In the afternoon Piers had a telephone call from her, asking him to come to her at once.
He found her waiting in the drawing-room where the shutters were drawn against the heat of the sun. Outside a hot wind was blowing. Piers’ ruddy face was anxious.
“what’s up?” he demanded.
She pressed her knuckles against her eyes, her mouth quivered.
“Alayne — tell me!” He touched her on the shoulder. “You must make Renny see a doctor,” she got out, in a voice strangled by sobs.
“what has he done?”
She uncovered her distraught face, controlling herself.
“Last night he slept in my room. He wanted me to be near — in case he walked in his sleep. I could swear he never left the bed. All the morning I knew just where he was. After lunch he went with Adeline to watch Wright schooling the new colt. Just before I phoned you I went to get myself a clean handkerchief and there — there among them — was one of those horrible bank notes!”
Piers stared in dismay. “Right in your drawer, eh? So — he’s begun to give them away.”
“when he put it there I can’t imagine. But I am driven to think he did it in the night.”
“Perhaps he put it there yesterday.”
“No. I know positively that it was not in the drawer when I went to bed.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“I don’t know what to do. That’s why I sent for you.”
Piers was pleased that she had confided in him rather than in Finch. “I shouldn’t tell him,” he said. “It might be the last straw.”
“Perhaps it would make him agree to consult a specialist.”
“I don’t think so. Anyhow, what could a specialist do for him? This thing is in himself. Its cure is in himself.”
“But we can’t go on like this, Piers. It is ruining all our lives. Oh, I shall be thankful when those girls go away to school! They don’t understand the change in him. They don’t understand the ceaseless searchings. He tells them he is searching for an important letter he has mislaid but they are puzzled. I think Adeline is unhappy. I’ve never known her so quiet.”
“what I’m hoping,” said Piers, “is that when all the bills have turned up, he’ll be better.”
“The things he does are heartbreaking. I found a memorandum yesterday on his desk, giving the dates when he had found each of the bills and just where. He thinks of little else. He’s afraid of what he will do next. Oh, Piers, I’d a thousand times rather he had left a leg over there, as you have, than have suffered such an injury as this.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“I don’t see what reason you have for thinking so.”
“Well, he’s physically very fit. He’s at home, where he wants to be. It’s nature’s wish to heal us.” There was a silence, then he added, “Alayne, there’s something I think I ought to tell you. People are beginning to talk. Clapperton and that secretary of his have not kept this affair to themselves — as decent men would have done.”
“Oh, how cruel! We must never let him know.”
“He does know. Rags has dropped a hint. Noah Binns made some sly remark. Yesterday Renny said to me, ‘You’ve got to read the lessons in church next Sunday. I can’t stand up there in front of people reading the Scriptures and everyone thinking I’m a thief — or completely nutty.’ I tried to reason him out of it but he wouldn’t listen. You know what he is when he gets an idea in that red head of his.”
“Oh, his poor head!” moaned Alayne.
“who can wonder if he thinks everyone is looking at him in suspicion? God, I don’t know what I’d do if I were in his place!”
“You’d get medical advice,” said Alayne, “and he must.” She did not hear the step in the hall.
Renny’s voice exclaimed from the doorway, “So — you’re discussing me as usual!”
Piers faced him sternly. “Well, we’re driven to it, aren’t we? You don’t get any better and you refuse to see a doctor. Do you expect Alayne to chatter about the newest fashions? Do you expect me to keep my mind on my work?”
“Do you honestly think,” asked Renny, his dark eyes on Piers, “that a neurologist could help me remember what I did with that money? The truth, now!”
“He might help you. Even if it took him months.”
Renny said quietly, “I have tried to remember till my brain has all but cracked. If it is probed into by some cursed quack — it will be the last straw.” He pressed his fingers to that part of his head that had suffered the concussion. “It is here that I’m damaged. If you keep on harassing me about it, you’ll drive me to wish I’d been finished over there.” He wheeled and left the room. They heard him run up the stairs.
Piers came and put his arms about Alayne. His strong hand beat gently on her back. “There’s one thing,” he said, “we must not do, and that is to get hopeless about this. We’ve got to keep our courage up. Some day we shall find the money — or he’ll suddenly remember where he hid it. You must lean on me, Alayne. We’ll bring old redhead through this — safe and sound.”
XX
OTHELLO
ADELINE WAS FAST developing into something more than a child. She was growing tall and, beneath her thin summer clothes, charming curves of her young growth could be glimpsed. But her mind was troubled. The delight in Renny’s companionship which she had so long strained toward, was turning to bewilderment and sometimes to fear. What was wrong she could not guess. She did guess that the letter for which he was always searching had something to do with the change in him, but surely no letter was so important that its loss could so alter him. He had been so lively, so happy to have her with him when he had first come home but now, more than once, she had seen him turn aside rather than meet her. At other times he would hold her close, looking down into her eyes with that strange shadowed look in his. Once when she had come up behind his chair he had caught her hands in his and held them against his head. He had said, in a muffled voice unlike his:
“Keep your hands there, Adeline. Perhaps it will help me.”
She had held his head between her hands and asked, “Does your head hurt, Daddy?”
He had been silent a moment and then answered:
“Yes.”
Another time, when he had met her in the pine wood, he had said abruptly, “when you see me coming into the wood alone, follow me. Watch what I am doing. Don’t leave me alone.”
These words had been like a cold hand laid on her heart.
It was only when he was watching Wright school the new colt that he was his old self. At those times Adeline delighted in being with him. But when Spartan was led away the shadowed look returned to his eyes. He would sigh deeply, run his hand across his head, on which the dark red hair grew thick and strong, and turn away with an air of weariness. He had sold several horses to raise money for expenses, and at a poor price. But he did not seem to mind. Often he was taciturn or irritable. Roma and Archer kept out of his way.
In these days Adeline drew nearer to Maurice. On his part he found a new pleasure in her company. When he had returned to Jalna he had thought of her as a healthy romping schoolgirl, no more. But now she became interesting to him. They took long walks together. He found her more indulgent to the egotism of his young manhood than was Patience. She had a better mind, he thought, than Patience had — or Garda Griffith. Her face, when it was animated, fascinated him. When it was quiet, with that new sadness, it held him in wonder. He tried to draw her on to confide in him, to tell him what troubled her.
One afternoon, as they sat together beneath a wild cherry tree at the edge of the wood, he said:
“You’re growing up, Adeline.”
“I ought to,” she answered tersely. “I’m fourteen.”
“You look more, today.”
“That’s funny. I mean — growing suddenly older in a day.”
Maurice gave a little laugh. “Well, I suppose it’s been going on all the summer, but I noticed it particularly wh
en I saw you coming toward me on the path.”
She ran her hand over the moss on which they sat, smoothing it. “It’s funny,” she said, “how all the grass has died under this tree and moss has grown instead.”
“It’s pretty. Like green velvet. Look, here’s a yellow leaf lying on it. Summer is going. You’ll soon be back at school. I shall miss you.”
“Will you?” She looked gratified. “I shall miss you too, Maurice. I get tired of hordes of girls. They’re boring. They talk of movie stars and having boyfriends.”
“Well, I’m a boy, aren’t I?”
“Not in that way. It’s silly.”
“But we’re friends.”
“We’re cousins. It’s different.”
Maurice stretched out on the moss and looked up into her eyes.
“Do you know, Adeline,” he said. “I’m eighteen and I’ve never had a sweetheart.”
“You show your good sense,” she said. “It’s silly.”
“You’re enough of a sweetheart for me,” he returned laughing. He rolled on to his back and stared up into the tree where little black cherries hung thick.
She laughed too. “I’m a funny sort of sweetheart.”
“I don’t think you’re funny. I think you’re very pretty.”
She was embarrassed by his praise. She picked up a cherry from the moss and put it into her mouth. She said:
“Archer is not allowed to come near this tree. He eats the cherries and they give him a pain. But he comes just the same. He’s always making himself sick on fruit.”
“Kids are a beastly nuisance. Philip is. He won’t do anything Mother or I tell him but he’s as smooth as silk to Father. Just a little cherub. Father thinks he’s perfect. Yet I can do nothing right.”
“You don’t want to be thought a little cherub, do you?”
Maurice did not smile. “My father has always been down on me,” he said.
“Has he?” she exclaimed, in astonishment. “I never knew that. Why was he down on you?”
“I don’t know. Yes — I do, in a way. When I was a kid he despised me for being afraid of horses. Now that I’m grown up — well, I guess we’re just uncongenial.”
“what a pity! My father and I get along marvellously well. At least we used to.”
Maurice looked at her curiously. He asked, “Do you think he’s quite well?”
“what do you mean, quite well?”
“Oh, nothing. But he had that concussion — it must have been pretty bad.”
“That’s all over. But he worries about an important letter he’s lost.”
“Oh.” Maurice went on, “If it weren’t for Mother I should be unhappy at home.”
“She’s awfully sweet. I love Auntie Pheasant.”
“when I go back to Ireland I’m going to take her with me for a long visit. She’s never travelled. I wish you could come too, Adeline.”
Her face was alight at the very thought. “Oh, don’t I wish I could! I had the best time of my life when I went to Ireland with Daddy.”
“Then why don’t you come? I’m sure your father would let you. Let’s see. You’d be seventeen then.”
She threw herself on the moss beside him and rolled there in blissful anticipation. “Oh, Maurice, how marvellous it would be! I’d meet Pat Crawshay again.”
“You certainly would. He’s never forgotten you.”
“He was sweet.”
“He’s my best friend. My only friend.”
“I thought Sidney Swift was your friend too.”
“Oh, yes, he is. But he’s older. We get on well but my father is scarcely civil to him. It makes it difficult for me because Sidney is so much at the house.”
“He has a funny way of looking at one,” Adeline said dreamily.
“He admires you. He thinks you’re a little beauty. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that.”
The vivid colour sprang to her cheeks. “That’s silly,” she said. “I don’t think I’m a bit pretty. Roma’s pretty.”
“Roma’s a kid.”
After a silence he said, “Next week Sidney and I are going to see Othello. Paul Robeson, the negro actor, is going to play the part. Sidney says he’s first-rate.”
“How marvellous!” she said, fervently. “Don’t I wish I could !”
“You wouldn’t like a Shakespearian play. They’re too old for you.”
“You make me tired! They’re not too old for me! Uncle Finch has told me about seeing Hamlet and King Lear and Richard the Second in London. They’re not too old.”
“Then, you’re too young.”
“We take Shakespeare at school! Midsummer Night’s Dream — Romeo and Juliet — but it’s silly. Too much lovemaking. Oh, how I wish I could go with you! Do let me! Please, Maurice.”
“Upon my word, Adeline,” he said. “I’d like to take you but I don’t think the play is suitable.”
“why?” she demanded, sitting up and staring at him. “I know more than you think. I’m not a baby.”
“But this is real tragedy.”
“I suppose you think I’m afraid of seeing people killed. I’m not a bit. Have you seen the play?”
“No. But — a husband strangles his wife because he’s jealous. It’s pretty awful.”
“what had she done?”
“He believed she’d given away a handkerchief that he greatly valued. To a beast named Iago.”
“It seems a little thing to kill a woman for.”
“He was crazed by jealousy.”
“Did he love his wife?”
“Madly. That’s why he killed her.”
“Goodness!” Adeline sat lost in thought. Then she asked, “Did she love him?”
“With all her heart. She was faithful to him.”
“Faithful, eh?” Adeline pondered on the word. “Then what became of him?”
“He ran a dagger into his heart.”
She whistled, then added, “But Shakespeare nearly always killed his people off, didn’t he?”
“In the tragedies, yes.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“Your mother would never let you.”
“But she wants me to be intellectual.”
“She’d never agree to your seeing this play.”
A dancing sparkle lit Adeline’s eyes. “Mummy needn’t know.”
“How the dickens would you expect to manage that?”
“We could pretend you were taking me to the movies.”
“No, no. I couldn’t do that.”
She scrambled to her knees, facing him, with flushed cheeks.
“Maurice, if you don’t take me I’ll think you’re the meanest boy that ever lived! You must take me! You must! Oh, if you knew how much I want to go, you’d never refuse me! I’m dying to see Paul Robeson act. I’ve heard records of his singing. And I do so want to see him in Othello. No one has taken me anywhere in these holidays. Mummy doesn’t like me to see those horrible war films. But she did speak of my seeing one about a dog — ‘Lassie Come Home,’ I think is the name of it. You could say you were taking me to it.”
“I’m to do the lying, eh?”
“It would be just a little lie, Mooey. And you told me, only the other day, that you don’t in the least mind telling a lie if it makes anyone happier. Just think how happy one tiny lie would make me!”
Maurice pulled up a small cushion of moss, examined it and carefully replaced it. “It’s a good thing,” he said slowly, “that I haven’t mentioned at home that Swift and I are going to Othello.”
She went to him, moving with body upright but on her knees. She flung herself on him.
“Oh, Mooey, what an angel you are! As long as I live I’ll never forget that you did this for me. For the rest of my life I’ll do whatever you ask me to.”
He put his arms about her. “See that you remember that promise,” he said.
An hour later when he and his tutor were seated with their books before them, Maurice said:
�
��My young cousin, Adeline, has coaxed me into taking her to see Othello. Do you mind if she comes with us?”
Swift smiled amiably. “Of course I don’t mind. I’d like to see a young girl’s reaction to the situation.”
“I shouldn’t have promised her,” said Maurice. “I’m afraid it isn’t the sort of play she should see.”
“For God’s sake,” exclaimed Swift, “don’t be so Edwardian! Adeline is no baby. Considering what the world is, the sooner she develops the better. It will be fascinating to watch her.”
“It’s got to be kept dark. I’m to say I’m taking her to a movie. So don’t forget and spill the beans.”
“I shall not forget.”
“You spoke the other day of our reading Othello before we see it. I’d like to begin it today.”
Swift was silent a moment, then he said, “I had rather read it with you after you’ve seen it. You’ll appreciate it much more.”
“But the other day you said just the opposite.”
“I’m always contradicting myself,” said Swift testily. “I wish you wouldn’t remind me of it. It’s amazing that you’ve never read the play. But after all, I’d rather you would hear the wonder of the lines straight from the actors’ lips and read them afterwards.” He leaned back in his chair and, with dreamy eyes, recited:
’Tis true; there’s magic in the web of it:
A sibyl that hath numbered in the world
The sun to course two hundred compasses,
In her prophetic fury sewed the work:
The worms were hallowed that did breed the silk;
And it was dyed in mummy which the skilful
Conserved of maidens’ hearts.
“The play is all about love, isn’t it?” said Maurice.
“About love and nothing else,” returned Swift, smiling. “It will be good for Adeline to see what high emotion can be. For God’s sake, don’t let her awakening be in terms of moving pictures!”
They saw Piers standing in the doorway. “Hard at work, eh?” he said, sarcastically.
“Just getting down to it,” smiled Swift.
In the kitchen where Pheasant was washing salad, Piers remarked, “I’m glad I’m not paying that tutor. I think he’s no good as a teacher, and I think he’s bad for Mooey. He ought to have a manly, middle-aged tutor.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 421