“You made a great hit with my family. They all like you — especially Althea. I wish you could have heard the things she said about you. I really became jealous.” She laughed and put her arm about his shoulders.
Wakefield did not tell her that he had kissed Gemmel.
One hot July day, at the end of a matinee, Ninian Fox overtook Molly and Wake as they were leaving the theatre. He was very excited.
“There’s a New York manager here,” he said. “He has seen the play and likes it tremendously. He likes you two very much and wants to meet you. Wouldn’t it be splendid if he’d buy it for New York?” He slipped his arm into theirs and walked between them, with a secret air, beaming at them like an old friend.
Molly felt rigid at his touch. It was like him to be decent to her now, when someone else had discovered her value!
He propelled them back to his office. They were introduced to Mr. Elias, who was short and smiling and had fleshy aquiline features.
“I do like this play,” he said, when they were seated. “And I’m going to write to New York about it at once. I like you young people very much. Mr. Fox says he thinks he could replace you if I took you over there. Would you like to come?”
They would like it so much that they were almost speechless but they showed proper caution in considering the suggestion. Mr. Elias also wanted Phyllis Rhys and the leading man. The other parts could be filled by actors in New York. Mr. Elias seemed to love to make plans. He talked as though the play had already made a fortune in New York. He had Ninian Fox completely baffled, for he had been prepared to handle Mr. Elias with great shrewdness. It seemed unnecessary. Mr. Elias was ready to pour himself out and, with his good will, the gold of the New World. But when it came to the contract he was more than a match for them all put together. The salaries were not so large as the actors had expected. Ninian Fox, after struggling violently, had to take a smaller percentage than he considered his due. The author came out worst of all.
But things were settled before long and, early in August, they sailed from Southampton. Wakefield and Molly were gloriously happy. They had not a wish unfulfilled. The very sea was kind to them. The voyage was all too short. The morning came when the skyscrapers of New York towered before them in torrid heat. Their foundations seemed to have dissolved in heat, left them suspended in burning sunlight. The ship, through which the salt wind had raced for a week, was sultry and swarming with people. The four members of the company collected in the lounge where aliens were gathered. They waited perspiring, passports in hand.
Mr. Elias came to meet them. He was in a state of heat that surpassed even their own, but it did not trouble him at all. He was cheery and helpful. He gave each one an oily handshake. After his arrival everything seemed miraculously speeded-up. Their passports were examined: they were on the docks. Their luggage was examined; they were in the taxicabs. Through shabby streets, where newspapers were blown about and dirty children played on the frying-pan pavements, they emerged on to clean streets with soaring skyscrapers to shade them. People in light-coloured clothes thronged the pavements. Wake and Molly looked on each as a potential part of an audience.
Their hotel was cool but breathless, yet, when they opened their windows, the heat and dust poured in.
Phyllis Rhys had a sitting room. She was known in New York and already it was filled with bouquets of flowers from her friends and from Mr. Elias. He also had sent a dozen roses for Molly. Wakefield ordered iced drinks for everyone but when he saw the bill he was chilled without the ice. The leading man had got newspapers. There was one apiece. They stood staring at the huge headlines. War, which had receded in the salt spaces of the ocean, now pressed in on them.
“Is the threat worse,” asked Wake, “or is it just these papers?”
Phyllis Rhys was determined there should not be war. “It’s the papers,” she said. “If they don’t have scarifying headlines no one will read them.”
“It all depends on Poland,” said the leading man.
“I wonder what things will be like here,” said Molly, in a small voice, “if there’s a war.”
“It wouldn’t make any difference,” said Phyllis Rhys. “But there’ll not be one.”
“I’d not be here to know,” said Wake. “I’d be back in England.”
“You couldn’t go off like that.” Phyllis Rhys’s voice was sharp. “You’re under contract.”
“I’m willing to bet,” said her leading man, “that it will come this year.”
“Well,” cried Wake, gaily, “let’s make the most of peace while it lasts! Come on, Molly, we’ll explore.”
They put on their thinnest clothes, which were not nearly thin enough, and went into the streets.
“Gosh,” said Wake, “to think that I’m on the same land as Jalna! If I ran fast enough and far enough I should be there!” He was in wild spirits. Everything was fun. All he saw delighted him — the hard bright finish of the shops, the cosmopolitan crowds in the streets, the “tough” taxi drivers, the Negresses dressed in the latest style. What a contrast to London!
“Oh, I wish we were married and on our honeymoon!” he exclaimed. “It would be even better fun.”
“I couldn’t be happier than I am,” she said. His eyes challenged her. “Wait and see.”
Rehearsals began as soon as the cast could be finally selected. Robert Fielding had followed the others on the next ship and was to produce the play and act the comedy part as he had in London. The weeks flew by. The play was to open in mid-September. Mingled with their excitement over the opening, the strain of preparation, was the mounting apprehension of war. Then one morning Wake tapped on Molly’s door. He said through it:
— “It’s come, Molly! War is declared.”
XIX
YOUNG MAURICE AND DERMOT COURT
DERMOT COURT HAD not felt so nervous in many a year. He was waiting for the return of the car which had gone to meet Wright and young Maurice. The train must be late. That was usual in Ireland. But the continued watching and waiting had begun to tire Dermot. He began to feel a little depressed and to have misgivings as to his wisdom in bringing a child into the house. It was so many years since he had had a child of his own that he felt he had forgotten their language. To be sure, he had got on easily with little Adeline, but she was an exceptional child and her father had been with her. Now this boy was to be on his hands without help from anyone. Of course, he could send him home if it came to the worst, but he did not want to send him home.
He saw the maid, Kathleen, passing through the hall. He called out to her: —
“Is the boy’s room prepared?”
He had asked this question every time he had seen her that day but she answered patiently — “Indeed and it is, sir, and a lovely comfortable room that ought to make him settle down if anything will.”
“Good. Patsy should be back from the train by now. I hope the car has not broken down.”
“The car couldn’t break down, sir, not after the way Patsy overhauled it yesterday. There he comes down the drive now!” She hurried to the door.
A stab of excitement passed through Dermot, making him weak. What if he should hate the boy on sight! What if the boy should hate him! If he had it to do over he never would have risked such an undertaking.
“Keep him with you, Kathleen,” he said, nervously, “while I have a word with the man. Send the man in to me.” He sat down in a deep chair and waited.
He heard movements, voices in the hall. Then the door opened and a stocky man, obviously dressed in his best and quite self-possessed, came into the room.
“You’re the man who has come to help school the horse?”
“Well, I guess so, sir,” answered Wright, laconically.
“And you’ve brought the young gentleman safely to me?”
“I’ve done my best, sir.”
Dermot thought that if he disliked the boy as much as he disliked the man all would be up. He said: —
“I hope you had a
good voyage.”
“I guess it was all right, sir. We were both pretty sick for a day.”
Dermot looked at him coldly. “You may send Master Maurice in to me,” he said.
Wright left the room. He was thinking: — “If Mooey don’t like that old man any better than I do, I pity him, living with him.”
Dermot sat waiting, his eyes on the door. He felt amused at himself when he remembered that he had dressed with unusual care that day. He hoped he did not look so old as to frighten the boy.
Mooey came slowly into the room. He wore dark blue shorts and blazer and a white flannel shirt. He looked smaller than Dermot had expected, smaller and paler. But Mooey was nervous too. However, he advanced steadily and held out his hand.
“How do you do,” said Dermot, clasping it in his strong old fingers.
“Quite well, thank you, sir.”
“I hear you were seasick coming across.”
“A little. After that it was fine.”
He spoke clearly but with a slight tremor in his voice. He looked searchingly at Dermot. Something he saw reassured him. He smiled up at Dermot, who asked: —
“Do you think you can bear to visit me for a while?”
“Yes. I’m sure I can.”
“Remember — if you don’t like me you may go home whenever you choose.”
“Mummie told me that.”
“But I’ll say this for myself — I’m not hard to get on with. Some of the Courts were, you know.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Dermot laughed. “Your great-grandmother among ’em. Do you remember her? No — of course you don’t.”
“I was only a baby when she died, sir. But I’ve heard a lot about her.”
“I’ll wager you have!” Dermot took Mooey into the next room, where tea was laid. Pheasant would have trembled for her child if she could have seen the battalion of sandwiches, cake, and macaroons. They sat facing each other across the round oak table. Through the open window came the song of a blackbird and the whir of a machine cutting hay. Now Mooey was the more possessed of the two. Dermot’s tongue seemed paralyzed. He could find nothing to say. The stupendousness of undertaking to live with a small boy overwhelmed him. An ocean of experience that no ship could cross lay between them.
“I was an old fool,” thought Dermot. “I should have let well enough alone. The worry of this will probably shorten my life.”
He ate little but sat sipping his weak tea. He saw how a chicken sandwich could disappear in three bites, and how extraordinarily attractive a mouth could look when chewing — no wrinkles, just elastic muscles and red lips in action, with a glimpse of white teeth.
If he could have seen into Mooey’s mind he might have felt fewer forebodings. Mooey was thinking: —
“I guess this is the best tea I shall ever have here. He couldn’t live like this every day. It would cost millions. He’s nice and kind-looking. He’s something like Uncle Nick. Funny how his hand shakes. When he begins to talk about horses I mustn’t let him know I’m afraid of them. I’ll just say I don’t much like riding.”
“Have a piece of chocolate cake,” said Dermot.
“Thank you.” Mooey took a piece.
“When you’ve finished we’ll have a little walk about the place. I suppose you’re keen to see Johnny the Bird?”
“Oh, yes, sir. But —” Mooey’s face became tense — “somehow … it’s funny … I don’t like riding very spirited horses.”
He looked anxiously at Dermot to see the effect of this confession on him. Dermot looked unperturbed.
“You’ve ridden a good deal?”
“Ever since I can remember.”
“Had a good many falls?”
Mooey nodded.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?”
“You bet. Especially falls from polo ponies. I’ve helped school them a lot. But I don’t think it’s the hurt I mind. It’s not knowing what the horse will do next.”
“Yes,” agreed Dermot gravely. “It’s the feeling of uncertainty. I ride nothing but a steady old cob myself nowadays and I’ve another I’ll give to you if you like him. You can try him anyhow. You may ride or not, just as you like.”
“Thank you, Cousin Dermot.” If his mother could hear she would be pleased with his manners, he thought.
They went into the garden after tea. Mooey walking carefully and slowly by Dermot’s side. It was strange to him to be alone with an old person after living with his young parents and his two small brothers. Dermot laid his hand on his shoulder as they walked and Mooey braced himself to be a support to him. They passed through the arbor over which the ancient pear trees were trained, into the formal gardens lately put in order again after years of neglect. How different it all was from Jalna! The flowers looked tender and full of moisture and their stalks green and juicy. The very smell of the hay in the nearby field was different. The birds’ voices had a strange note in them as though of an old mysterious tale they told. From a knoll where a gnarled beech tree sent its tapering roots across the grass and deep below they could see the gently rolling countryside with white cottages dotted on its greenness, and the flash of a stream. It came to young Maurice as a place he had long dreamed of and now discovered.
As he lay in bed that night he thought over all the happenings of the day — the confusion of the landing at Cóbh in a choppy sea, the long railway journey, the discussing with Wright of everything they saw, the meeting with Cousin Dermot. His home seemed so far away that he felt it was in another world. He was too newly arrived in this world to know its ways. He felt suspended, as it were, in mid-air between two worlds. He looked back at his home across immeasurable space and saw the familiar objects of his short life. He saw his brothers, as he had last seen them, waving him goodbye. He saw his father, fresh-coloured and stalwart, his blue eyes prominent with that look that made one tremble. He saw his mother’s face.
No — no, he mustn’t think of her! He couldn’t bear it. Not in this large quiet room, in this tall four-poster. It had been different on board ship. There he could lie, a part of all the strange movement of ship and sea, giving himself up to imaginings. He was a part of nothing here. But so long as he kept his thoughts from his mother he was not afraid. Yet there was nothing to take her place when he thrust her out of his mind in self-defence. Just a black void was left. Then bits of her would appear. The smooth creamy-brown back of her neck and the lock of brown hair that nestled there. Her left forefinger on which there was a scar where a dog had once bitten her. Her mouth when she smiled. No — he mustn’t think of that! He dived down under the bedclothes and pulled them over his head. He began to cry.
After a while a hand was laid on him. He started in fear, then thought it was Wright. He drew down the sheet a little way and said huskily: —
“I’m all right. What do you want?”
But it was Cousin Dermot. He sat down on the side of the bed and laid his hand on Mooey’s hot head.
“Do you mind if I stay with you for a little?” he said. “I get rather lonely at night.”
“Yes, please stay,” said Mooey eagerly. “I get a little lonely too.”
Dermot stayed a long while and, when he left, Mooey was fast asleep.
XX
THE NEWS IN GAYFERE STREET
AT THE END of June Sarah told Finch that she was going to have a child. He was little short of astounded. He had never expected this. It had seemed to him that parenthood was against the nature of each of them. He could not picture himself as a father, even though he was more interested in children and tenderer toward them than Piers was. Yet Piers seemed the inevitable and perfect father. He could not picture Sarah as a mother. Sarah simply couldn’t be a mother. She hadn’t the body for it or the instinct. She was a cold crystal receptacle for passion. Anything more would shatter her. He walked about their room, confused and almost horrified.
“Are you positive?” he asked.
“Positive. The doctor says so — definitely.”
“When will it … happen?”
“In December.”
“December!” he exclaimed, as though it were a month of doom.
She laughed gayly. “It will be my Christmas present to you.”
“Good God!”
“Aren’t you glad?”
“Are you?”
“I don’t realize it yet. It’s been fun having this secret to myself for a whole week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I wanted to think it over.”
“And still you say you don’t realize it!”
“Well — I feel a new person.”
“Have you made any plans?” His tone was almost impersonal.
“I’m leaving that for you.” There was a malicious gleam in her narrow greenish eyes.
He had a sudden feeling of anger, as though she had played a trick on him, yet this was a moment that should have brought out his tenderness and his nobility — if he had these qualities! So he thought and turned to look into the street that she might not read his thoughts.
A woman was passing pushing a pram. He pictured a pram standing in the narrow hall below. He pictured Sarah pushing one. Pictured Henriette pushing one. He pictured himself pushing one and laughed.
“Why are you laughing?” she asked.
“Trying to think of myself as a father.”
“You’ll be a perfect father! Oh, Finch, I hope it’s a boy and like you! What do you hope?”
“I hope it’s a girl and …” in an insane moment he almost said — “like Henriette.” He caught himself in time and said — “like you.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 382