Read Online 02 Morning at Jalna by Mazo de La Roche - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mazo de La Roche
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Gussie surveyed the situation with disapproval.
“Mamma,” said Nicholas, “do let me carry the tray for you.”
She would not allow that, but he pressed through the door after her and passed the china biscuit-box. The Southerners regarded him distrustfully.
“This boy,” Adeline said grandly, “is safe as a church. He would rather die than mention your coming.” And she gave her son a threatening look.
When, a few minutes later, he rejoined Augusta, he was glowing with a sense of responsibility.
“Hurrah!” he cried. “I’m up to my neck in this.”
“Nicholas,” said Augusta, “I do wish you’d try to control yourself. You know how Mr. Pink preaches self-control. His last sermon was on that subject.”
“Let him control himself and not be so long-winded,” said Nicholas loftily.
Ernest appeared at the top of the stairs in his nightshirt which touched the floor and had a little starched frill around the neck.
“You had better come up,” he said. “Mr. Madigan is lying on his bed singing and there is a bottle beside him.”
Nicholas and Gussie bounded up the stairs.
An air of mystery pervaded. Try as Philip would to lead a normal life, it was impossible with all this secretive coming and going about him. He sometimes wished he had not allowed himself to get involved in this conspiracy. It might, he feared, cost him the friendship of at least two of his neighbours, if these secret meetings leaked out. Adeline was exhilarated. She wished for something more than the passive part she was playing. She was above eavesdropping at the keyhole of the sitting-room door to discover, if she could, what these men were really up to. She could not believe that Philip did not know all.
“Why don’t you insist,” she demanded, “on Curtis Sinclair making a clean breast of it? You have a right to know.”
“One thing I’m certain of,” said Philip, “is that I don’t want to know more than I already know.”
“How much do you know?” she shot at him.
He was not to be taken off guard. “I am lending my house,” he said, “as a meeting place. That’s the sum total of it.”
“You’re maddening,” she cried. “I won’t be treated so! Am I to carry refreshments to these rough men and never be told why they are here?”
“Ask Lucy Sinclair,” he said. “She must know.”
“I have asked her. She tells me that she has sworn by all she holds sacred to divulge nothing.”
“You sound very theatrical,” said Philip.
Bareheaded she travelled the narrow path to Wilmott’s cottage. It was now August. Summer was past its most burning sun. Full-blown white clouds appeared from nowhere and cast their shadows on the green land. Sometimes the clouds darkened and sent down a shower. This had happened early that morning, so the path was now soggy wet under Adeline’s feet. Burrs caught on her long skirt and hung there.
The path lay close beside the river for a short distance before it discovered Wilmott’s small cottage. The river was the grey of a pigeon’s breast, though now and again when the sun pushed the clouds aside the gentle greyness blazed into gentian blue. At one of these moments Adeline stood on the river’s bank, lost in admiration of its blueness. But even while she admired, the canopy of cloud moved inexorably over the scene, not with the effect of gloom but rather as though in placid acceptance of the coming of fall. Those rushes called “cat tails” grew in a clump at the river’s edge. Adeline thought she would ask Tite to gather some of them for her. There was a certain tall Chinese vase in the drawing-room at home in which they would be as pretty as a picture.
Now she saw on the river the flat-bottomed boat belonging to Wilmott, its oars gently moving in the silent water. In the boat were Tite and the mulatto girl, Annabelle. She lounged in the stern trailing one hand in the water. “Like a lady of leisure,” thought Adeline.
She called out, “I see you two! And I
“Mamma,” said Nicholas, “do let me carry the tray for you.”
She would not allow that, but he pressed through the door after her and passed the china biscuit-box. The Southerners regarded him distrustfully.
“This boy,” Adeline said grandly, “is safe as a church. He would rather die than mention your coming.” And she gave her son a threatening look.
When, a few minutes later, he rejoined Augusta, he was glowing with a sense of responsibility.
“Hurrah!” he cried. “I’m up to my neck in this.”
“Nicholas,” said Augusta, “I do wish you’d try to control yourself. You know how Mr. Pink preaches self-control. His last sermon was on that subject.”
“Let him control himself and not be so long-winded,” said Nicholas loftily.
Ernest appeared at the top of the stairs in his nightshirt which touched the floor and had a little starched frill around the neck.
“You had better come up,” he said. “Mr. Madigan is lying on his bed singing and there is a bottle beside him.”
Nicholas and Gussie bounded up the stairs.
An air of mystery pervaded. Try as Philip would to lead a normal life, it was impossible with all this secretive coming and going about him. He sometimes wished he had not allowed himself to get involved in this conspiracy. It might, he feared, cost him the friendship of at least two of his neighbours, if these secret meetings leaked out. Adeline was exhilarated. She wished for something more than the passive part she was playing. She was above eavesdropping at the keyhole of the sitting-room door to discover, if she could, what these men were really up to. She could not believe that Philip did not know all.
“Why don’t you insist,” she demanded, “on Curtis Sinclair making a clean breast of it? You have a right to know.”
“One thing I’m certain of,” said Philip, “is that I don’t want to know more than I already know.”
“How much do you know?” she shot at him.
He was not to be taken off guard. “I am lending my house,” he said, “as a meeting place. That’s the sum total of it.”
“You’re maddening,” she cried. “I won’t be treated so! Am I to carry refreshments to these rough men and never be told why they are here?”
“Ask Lucy Sinclair,” he said. “She must know.”
“I have asked her. She tells me that she has sworn by all she holds sacred to divulge nothing.”
“You sound very theatrical,” said Philip.
Bareheaded she travelled the narrow path to Wilmott’s cottage. It was now August. Summer was past its most burning sun. Full-blown white clouds appeared from nowhere and cast their shadows on the green land. Sometimes the clouds darkened and sent down a shower. This had happened early that morning, so the path was now soggy wet under Adeline’s feet. Burrs caught on her long skirt and hung there.
The path lay close beside the river for a short distance before it discovered Wilmott’s small cottage. The river was the grey of a pigeon’s breast, though now and again when the sun pushed the clouds aside the gentle greyness blazed into gentian blue. At one of these moments Adeline stood on the river’s bank, lost in admiration of its blueness. But even while she admired, the canopy of cloud moved inexorably over the scene, not with the effect of gloom but rather as though in placid acceptance of the coming of fall. Those rushes called “cat tails” grew in a clump at the river’s edge. Adeline thought she would ask Tite to gather some of them for her. There was a certain tall Chinese vase in the drawing-room at home in which they would be as pretty as a picture.
Now she saw on the river the flat-bottomed boat belonging to Wilmott, its oars gently moving in the silent water. In the boat were Tite and the mulatto girl, Annabelle. She lounged in the stern trailing one hand in the water. “Like a lady of leisure,” thought Adeline.
She called out, “I see you two! And I
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