Adeline delighted in Philip’s stalwart good looks, the clear freshness of his complexion which years in India had not succeeded in damaging, the ardent expression of his daring blue eyes, the boyish curve of his lips. Was there ever a better figure than his, she often wondered, so broad in the shoulders, yet hips narrow! She disliked hair on a man’s face and allowed him no more than a finger’s breadth of golden whisker in front of each ear. If he had more, she would refuse to kiss him. But, far above his looks, she rejoiced in his power over her, his English reliability, the mystery of his silences, when she in her Celtic suppleness must reach out and draw him back to her.
Their wedding had never been equalled in the Indian military station. She had been twenty-two, he ten years older. He got along well with his men, who would do anything for him, but often there was a feeling of tension between him and his colonel. Philip was not the man to knuckle under with a good grace. He had an indestructible feeling that he was always in the right, and the fact that he generally was only made matters worse. When he opposed others Adeline was always on his side. When he opposed her she could see how wrong-headed and stubborn he could be.
Her sister Judith, two years older than herself, had advised her to order as magnificent a trousseau as possible from Dublin because, as she said, it would certainly be the last thing she would ever get out of her father. So the two had spent happy days in preparing lists for the guidance of Adeline’s mother in shopping. The good-natured lady never had been able to deny her children anything and now she, in her turn, had spent happy weeks creating a bustle in the Dublin shops. What her daughter had not thought of, she did, and it took a formidable array of boxes to contain the trousseau. That trousseau created a sensation in Jalna. Dresses, with voluminous flounced skirts and wide pagoda sleeves, came billowing out of the boxes; a green velvet cape with bonnet and muff to match, all embroidered with a creamy foam of lace; a Scottish tartan cloak, lined with blue silk; ball dresses cut very low, with tiny waists, and trains ruffling like the wake of a ship; shawls with long golden fringe and lace mittens decorated in the same fashion. Adeline floated to the altar in a wedding gown like a silver cloud. Tissue paper strewed the bedrooms of Judith’s bungalow when the boxes were opened and the treasures disclosed. For the time even Philip was unimportant. The young pair settled down to lead as glittering an existence as the military station afforded. No entertainment was complete without them. They were so gay: their wine was the best; their horses and their clothes the handsomest in the station.
It had been a shock to them when they discovered that Adeline was going to have a child. They did not want children. They were sufficient to themselves, and not only that-children born in India were often delicate and always had to be sent home for their education. These partings with children were a melancholy side to Anglo-Indian life. Adeline was horrified at what she would have to go through. The fact that her mother had had eleven children (four of whom had died young) meant nothing to her. She felt as though she were the first woman in the world to face that ordeal. And it had been a great ordeal-a slow and difficult birth and an aftermath of weakness and dejection. The infant did not thrive and filled the house with its wailing. What a change from their happy carefree years!
A stay in the hills had done Adeline little good. It had seemed that she would sink into invalidism. All this anxiety affected Philip’s temper. He had a violent quarrel with his colonel. He began to feel that the hand of Fate was against him. He began also to feel a longing for a more open, less restricted life. His thoughts turned toward the New World. He was finding the conventionalities of Army life irksome. If he stayed in India he must get a transfer to another regiment, for the quarrel with his colonel was not of the sort to be patched up. He had an uncle, an officer stationed in Quebec, who had written him letters overflowing with praise of the life there. Philip wondered if the Canadian climate would suit Adeline. He asked the opinion of the doctor who declared that nowhere on earth would she find more bracing air or a climate better suited to her condition. When Philip spoke of this to Adeline he quite expected her to be repelled by the thought of such a change. To leave a life so full of colour for the simplicity of the New World would surely be more than she could face. But Adeline surprised him by delighting in the prospect of the adventure. She threw her bare arms above her head (she was wearing one of the silk peignoirs she almost always wore now) and declared there was nothing on earth she would so much love to do as to go to Canada. She was tired of everything connected with India-tired of the gossip of the station, tired of the heat and the dust, tired of swarming natives and, most of all, tired of having less than her accustomed eager strength.
Even with Adeline’s consent, Philip hesitated to make the plunge. But while he hesitated his uncle died in Quebec, leaving him a considerable property there.
"Now it’s all settled!" Adeline had cried. "Nothing can hinder us!"
So Philip sold his commission, his horses and polo ponies, and Adeline sold the furniture of the bungalow, keeping only certain things precious to her to remind her of India-the beautiful painted leather furniture of her bedroom, a brass-bound cabinet and chest, some silken embroidery, carved jade and ivory ornaments. With these she would make a show in Quebec. They set sail from Bombay with their infant daughter Augusta and the ayah who had cared for her since her birth. The ayah was terrified at the thought of crossing the great seas to the other side of the world but she so loved little Augusta that she was willing to go anywhere with her. The most important of the party, in his own opinion, was Adeline’s parrot, an intelligent and healthy young bird, a fluent talker and brilliant of plumage. He was a contradiction to the belief that grey parrots are the best talkers, for he enunciated clearly and had an ample though sometimes profane vocabulary. He loved only Adeline and permitted only her to caress him. She had named him Bonaparte. She had a sly admiration for the Little Corporal. She had an admiration for the French and she was married for many years to Philip before, under his influence, she became really loyal to the English Crown. Philip had nothing but scorn and dislike for Napoleon. His own father had been killed in the battle of Waterloo and he himself born a few months later. He had no respect and little liking for the French. He called the parrot Boney for short, and that in a tone of good-humoured derision.
The journey from India to England had seemed endless. Yet on the whole it was not unpleasant. They were setting out toward a new life. There were a number of congenial people on board and among these the Whiteoaks were the most sought after. The weather was fair and Adeline’s health improved during the voyage. But, by the time they reached the Bay of Biscay, which was grey and wild, they yearned toward the shores of England. They had landed in Liverpool the week before Christmas. With their child, the ayah and a mountain of luggage they had made the long journey by stage-coach from Liverpool to the cathedral town of Penchester, where Philip’s only sister, Augusta, was anxiously awaiting them. For her the baby had been named. She was married to the Dean of a cathedral in a south-western county, a man considerably older than herself, a bookworm and hater of change and confusion. They were a happy couple, for Augusta spent her days in devotion to him and he gave her her own way in everything. She looked like Philip but was softer and less handsome. She had a happy nature and her one sorrow was her childlessness. She had looked forward eagerly to the coming of her little namesake but disappointment lay in store for her. Baby Augusta was so shy that she could hardly bear to go beyond her ayah’s arms. And the ayah selfishly encouraged her in this. She wanted her charge to love no one but her, and she clung to the child with a fierce possessive love.