Read Online 02 Morning at Jalna by Mazo de La Roche - Free Book Online
Authors: Mazo de La Roche
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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
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.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said one of the men.
“Sit you down,” she said, “and I’ll tell Mr. Sinclair you’re here.” She looked benignly at the men out of her dark eyes.
Again she was thanked. The three left alone drew sighs of relief and stretched their legs. They had travelled far under difficulties. Now they had arrived at their goal. In spite of weariness they were tense as they waited. They did not exchange a word.
Adeline fairly flew up the stairs.
Hanging over the banister was Nicholas.
“Listening — you rascal!” she hissed. “Go to your room.”
“Who are the three men, Mamma?” He was altogether too self-possessed, too bold, she thought. But she had no time to waste on him. She hastened up the stairs, her voluminous skirt gathered up in her hand. She tapped on the door of the Sinclairs’ room.
It was opened to her by her son Ernest.
Seeing her expression he said, in an apologetic voice, “I am only making a little call, Mamma.” He looked so sweet standing there in his green velveteen jacket and lace collar that she could not resist taking him into her arms and planting a maternal kiss on his cheek.
“Come in — come in,” Lucy Sinclair called.
“Where is Mr. Sinclair?” Adeline asked. She tried to speak calmly. “There are visitors for him.”
“With your husband in the smoking room.” Lucy Sinclair sought to control her excitement.
“I will run and tell him,” cried Ernest. He flew along the passage to the small room at the end and back. “Mr. Sinclair will go down directly, Mamma. Shall I take the message?”
“No, no, it’s high time you went to bed.”
Adeline swept down the stairs and made a conspiratorial entrance into the sitting room. She was astonished to find Augusta and Nicholas in amiable
“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
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.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said one of the men.
“Sit you down,” she said, “and I’ll tell Mr. Sinclair you’re here.” She looked benignly at the men out of her dark eyes.
Again she was thanked. The three left alone drew sighs of relief and stretched their legs. They had travelled far under difficulties. Now they had arrived at their goal. In spite of weariness they were tense as they waited. They did not exchange a word.
Adeline fairly flew up the stairs.
Hanging over the banister was Nicholas.
“Listening — you rascal!” she hissed. “Go to your room.”
“Who are the three men, Mamma?” He was altogether too self-possessed, too bold, she thought. But she had no time to waste on him. She hastened up the stairs, her voluminous skirt gathered up in her hand. She tapped on the door of the Sinclairs’ room.
It was opened to her by her son Ernest.
Seeing her expression he said, in an apologetic voice, “I am only making a little call, Mamma.” He looked so sweet standing there in his green velveteen jacket and lace collar that she could not resist taking him into her arms and planting a maternal kiss on his cheek.
“Come in — come in,” Lucy Sinclair called.
“Where is Mr. Sinclair?” Adeline asked. She tried to speak calmly. “There are visitors for him.”
“With your husband in the smoking room.” Lucy Sinclair sought to control her excitement.
“I will run and tell him,” cried Ernest. He flew along the passage to the small room at the end and back. “Mr. Sinclair will go down directly, Mamma. Shall I take the message?”
“No, no, it’s high time you went to bed.”
Adeline swept down the stairs and made a conspiratorial entrance into the sitting room. She was astonished to find Augusta and Nicholas in amiable
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