Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny by Mazo de la Roche Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mazo de la Roche
exhilarated him almost beyond bearing. At times he poured forth a stream of Hindu. At others he uttered a succession of piercing cries. Never was he still. He attracted a crowd of ragged, dirty children who screamed when he screamed, and jumped up and down in their excitement. When these pressed too close,Patsy would flourish his blackthorn at them and drive them off, shouting at them in Gaelic.
The ayah had taken a fancy to Patsy. To her he seemed a macabre being but somehow benevolent. She stood close beside him, her draperies blowing gracefully in the breeze, her infant charge in her arms. The stay in Ireland had done little Augusta good. Her cheeks had filled out and she was less pale. Her hair had grown long enough to make a silky black curl on her forehead, gazing in wonder at the scene, but when her eyes rested on Patsy she would show her four milk-white teeth in a smile of delight. She had had the milk from one goat during her stay in Ireland and the goat had been given to her to take to Canada, so that no change of milk might upset her digestion. The goat, held on a halter by a shock-headed boy, stood immobile, regarding with equanimity, even with cynicism, what was going on. It had been named Maggie and Lady Honoria had tied a small bell to its neck, and the vicissitudes of the voyage were accented by its silvery tinkle.
Augusta’s young uncles had been carefully outfitted for the new life by their mother. But to Philip’s mind their clothes looked too picturesque, their hair too long, their hands too white. Conway especially — he was the one who reminded Philip of the Knave of Diamonds — looked too exquisite. They were here, there, and everywhere — giving facetious orders to the sailors who were carrying aboard the crates of hens, geese, and ducks, prodding forward the pigs, dragging the sheep and the cows.
A group of poor emigrants were guarding their luggage, clinging tearfully to those last moments with their kinsfolk who had come to see them off. A priest was among them, doing his best to keep up their spirits, sweeping the heavens with his large grey eyes and prophesying a fair voyage. He was there to put two young nieces aboard who were going out to a brother, and he could not look at them without his eyes running over.
Adeline wore a long green cloak with wide sleeves edged by fur. She stood facing the sea, drinking in the joyful breeze that struck the white sails of the ship as a dancer might strike a tambourine.The shimmering sea lay before her, and beyond — that young continent where she and Philip were to make their home. She wished they two were going on the ship alone. She drew away from the weeping people about her and, slipping her hand into Philip’s, pressed his fingers. He looked into her eyes.
“Sure you haven’t left anything behind?” he asked.
“Nothing. Not even my heart.”
“Well, that’s sensible of you. For, if you had, I should have been forced to go back for it.”
The priest came up to her.
“Pardon me, my lady,” he said. He had heard Adeline’s mother so addressed and thought it proper to use the title to her.
“Yes?” she answered, not ill-pleased.
“I am going to ask you a favour,” he said. “I have two young nieces sailing on the ship, and a terrible long and risky voyage it is for thim. Would you be so kind as to give thim a word of encouragement if they are ill or in trouble? If I could carry such a message to their poor mother, sure ’t would dry the sorrowing eyes of her! D’ye think you could?”
“Indeed I will,” said Adeline. “And, if you will give me your address, I’ll write and tell you about the voyage and how your nieces fare.”
The priest wrote his address on a somewhat crumpled bit of paper and, full of gratitude, returned to the admonishing of the two rosy-cheeked, black-haired girls whose young bosoms seemed swelling with exuberance.
The confusion was apparently hopeless. The cries of animals and fowls, the shoutings,
The ayah had taken a fancy to Patsy. To her he seemed a macabre being but somehow benevolent. She stood close beside him, her draperies blowing gracefully in the breeze, her infant charge in her arms. The stay in Ireland had done little Augusta good. Her cheeks had filled out and she was less pale. Her hair had grown long enough to make a silky black curl on her forehead, gazing in wonder at the scene, but when her eyes rested on Patsy she would show her four milk-white teeth in a smile of delight. She had had the milk from one goat during her stay in Ireland and the goat had been given to her to take to Canada, so that no change of milk might upset her digestion. The goat, held on a halter by a shock-headed boy, stood immobile, regarding with equanimity, even with cynicism, what was going on. It had been named Maggie and Lady Honoria had tied a small bell to its neck, and the vicissitudes of the voyage were accented by its silvery tinkle.
Augusta’s young uncles had been carefully outfitted for the new life by their mother. But to Philip’s mind their clothes looked too picturesque, their hair too long, their hands too white. Conway especially — he was the one who reminded Philip of the Knave of Diamonds — looked too exquisite. They were here, there, and everywhere — giving facetious orders to the sailors who were carrying aboard the crates of hens, geese, and ducks, prodding forward the pigs, dragging the sheep and the cows.
A group of poor emigrants were guarding their luggage, clinging tearfully to those last moments with their kinsfolk who had come to see them off. A priest was among them, doing his best to keep up their spirits, sweeping the heavens with his large grey eyes and prophesying a fair voyage. He was there to put two young nieces aboard who were going out to a brother, and he could not look at them without his eyes running over.
Adeline wore a long green cloak with wide sleeves edged by fur. She stood facing the sea, drinking in the joyful breeze that struck the white sails of the ship as a dancer might strike a tambourine.The shimmering sea lay before her, and beyond — that young continent where she and Philip were to make their home. She wished they two were going on the ship alone. She drew away from the weeping people about her and, slipping her hand into Philip’s, pressed his fingers. He looked into her eyes.
“Sure you haven’t left anything behind?” he asked.
“Nothing. Not even my heart.”
“Well, that’s sensible of you. For, if you had, I should have been forced to go back for it.”
The priest came up to her.
“Pardon me, my lady,” he said. He had heard Adeline’s mother so addressed and thought it proper to use the title to her.
“Yes?” she answered, not ill-pleased.
“I am going to ask you a favour,” he said. “I have two young nieces sailing on the ship, and a terrible long and risky voyage it is for thim. Would you be so kind as to give thim a word of encouragement if they are ill or in trouble? If I could carry such a message to their poor mother, sure ’t would dry the sorrowing eyes of her! D’ye think you could?”
“Indeed I will,” said Adeline. “And, if you will give me your address, I’ll write and tell you about the voyage and how your nieces fare.”
The priest wrote his address on a somewhat crumpled bit of paper and, full of gratitude, returned to the admonishing of the two rosy-cheeked, black-haired girls whose young bosoms seemed swelling with exuberance.
The confusion was apparently hopeless. The cries of animals and fowls, the shoutings,
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