Philip and Adeline had come into the porch to see their children depart. It was as if they were setting out on a journey, rather than going to spend a few days with a neighbour. The children were somewhat pampered. Captain Whiteoak himself carried their portmanteau, though Nicholas was a strong lad. Adeline took out her own handkerchief and wiped Ernest’s pert little nose, though he had a clean handkerchief of his own, with the initial E on a corner, in the pocket of his blouse.
“See to it that his nose does not dribble,” she admonished Augusta. Captain Whiteoak lifted Ernest into the wagonette. Their mother raised her handsome face and gave each of her children a hearty kiss.
“Whatever comes your way,” she said, “accept it with the gracious calm shown by me.” She said to the driver, “Patsy Joe, if you let that pony wander into the ditch and overturn the wagonette, as you did once before, I’ll be the death of you.”
The wagonette moved swiftly away. Nero, the great black Newfoundland dog, bounded alongside. Summer sunshine found its way through the densest trees and glittered on the rump of the piebald cob whose hooves made only a soft thud on the sandy loam of the road.
When the Busbys’ rambling frame farmhouse appeared, Augusta said to Ernest, “Not a word now about blackamoors. Remember.”
“Blackamoors, my eye!” said Ernest. There was no time to reprimand him. They all clambered out.
II
II
The Visitors
Lucy Sinclair remarked to her husband:
“That little fellow could be a perfect pest but so far he’s rather sweet.”
“Certainly he’s very pretty,” said Curtis Sinclair.
Both turned their weary eyes on little Philip Whiteoak who was struggling to build a house of toy bricks on the grass nearby. It was as much as he could do to place one brick on top of another but he heaped them with commanding concentration and pouted his baby lips in resolve.
“He favours his papa,” said Lucy Sinclair.
“A typical Englishman.” Her husband spoke half-admiringly, half in resentment. “A stubborn, self-opinionated type.”
“These people,” said she, “are our friends; it’s heaven to be here.”
“They are generosity itself,” he agreed. “Whiteoak said to me this morning — ‘You are to consider this your home — you and Mrs. Sinclair and your servants — till the war is over.’”
She took out a lace handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “What will be left to us?” she exclaimed with a sob.
The tiny boy left his building bricks and came to her. He patted her on the knee. “Poor lady,” he said. “Don’t cry.”
She stroked his blond curls. “You little darling,” she said, and added, “No, I won’t cry. I’ll be brave to please you.”
Her husband laid his hand on her other knee. It was a singularly handsome hand. Always had she admired the thumb in particular. It was almost as long as a finger and perfectly rounded, the nail showing a half-moon. Her eyes moved from his hand to his pale elegant profile, and from his profile to his strong thickset body, with the pronounced hump on the back. He was a hunchback, and because of this affliction had not been able to remain in the South and fight for his country but had come to Canada with his delicate wife, hoping that he might do something to influence the fortunes of the South. In any case it was necessary to get Lucy out of the country. He was now impoverished yet still thought of himself as an independent Southern planter.
Shortly before the Civil War the Sinclairs had met the Whiteoaks in England where Philip and Adeline were on holiday. The meeting had quickly blossomed into friendship. Both couples were fascinated by the differences in the others — the Sinclairs typically Carolinian, the Whiteoaks English and Irish. The Whiteoaks had invited the Sinclairs to visit them in Canada but it was only now, and in such tragic circumstances, that the visit was paid.
They had arrived three days before. Everything to the Sinclairs was so strange, so Northern, yet so friendly, the Whiteoak family so healthy, so amiable. The days were warm but the nights cool. They slept in a great four-poster and under them a feather bed. They felt far removed from the ruin of their own home, from all that was familiar to them. They had brought with them three slaves, for they felt incapable of living without them. One was Lucy Sinclair’s personal maid, an attractive mulatto. One was a cook, already quarrelling with the Whiteoaks’ cook. The third was a man, a sturdy young Negro.
Lucy Sinclair remarked to her husband: “At any moment we shall be summoned to tea, a meal I could very well do without. Oh, this eternal tea-drinking!”
Her husband grunted in sympathy but said, “Control your voice, Lucy. Even that child appears to be listening to you.”
The small Philip had his blue eyes fixed disapprovingly on them. He looked about to cry. Lucy bent towards him as though admiring the house of blocks he was building.
She clapped her hands and exclaimed: “Pretty! Pretty!”
“Be thankful we’re here, Lucy. Show the Whiteoaks that you appreciate their kindness. Here comes Philip. Eager, I suppose, for three cups of tea, scones, and blackberry jam. Smile, Lucy.”
She did not need to be told that. The sight of the handsome blond Philip Whiteoak was enough to bring a pleased smile to any woman’s face. He said:
“I hope you’re feeling better, Mrs. Sinclair, and ready for a hearty tea. I’m told that it’s waiting in the dining room.”
He gave her an admiring look as she rose and shook out the folds of her skirt. He averted his eyes from Curtis Sinclair’s disfigured back. At that moment a nursemaid came hurrying from the house, picked up the tiny boy, who gave a cry of protest, and carried him indoors.
They found Adeline Whiteoak and her three older children standing about the tea table: Augusta, with long black curls and a heavy fringe of hair over her high forehead — a reserved child, just nicely into her teens; Nicholas, next in age, an eager boy, with beautiful dark eyes and wavy hair. He looked fearless and proud, even bold, but was well-mannered. The blue-eyed, fair-haired Ernest was two years younger. Adeline appeared almost consciously to make a picturesque group with her children.
“My brood,” she said, “all but the baby. They have been spending a few days with friends. I thought it a good idea, while you settled in, for I knew you must be very tired.”
The Sinclairs greeted the three children with formal courtesy, most flattering to them. Nicholas drew himself up and looked manly. Ernest gave a pleased smile. Augusta, with downcast eyes, wore an expression of uncertainty. She could not decide whether or not she would like these slave owners. Certainly they were the guests of her papa, but in the house where she had been visiting she had heard things said against them. How beautiful the lady was and how elegantly dressed! Even though Augusta’s eyes were downcast, she was conscious of all this.
“Thank God,” exclaimed Lucy Sinclair, “I have no children to inherit the tragedy of our lives! That would be beyond bearing.”
Her husband, to relieve the tension caused by her emotion, remarked: “I suppose all your children were born here at Jalna.”
“No, indeed,” said Philip. “Our daughter was born in India where my regiment was stationed. I sold my commission. We sailed to England and Ireland to visit our people and from there sailed for Canada.”
It was not in Adeline Whiteoak’s nature to be outdone in an exhibition of feeling. Now, the picture of a tragedy queen, she recalled that voyage.
“What a heartbreaking time it was!” she cried. “The goodbyes to my family in Ireland. We knew we might never see them again. There were my father