle, was responsible for this. Once, in the South, she had been to a service in a church where there were stained-glass windows. Those windows, she thought, had given a holy feeling to all that took place inside the church. In the hayloft, the pink calico curtain was to lend this air of holiness. So Annabelle prayed. Indeed, as the sun shone through the curtain, a pinkish light was noticeable in the loft. It had been possible to borrow thirty kitchen chairs in the neighbourhood. If the congregation exceeded this number, the overflow were to sit at the back of the loft on a mound of last year’s hay. From below came the mooing of a cow whose calf had been taken from her.

  Thirty Negroes waited, with expectant faces, for the meeting to begin. Twenty were seated in chairs. The rest squatted on the hay, leaving the row of chairs at the front for the white visitors. These were Adeline and Philip, the two Sinclairs, Wilmott, David Vaughan and his wife, Elihu Busby and wife. These two couples had come to encourage the blacks, to show their sympathy with the cause of emancipation. It was hard for them to sit at ease so near the Sinclairs. Their elegant airs were particularly distasteful to Elihu Busby. He wondered at their insolence in showing their slave-owning faces. Yet their three servants had begged them to come, polished their shoes, assisted them to dress for what was, to the Negroes, an important occasion.

  The Negroes, of whom the gathering mainly consisted, had come by various routes to this sheltered part of the province of Ontario, where some had already found work and hoped to settle, while others strained toward the day when they might return to their own country. Among those who proposed remaining in Ontario were a couple who had left the devastated plantation of their master, taking with them whatever they had fancied. The man carried a heavy gold watch and chain. The woman, named Oleander, was arrayed in a crimson velvet dress with velvet flounces. She wore, on her woolly head, a pink satin bonnet tied in a large bow beneath her chin. Scarcely could Cindy restrain her contempt for this pair. But Annabelle was not aware of their existence. Hands clasped on breast, she waited in happy anticipation for the meeting to begin. Titus Sharrow, from the back of the loft, watched her.

  Among the Negroes who had found refuge in this vicinity was one who had been a preacher in his native village. He was a man of forty with a deep and moving voice, a broad flat nose and humid bloodshot eyes. His thick-lipped mouth was flexible, his teeth fine.

  He mounted the crude pulpit, bent his head a moment in prayer. Titus Sharrow, standing barely inside the loft, surveyed the scene with cynical interest.

  The preacher gave out the name of a hymn. There were no hymn books but the Negroes knew it by heart. The fervour of their lusty voices made the cobwebs in the ceiling of the hayloft tremble. Months had passed, in some instances years, since they had been to a meeting. Now, in exultation, they poured out their feelings.

  Following the hymn, the tribulations of Job were read by the preacher in a quiet voice. He gave a short address, welcoming all, thanking those who had assisted in making this meeting possible. He made no reference to the war between North a
nd South.

  Adeline was disappointed, for she had expected something emotional. The Busbys and the Vaughans were disappointed, for they had expected an impassioned outburst against slavery. The Negroes waited composedly for the praying.

  Now, the preacher, after the singing of another revival hymn, left the pulpit and dropped to his knees on the floor. In his sonorous voice he began to pray, at first quietly, then becoming more fervent, less coherent, as he went on. A shudder of ravishment galvanized the Negro congregation. Kneeling they clasped imploring hands, raised eyes to the ceiling of the loft.

  Now the preacher was uttering no more than broken phrases, “Oh, Lawd … oh, Lawd … Save us … lead us … out of the night … save us!”

  The Negroes rocked on their haunches, their faces wet with tears. Annabelle was sobbing without restraint. Suddenly the loft seemed unbearably hot to the whites.

  It was more than Adeline could endure. To Philip’s consternation she burst into tears. She leant forward in her chair, covering her face with her hands. The ribbon bow of her bonnet was loose. The bonnet all but fell off, disclosing her shining red hair. Lucy Sinclair put a consoling arm about her. On her other side Philip whispered, “Stop it … control yourself! Adeline, do you hear me?” His face was scarlet. He gave her a pinch.

  “Oh!” she said loudly, sat up and straightened her bonnet.

  Wilmott’s hand covered his lips to hide a smile of embarrassment.

  The preacher rose to his feet and announced a hymn. It had as its refrain a jubilant “Hallelujah — we’re saved!” Over and over this was reiterated. In exultation the Negroes jumped up and down, clapping their hands. They shouted, “Hallelujah — de Lawd has saved us!”

  To escape from the hay-scented, sweat-scented atmosphere of the loft into the freshness of the outdoor air was a relief, especially to Philip. He made no reference to the scene Adeline had made in the loft till they were safely in their bedroom. Then he said, “I have never been so ashamed of you.”

  “Why?” she asked, in a gentle voice. She was examining her face in the mirror.

  “Making an exhibition of yourself — just because a Negro preacher made an hysterical prayer.”

  “I found it very moving.”

  “I found it ridiculous. As for you — all our friends were staring at you in consternation.”

  “Were they?” She was not ill-pleased. She took off her bonnet and stroked a wandering lock into place.

  He reminded her of his sister and her husband, the Dean, in the cathedral town of Penchester in Devon. “What would they have thought of such an exhibition?” he demanded.

  Adeline retorted, “It would have done them good. It would have shown them that prayer can be taken seriously.”

  She threw her bonnet to the floor. “You criticize — you ridicule my deepest feelings. Why did you marry an Irish-woman? A phlegmatic Scotchwoman would be the right mate for you. Someone who would stare at you out of peeled-onion eyes, and say, ‘Ay, lad, but you’re a bonny fighter.’”

  Her tear-stained face was flushed with anger.

  Philip picked up the bonnet from the floor and set it on his own head. He tied the ribbon strings beneath his chin and gave her a flirtatious look. Adeline did not want to laugh. She was far too angry but she could not prevent herself. Laughter bubbled from her lips and rang out gaily. Philip looked so ridiculous in the bonnet that she simply had to laugh.

  The sound of her laughter made the polite knock on the door inaudible. It was cautiously opened and there stood the three children. They had been sent to church and now, in their Sunday best, came to hear news of the Negro meeting, to which they would much sooner have gone. Church was to them an old story. Not that they were irreligious. Augusta and Ernest in particular held strong views on the subject. They were opposed to modern frivolity.

  When the children saw their father wearing their mother’s bonnet, saw Adeline’s tear-dimmed eyes — apparently she had laughed till she cried — the boys were enraptured but Augusta was embarrassed.

  “You should not rush in on your father and me,” said Adeline. “Why didn’t you knock?”

  “We did knock, Mamma,” they said in unison.

  Philip turned to them with a stern expression but looked so ridiculous in the bonnet, with the satin bow under his chin, that the boys burst out laughing and Augusta looked more embarrassed.

  “What are you laughing at?” Philip demanded of his sons. He had quite forgotten the bonnet.

  “You, Papa,” said Ernest.

  Philip took him by the shoulder. “You’d make game of me, would you?”

  Without flinching little Ernest answered, “You look so sweet in that bonnet, Papa.”

  Philip now saw his reflection in the looking glass. He too broke into laughter. He took off the bonnet and set it on Augusta’s head. “Let’s see,” he said, “what sort of young lady Gussie will make.”

  “Quite impressive,” Nicholas said.

  Augusta saw nothing but amusement in the eyes of her parents. She hung her head and, as soon as she dared, took off the bonnet and laid it on the bed. The parrot flew down from his perch and began to peck at the bonnet as though in calculated destruction.

  When the children were gone, Adeline said, in wonder, “How did I ever come by so plain a daughter?”

  “Honestly, I hope.”

  “What do you mean?” Her eyes flashed.

  “Well, there was that Rajah fellow, in India.”

  She was not ill-pleased. “Which Rajah?” she asked with an innocent air.

  “The one who gave you the ruby ring.”

  “Ah, those were the days,” she cried. “What colour — what romance!” She mused, studying her reflection in the mirror, while Philip took off his collar that was limp from the heat in the loft, and put on a clean one.

  She remarked, “Nicholas is the only child who resembles me. Thank God he did not inherit my hair. I detest red-haired men.”

  “Your own father has red hair.”

  “A great part of the time I detest him.”

  The children had strolled through the open door on to the lawn. Their Sunday clothes lent them an air of sedateness, but beneath that air there flickered resentment.

  “I can’t see why,” Nicholas complained, in his alto voice, “we were not allowed to go to the meeting in the loft. It would have been much better fun.”

  “Fun my eye,” said Ernest.

  Augusta spoke with some severity. “Boys, think what you are saying. We do not go to church for fun.”

  “Mr. Madigan does,” said Nicholas.

  “The more shame to him,” said Augusta. “But I can’t think quite so badly of him as that. He goes to church because it is his duty to go with us.”

  “Then why did he smile when we all called ourselves miserable sinners?” asked Nicholas.

  “He may have been remembering his sins in Ireland and thinking how much better off he is in Canada.”

  Nicholas thrust his hands into his pockets and frowned. “I’ll go to the next Negro meeting,” he said, “or know the reason why.”

  “Me too,” said Ernest. “I will go or know the reason why.”

  “The reason why,” Augusta declared, “may be Papa’s razor strop.”

  Her brothers were a little subdued by this remark. They brightened, however, when they saw Cindy, their favourite of the blacks, approaching. She was carrying the baby Philip, to whom she was devoted. To him Cindy was a source of delight. He would clasp her fat neck, press his flowerlike face to hers and rapturously lisp, “Nith Thindy.”

  “Nice Cindy, he calls me,” she cried, “the little angel!”

  The elder children regarded their little brother without enthusiasm. He was made too much of, they thought.

  Augusta said sedately, “I suppose your meeting was a great success, Cindy.”

  “Success! Why, praise de Lawd, miss, that preacher had us all cryin’ our eyes out.”

  “Did my mamma cry?” asked Ernest.


  “She surely did, bless her heart.”

  The children were embarrassed.

  “I guess she laughed till she cried,” said Nicholas. “Sometimes she does that.”

  “If she laughed,” said Cindy, “it was at Oleander, who came to de meetin’ decked out in her old missus’ fine clothes. She oughta be whipped, dat nigger. She surely is a scandal.”

  “Scandal, my eye,” said Ernest.

  VII

  The Night Prowlers

  Dusk had fallen. It had passed into darkness, for the moon had not yet risen. It was a wonder that the three men could find their way to the house. Yet they had been well directed and one of them carried a lantern. Just inside the gate they had left the horse and buggy by which they had come. They walked quietly, speaking only in low tones. Their speech had the accents of the South.

  Nero, the Newfoundland dog, had a keen ear. As the men approached he gave a deep growl and raised his majesty on the porch where he liked to sit on a warm evening. The light from the narrow stained-glass windows on either side of the front door fell on him.

  The door opened and his mistress appeared. Swiftly she took him by the collar and dragged him into the hall, he lumbering along without protest but with a bark and growl at the approaching men.

  When they saw that the door was shut they came into the porch, not stealthily but with the air of friends making an evening call. Though they did not knock, the door was opened to them by Adeline, who said, “Good evening to you,” and gave them a smile that showed her white teeth, with a tiny corner broken off one of them.

  The men bowed gravely, taking in her beauty with their travel-weary eyes, giving a glance to the lamp lit hall, with its graceful stairway. Nero had been shut in a small room at the back of the hall from where his low bubbling growl could be heard.

  “Come right in,” she invited them, and they entered the sitting room on the right of the front door.

  It was lit by a lamp with a china shade, showing a design of red roses. This stood on a mahogany table where there was a framed photograph of the Whiteoaks taken in Quebec, soon after their arrival in Canada. They were shown as in a snowstorm which had been cleverly simulated by the photographer. The heavy curtains in this room had been drawn close. No breath of air stirred it.