02 Morning at Jalna by Mazo de La Roche Page A

more useful than a soft place to lay one’s head. Isn’t that so, Mr. Sinclair?”
    “I have forgotten how to relax,” he returned.
    Nicholas put in, “This cushion is of red and gold satin, with a tassel at each corner.”
    Nicholas pronounced it tossel .
    “Dear Mr. Madigan,” cried Adeline, “as soon as you have finished your tea, you must bring it down to show us. I’m dying to see it. Aren’t you, Lucy?”
    “There is nothing that interests me more than fine needlework,” she replied.
    “There is nothing that interests me less,” said Madigan.
    “Ah, what an unfeeling remark!” cried Adeline, pouring him another cup of tea. “Really, this Irishman is hopeless. He gives quite a wrong impression of himself. In reality he has a tender heart and the sensibility of an —”
    “Irish wolfhound,” interrupted Philip. “Another cup of tea, please.”
    Lucius Madigan subsided into silent laughter. He was suddenly in high good humour. He had that day been paid his quarterly salary. This usually was the occasion of a few days’ disappearance and a return to Jalna, pale, contrite and considerably lighter in pocket. But now instead his purse was untouched and he was the centre of romantic speculation. After tea he consented to bring down the cushion for inspection. All agreed that it was handsome. Philip put it on the sofa in the sitting-room and laid his blond head on it, to his daughter’s embarrassment, for she was concerned that her parents should keep their dignity. The baby, Philip, was brought in for his bedtime romp and was tossed up by his father till he screamed with delight and wet himself.
    Adeline drew Madigan into the hall and, standing impressively, with one hand on the newel-post, on the top of which a superb bunch of grapes was carved, she said, “Lucius, I have something important to say to you and I hope you’ll take it to heart.”
    It was the first time she had addressed him by his Christian name and it brought tears to his eyes. He thought of himself as a poor lonely Irishman sadly out of place in this virile pioneer country. He thought of his poor mother in County Cork and how he had not written a line to her in the last ten months.
    “I take everything you say to heart, Mrs. Whiteoak.” There were tears in his voice.
    “Well, I say this,” she went on. “You cannot do better than by marrying Amelia Busby.”
    “But —” he exclaimed, in panic.
    “Listen. It is plain to see that she is badly smitten by you. She is a healthy young woman who will take every care of you. She is good-natured. She is wild to get married, which her sisters accomplished years ago.”
    “But I have no means. Nothing to marry on.”
    Adeline’s persuasive voice sank almost to a whisper. “Don’t let that worry you,” she said. “Amelia is a woman of means. Her bachelor uncle left her a fine farm which she has rented. He left her also a small house in the town. You could move right into it. Amelia is going on for thirty and panting to settle down with a mate. She adores you. That’s plain.”
    “But why — why?” stammered Madigan. “There is nothing about me to adore.”
    “You don’t know your own value,” said Adeline. “That’s the trouble with the Irish. We are too modest. The English are so quietly self-assured. The Scotch so conceited. Take my advice, Lucius, and ask Amelia for her hand. She’ll accept you, I’ll be bound.”
    Madigan clasped his hands in front of him, tried to speak, failed, tried again and brought out, “There is one great obstacle to my marriage with a girl like Miss Busby.”
    “Don’t tell me you’re already married.”
    “Thank God, no,” he said, “but I am a Catholic.”
    Adeline was astonished but not dismayed.
    “Strange,” she said, “that you did not tell me this at the first, but I suppose you feared that, if I knew, I would not engage you.”
    “That was my reason.” The tutor looked into her eyes with defiance. “It was not that I was