“Please don’t go, Miss Rhys,” he pleaded. “You were doing so splendidly.”
“What does that man Fielding think I am?” she demanded. “A dummy, to be thrown here and there! No, I can’t stand it!” She wound a green chiffon scarf repeatedly about her neck as though to strangle herself in her despair.
Ninian Fox came to the door.
“Miss Rhys,” he pleaded, “please don’t upset everything by going.”
“I’m tired out,” she said. “I’m a complete wreck.”
“I know, my dear — I know. But I’m quite sure Mr. Fielding will let you faint as you please from now on.”
“It’s too late.” she said grimly. “I’m going.”
Fox came into the room and took her hand. “Come into my office and have a drink.”
“You can write a letter to him,” she said, “on my behalf, and tell him that if he does not show more consideration for me, I’ll throw up my part.”
Fielding came into the room. He no longer wore the long topcoat but a natty grey suit and blue tie. His clever sallow face was deeply concerned, though how sincere the concern was, Wakefield could not guess. It might be simulated merely to pacify Miss Rhys.
“Phyllis,” he began.
“There has been enough talk,” she said, with a tragic wave of her hand. “I’m going home.”
“Phyllis — you can’t do that!”
“I can and will.” She jammed a becoming green toque on her head at a rakish angle and made for the door.
Ninian Fox intercepted her.
There was another door and she turned passionately toward it. There Fielding awaited her with outstretched arms and the selfsame expression he wore when she fainted in the play. It was too much. She struck at him. She faced both men like a tigress at bay. There was a moment’s terrible tension. Then they advanced on her and put their arms about her. She laid her handsome head on Fielding’s shoulder and sobbed — but suffered herself to be divested of her outer garments and led back to the stage.
The rehearsal began again.
One of the most emotional scenes was that in which Catherine accused her mother of having been a bad influence in her life. Molly could not do her part to please Ninian Fox. He listened to her with a smile of suffering on his ascetic mouth, then interrupted her with a staccato — “Miss Griffith!” Each time the colour fled from her face and she started like a sensitive child.
“Again, please,” he would say. “Miss Rhys, will you please say that bit beginning — ‘Cathie, you’re still a child to me.’”
“‘Cathie, you’re still a child to me. You’re still my own dear child. If you say such things, you’ll kill me.’” Miss Rhys’s magnetic voice pierced Molly to the heart, yet her response never satisfied Mr. Fox. He would exclaim: —
“Miss Griffith, I wish you could hear yourself saying, ‘But why did you bring Captain McArthur to the house, Mummie?’ It’s just as though you were saying, ‘But why can’t I have jam with my blancmange, Mummie?’ You must remember this is a moment of high emotion on your part. Now let us try it again.”
In the taxi on the way to Brown’s Hotel Molly said, in a small, controlled voice: —
“He hates me. I shall never do my part to please him. I’m getting worse instead of better. I know Miss Rhys thinks so. If it weren’t for you, I should wish I’d never got the part.”
Wakefield looked tenderly at the pale profile turned to him. “I’d like to bash his head in,” he said. “I think you say your lines beautifully and so does Trimble. So do Robert Fielding and the others. Keep your courage up. You’re going to be a success. Especially in the scenes with me. Look round, Molly.”
She turned her face to him and smiled. She laid her thin hand impulsively on his.
“You’re so sweet to me,” she said, then added — “I wish we were going to be alone. I’m not in a mood to meet strangers. Your brother will think me stupid.”
“Don’t worry about meeting Renny. I’m glad he’s married. Otherwise you’d be casting me off for him.”
He spoke teasingly. She laughed and with childlike swiftness she turned to a happier mood. She took out a vanity case and made a few swift dabs at her face.
“Is that better?” she asked.
There was nothing provocative about her.
“Yes, much better,” he answered, matter-of-factly. “But you’re paler than I like to see you. I wish you could have a week in the country.”
“I wish I could. I’ll not be happy till I’ve shown you the Welsh mountains.”
That remark drew them still closer. A feeling of adventure made the air in the taxi quiver with a new life. A flower seller’s barrow at the corner overflowed and flowers followed them all the way to the hotel. Wakefield doubled his tip to the driver.
Renny was waiting for them in the lobby. Wakefield had forgotten to tell him that Molly would have no time to dress for dinner and he wore a dinner jacket. Molly drew back behind Wakefield.
“I can’t go in,” she said. “You didn’t tell him!”
“Good Lord. I forgot! But it doesn’t matter” He took her arm and drew her in. Renny came to meet them.
“Sorry,” said Wakefield. “We simply had no time to change. We’re straight from rehearsal.”
“Wakefield promised to telephone,” said Molly, when the introductions were over. “I know I look all wrong.”
“You look very nice to me but, if you like, I’ll change.”
“Goodness, no!” She gave him a look almost of wonder. Compared to the men she and Wakefield had just left he was a being from such a different world that she felt she could find nothing to say to him. She was indeed almost silent during the first course of dinner. Renny appeared to ignore her, perhaps to put her at her ease, more likely because he had spent the afternoon with some horsy acquaintances whose conversation he repeated almost word for word. This conversation had great import, in his eyes, because of his recent acquisition of Johnny the Bird.
But he was conscious of Molly. She was very different from what he had expected. She seemed not to belong to the theatre as he pictured it. There was a courage in her way of holding her slender body and in the tilt of her face that troubled him, he could not have told why. As he saw her constraint wearing off he drew her on to talk. He was not particularly interested in the play but she found he was interested in Wales. She could see that he loved country life and felt himself at home only there. He had a way of turning his head aside and looking out through the window as though escape were in his mind. Yet he was not restive. The three brothers, she thought, were strangely alike, with all their outward differences. She felt Renny’s swift, penetrating glance in all her nerves. He seemed to be asking her some question for which she had no answer.
On his part he wondered at his interest in her. He was not a man who was attracted by young girls. He preferred the society of experienced women. But he was glad that the girl Wakefield had apparently fallen for was like this. There was something good and wholesome in Wake. He believed he would run straight. He asked the two of them if they would like to go to a play. They would, and instantly chose a Russian revival running at the Westminster.
His look of resigned boredom at such a prospect made Wakefield exclaim: —
“No, no — not that play! It’s too highbrow for Renny. Let’s see a musical comedy or a thriller.”
Now Renny saw the girl’s disappointed look. He forced his weather-beaten features into an expression of purposeful asceticism. “I like Russian plays. I don’t often have the chance to see them. We’ll go to the Westminster.”
Molly’s face lightened. “Oh, I’m so glad!” she said. She gave him a grateful look.
Wakefield scarcely saw what was passing on the stage. He only knew that his eldest brother was deeply conscious of Molly, and she of him. Wakefield felt no resentment as yet for her interest in Renny. It was natural. Women felt like that about him. But what right had he to look at her the way he did? What was in the look? W
akefield could not tell. He felt himself suddenly terribly young and inexperienced. He felt bewildered and swept by moments of rage. He remembered remarks he had heard about Renny’s love affairs. Yet he did not seem particularly keen about women. He seemed, in fact, a devoted husband. But when they went to the foyer between acts Wakefield saw that intense look in his eyes, that adroit look about the lips, as though they knew, without effort, just what to say and do. Renny went to get sherry for them, his narrow, hard-looking head with the pointed ears rising above the crowd. Wakefield asked: — “Do you like him?”
“Very much.”
Wakefield searched her face for embarrassment but found none.
“Is he what you expected?”
“No one ever is.”
“Do you form such fantastic ideas in advance, then?”
“He is much more exciting than I had expected.”
“Really?” Wakefield gave her an icy look. Renny returned with the sherry.
“Do you like the play?” she asked him.
“Very much. But, upon my word, those people led an awful life.”
“Don’t you think that all of us are like that underneath — only we don’t know it?”
He made a quick grimace of amusement.
“Do you want me to believe that you are?”
Again that look in his face. Wake felt a sudden dismay. Surely Renny couldn’t do such a thing to him! Not Renny, who had been like his father!
“Why are you so quiet?” asked Molly.
“Am I quiet? I didn’t know.”
As they moved along the aisle to their seats she whispered — “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“Of course I am,” he answered irritably. “You don’t expect me to be hilarious at this play, do you?”
She was hurt and showed it.
He recovered himself during the last act and at supper afterward was able to force some liveliness into his talk. Renny, returned from the Russian atmosphere, was exhilarated. He hoped he would never have to see such a play again but he was glad they had seen it, because the girl was so obviously delighted by the acting.
“I’ll wager you can do as well,” he said.
She opened her eyes wide. “Me? You should hear the things Mr. Fox says of my acting.”
“He’s an old brute,” said Wakefield. He put unnecessary vehemence into the words. He wondered at himself. He scarcely knew what was wrong.
When they had dropped Renny at his hotel and stood outside her lodgings in Ebury Street, a new feeling for her welled from Wakefield’s heart. Renny’s disturbing presence was gone. They stood alone together in the cool dark night. He wanted to take her into his arms and press his lips to hers. He wanted to prove that love had really flowered that night in him. Yet he was too unhappy to have confidence in himself more than to touch her hand. It hurt him to think that his love should flower in anger and jealousy. It had all been so beautiful.
“Do tell me what is wrong,” she urged, in a low voice.
“Nothing. I’m tired. That’s all.”
“I’m so sorry.” She pressed his fingers. “Your hands are cold,” she said.
He wondered how she could touch him and know nothing of his emotions. Perhaps she was cold, self-centred. But no — she just didn’t feel any love for him.
“Good night,” he said huskily.
“Good night, Wake, and thank you for a lovely evening.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said bitterly, “thank my brother.”
“Why, it would have been nothing without you!”
He wheeled on her. “That’s not the truth,” he said harshly, “and you know it!”
She drew back from him. “I don’t know what you want me to do or say tonight. Perhaps what I said was not perfectly true, but your being there made all the difference. Why, all the good times I have come from you!”
In the light of the street lamp he could see tears glistening in her eyes. He stood hesitating, bewildered by his own confused thoughts and emotions. The arms of his spirit reached out to her in compassion but he heard himself saying — “I’m unreasonable, I suppose. Good night, Molly. See you tomorrow.”
He walked to Gayfere Street. Sarah had gone to bed. Finch was reading alone in the sitting room. Wakefield went in and sat down without speaking. Finch looked up from his book as though just conscious of his presence.
“I didn’t hear you come in. Have a good time?”
“Very. We saw A Month in the Country.”
“Was it good?”
“Molly said it was beautifully acted. I didn’t notice.”
Finch laid down his book. “Didn’t notice?”
Wakefield broke out, “I didn’t notice anything except the way Renny looked at Molly Griffith and how interested she was in him. You know, Finch, I love Molly. You don’t think — you don’t think —” He could not go on.
Finch’s eyes were filled with pity. This poor young beggar was very unhappy! “You mean do I think Renny would he so heartless as to play with your girl’s affections? If that’s what you mean — no, I don’t.”
Wakefield walked up and down the room. “I tell you, Finch, she had no eyes for me when he was there. And he looked at her as though she was the one girl on earth. As though he wanted to find out all about her. As though he were playing a game of skill and was the hell of a champion at it.”
Finch’s voice, which in moments of emotion he could not control, broke out loud and trembling: —
“He can’t do that to you, Wake! You mustn’t let him.”
“How can I prevent it?”
Finch spoke more quietly. “Why, Renny wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. He’s too fond of you. All you need to do is to let him see that you love the girl —”
Wakefield interrupted — “He knows I’m terribly keen about her. No — he’s off on a holiday. He’s going to have a little fun and he doesn’t care who suffers for it.”
“Wake, I won’t believe that Renny would consciously make you miserable. Shall I speak to him?”
“No,” Wakefield answered bitterly. “If I am such a weakling that I can’t hang on to my own girl —”
“Rot!”
“It isn’t rot…. If my girl thinks so little of me —”
“Wake, you’ve been engaged. You know something about women —”
“I was engaged to Pauline Lebraux. She wouldn’t have looked at another man as Molly looked at him tonight.”
“But you’re not engaged to Molly.”
“No. And probably never shall be!” He sat down and buried his face in his hands.
Renny’s presence was in the room with them, heady and strong; easy and ruthless, they felt, where women were concerned.
“And I looked forward to his coming!” exclaimed Wakefield. “I wanted him to meet Molly!”
Finch spoke comfortingly. “Now look here, Wake, you’re overwrought and perhaps you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. God knows, I do the same thing myself. After all, they need never meet again if you don’t want them to.”
“I’ve seen them meet tonight. Things can’t be the same again.”
“In a fortnight he’ll be on the ocean.”
“He’s done something that will remain.”
“Why don’t you have it out with Molly? A talk with her would clear the air.”
“Perhaps I shall. Anyhow I’m going to bed now … I wish I knew what is in his mind.”
“Probably he’s fast asleep and dreaming of Johnny the Bird.”
In spite of himself, Wakefield laughed.
XII
PLAY AND RECITAL
MOLLY WAS SO natural when Wakefield met her at the rehearsal next day that he felt a momentary ease of mind but it did not last. A note from Renny was handed to him. It read: —
DEAR WAKE,
I’ve got to take young Adeline about a bit. A friend who owns a launch has asked us to Marlow this afternoon for tea on the river. She’d like to have you, and Miss Griffith too, if yo
u’ll come. The boy will wait for an answer.
R.
Wakefield knit his brow into furrows that gave him an odd resemblance to Nicholas. He did not know what to do. He could, as Finch had said, keep Renny and Molly from meeting. On the other hand, if he watched them together, he might find that his jealousy had no substance in fact. But if he threw them together, he might bitterly regret it. Still, Renny was a married man. Even if he did admire Molly, what could come of it? This way and that, Wake’s mind was torn by indecision.
The bell rang for the rehearsal to continue. He went to where Molly stood alone and asked abruptly. “Would you like to go up the river this afternoon? My brother has asked us.”
She answered at once, “I’d love to, if we can get away in time.”
“We can. It’s Wednesday. There’s a matinee. All right, I’ll accept.”
He scribbled — “Thanks. We’d like to come,” on the back of Renny’s note, and gave it to the boy.
The bell rang again.
They were rehearsing in the bar of the theatre. The little tables were pushed against the wall. Ninian Fox was producing. He sat on the edge of a table, gently swinging his leg and smiling at Miss Rhys, Fielding, and the leading man, who had begun one of their comedy scenes. Miss Rhys was indeed inimitable. She played with such zest that Wakefield was no longer conscious of the rattle of dishes in the adjoining kitchen and stared at her, as her son Frederick, in mingled tenderness and rage. His cue came and he threw himself impetuously into the scene. Things went well. He was better than usual. Ninian Fox was so pleased that he allowed Molly to say most of her lines in peace. They had not before had such a satisfactory rehearsal.
They had tea and sandwiches from the bar. Shafts of thin sunlight came in at the windows. Molly had a lovely colour in her cheeks. Wakefield thought — “She looks radiant, all because she’s going up the river. Or is it because she’ll be near Renny? Whichever it is, I have no part in it.” He said coldly: — “It’s been a good rehearsal, hasn’t it?”
She gave him a swift glance.
“Yes. Splendid. I’m so happy about it I wish we could go on all the afternoon.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 374