Free 02 Morning at Jalna by Mazo de La Roche Page B

laid his hand on her knee. “Put yours beside it,” he said, “and see.”
    The touch of his hand went through her like fire. She laid her hand yearningly beside his.
    “Hi, you in the boat,” called out one of the men on the bank.
    Tite turned towards him with dignity.
    “Were you speaking to me, mister?”
    “I was.” The man got up from the log and came to the river bank. He said, “Can you tell me if there’s a man named Sinclair living hereabouts?”
    “He was visiting friends here,” said Tite. “He may be gone, for all I know.”
    “He’s a slave owner” — the man spoke with scorn. “He brought some slaves with him. Do you young folks happen to be two of them?”
    “We might be,” said Tite.
    “Waal, you’re free now. Do you know that?”
    “Thanks for telling us,” said Tite.
    Annabelle was shaking with silent laughter. “What’s the joke?” asked the man.
    “This young fellah ain’t a slave,” she said. “He’s an Injun.”
    The man grinned. “I ain’t never seen an Injun and a mulatto sparkin’ before.”
    “You’ve a lot to learn,” said Tite.
    Annabelle spoke boldly, “Ah guess you’re a Yankee,” she said.
    “I certainly am,” said the man, “and so’s my friend here. We’re refugees from the North. We don’t want to fight. We don’t want to be drafted into the army. There’s lots like us comin’ into Canada. We thought Mr. Sinclair might help us to find work.”
    “Then you’re not agin the South?” Annabelle looked searchingly into the man’s face.
    “Do I want to fight my brothers?” he demanded. “No, I’m all for peace and prosperity.”
    The other man now came forward. “Can you tell us,” he asked, “where Mr. Sinclair lives? We don’t want to pester him but just to ask his advice.”
    “He’s stayin’ at a place called Jalna.” Annabelle spoke with pride. “It’s the finest place hereabout but not as fine as our plantations.”
    “Which direction does it lie in?” asked the man, as though unconcernedly.
    She told him and the two men left, with a gruff thank you.
    “You should not have told them, Belle,” said Tite. “I don’t like the looks of them.”
    “But they’re not fighters,” she cried. “Jus’ poor refugees from the var.”
    “They look like murderers,” said Tite.
    He brought the boat to the shore, tied it to a fallen tree and scrambled out. “I must see where they go,” he said. “You wait here, Belle.”
    “Be careful,” she called after him; a rich proprietary feeling for him thrilled her being, causing her to watch his lithe figure with the benign concern of a dark angel, as he disappeared into the bush. Waterfowl, knowing little of fear, swam close to her. A blue heron stole colour from the sky as he flashed overhead. She could see his legs tucked under him, as though he never would consent to use them again but would fly on and on to the end of the world. Oh, that she and Tite could live all their lives on this river bank, loving each other, serving the Lord! A tiny house, of only one room, built of logs, would be enough. The thought of the coming winter, the snowdrifts, no longer frightened her. She would feel safe, with Tite always at her side. He had not yet spoken of marriage but he would. She was sure he would. She did not look ahead to the time when he would pass his final examinations, become a lawyer. She could not believe in such a possibility. It was quite beyond her. Always she pictured him as the agile half-breed, with French blood in his veins. No Negro could be so clever, so ready-tongued.
    Now he came loping back to her.
    “They’re gone,” he said, “but not in the direction of Jalna. By jingo, I believe they’re Yankee spies.”
    “Ah’d be afraid if you wasn’t here,” said Annabelle.
    “What about God? Won’t he look after you?”
    “He’s got dis war on his hands. He won’t have time for a poor girl like me.”
    Tite gave her a tender look. “Don’t worry, Annabelle.