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, d
oesn’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.”
She threw her arms about him from behind. “There can never be another like me!”
“You can’t have it here, can you?” asked Finch.
“With Henriette as midwife! No — I’ll find a proper place.” She spoke with confidence. He had a rush of tenderness, picturing as a dreadful upheaval all she would have to go through.
He had to be away for several weeks on a tour. It was a success. He came back feeling well and happy. But he found a changed Sarah. She had been suffering from ills peculiar to her condition. She was pale and despondent. She threw herself into his arms and wept. She said she must have sea air and wanted to go to the Cornish coast.
Finch wondered why she should choose the place where she had spent the honeymoon of her first marriage, but he said: —
“Very well. We’ll go there, if we can find a house. It’s pretty difficult at this late hour.”
“Henriette knows of one through a friend of hers. She is cook in a family who find they can’t go. There’s nothing I want to do so much.”
The thought of being by the sea drew Finch almost equally. He had been too long among crowds. His dismay at the thought of the coming child was calmed by the picture of a lonely cottage on a Cornish cliff, of lonely wanderings over the rocks when the tide was ebbing.
The place turned out to be neither a cottage nor remote. But the white house, one of a group of half a dozen, was airy, open to the west wind and furnished with just the sort of things Finch liked. They had brought Henriette with them. There was a gale and lashing rain the day they arrived. It was always so wherever they went. It rained and it blew all the first day. Henriette was in a mood of deep despondency. It was her belief that nature should be kept under control as it was in the London parks. When she saw the ragged cliffs, the momentous boulders, the raging sea and the great slate quarry — now overgrown by grass and flowers — in the hillside behind the house, she shook her head and her pendulous underlip trembled.
“It was never meant to be,” she said.
But Sarah was happy to settle down here for a month. She ran from room to room placing things to her taste. Every time she and Finch me
t she threw both arms about him and pressed herself close to his breast.
“I’m so blissfully happy,” she said. “I scarcely think of the baby. It’s just you and I together by the sea. Do you think it will be fine tomorrow?”
“I’m sure of it,” he answered, laying his cheek against the glossy convolutions of her plaits.
But there was an unreality about her to him. She was a new, a dual being, the one he knew and the one unseen and unborn. And both these were bound up in each other and antagonistic to him. He had no sense of having begotten the child. As he saw Sarah’s form enlarge with its growth he felt a shrinking from her and a distaste for all that was to come. Her greed and her erratic appetite set him on edge. He thought with horror — “Am I going to turn against her again? I mustn’t! I mustn’t! I’ll not let myself. Every time I feel one of these sensations, I’ll go straight to her and kiss her.” But this brought no relief.
The sun came out warm and bright. Finch took Sarah for walks on the smooth grassy downs along the cliff. She delighted to go as far as the nearest resort and sit in a sheltered spot watching the bright-coloured surf bathers riding through the foam. But when Finch spoke of joining them himself she was horrified.
“And see you drown before my eyes! Never! My father was drowned, my first husband was drowned. Once I was almost drowned. Do you remember how you and Arthur saved me? The sea is my enemy!”
“Then why do you want to be beside it?” he asked coldly.
“To watch it,” she answered, with a sly smile. “One needs to watch one’s enemies.”
The morning walk was all she could do in a day. That left him free to wander on the shore in the afternoon. He would lie on the sands in the bay where the green waves scampered in like playful children trailing seaweed. He would loiter on the rocky headland when the waves had retreated, leaving their toys behind them. He would peer fascinated into pools where miniature forests and grottoes had been arranged by the salty fingers of the sea. Then he made himself no more than a receptacle for the mysteries of the shore.
Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course Page 134