But the third talk was a disappointment. Fitzturgis was late for the broadcast and it had to be postponed. When it did take place he was suffering from a summer cold, spoke in a husky tone, was lackadaisical. So that was the end of the broadcasting. Alayne was greatly disappointed by this, for she had a sincere admiration for Fitzturgis. She would have liked to see him often and familiarly, for there were few about her with whom she could exchange her ideas, as with him. He was, she thought, two men. One of them congenial to her, friendly and very intelligent; the other aloof, hopelessly indolent; willing to bury himself in a life that would require no mental effort. This was the man who had married Roma.
Roma was not only willing but moderately eager to go to Ireland. Several times she spoke of “fresh fields and pastures new,” and seemed pleased by the prospect.
In the brief interval between the christening and the centenary celebration — which was to be a dinner, followed by a dance — two incidents which influenced several members of the family took place. One was that Wakefield went to New York to see if he could persuade Molly to return to him. She was acting in an English comedy that was drawing full houses. It was not easy to get seats for it, but by good luck he was able to secure one in the second row, though at the side. He had a clear view of Molly’s entrance, early in the first act. She was acting the part of a very young girl. The immature lines of her figure, her eager face and voice, gave a charming reality to her performance.
To Wakefield it was almost unbelievable that she could be unaware of his nearness. His eyes never left her when she was on the stage. His thoughts pursued her into her dressing room. So often had they acted together. He knew just what she would be doing. But he did not attempt to see her till after the play, for he knew it might be upsetting to her.
At last they stood face to face, as Molly was about to leave the theatre.
“Wake,” she said, in a trembling voice. “what are you doing here?”
“I came for nothing but to see you,” he said. “May I take you home?” He put the question almost ceremoniously, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. The familiar scent of her flesh made him unable for a moment to speak or even to think. Neither could she speak, but nodded her acquiescence. He could see that she was trembling.
They found a taxi and moved through the bright streets, sitting with averted faces and urgently beating hearts. Molly was living in the apartment of a friend, an actress who was on tour. The small apartment was on the sixteenth floor of a tall building. The movements of the two who now entered it were so familiar to each other that it was as though the past long winter had not separated them. The room felt close, airless. Molly went to a window and opened it, letting in the night coolness. Their faces were bathed in the coolness.
“when will your play be finished?” he asked.
“This is its last week. Then the theatre closes for the summer.”
“And you? where shall you go?”
“To Wales — and rest.”
“You don’t look tired,” he said, almost accusingly.
“It’s the heat I mind — and the crowds. I long for the hills — the bareness.” She turned to Wakefield, in sudden sweetness and solicitude. “Tell me all about yourself,” she said. “Are you quite recovered? what of your play?”
“There’s only one thing to talk about where we are concerned,” said Wakefield. “That is our relations. We must not lose each other. You understand that, don’t you?” She gave a little laugh at his dictatorial tone.
“Oh, Wake,” she exclaimed, “you do not change at all.”
“That is true,” he said, with great seriousness. “I don’t change. I’m still yours — and always shall be.”
“Don’t!” she said, in a shaking voice, as though his words brought emotions that were unbearable.
“what do you want me to do?” he demanded sternly. “Go?”
“Not yet. Not yet. Stay a little while — then you must go.… I’ll make coffee and you must have some — nourishing food.” The habit of nursing him was still strong in her. She put on the kettle, but could find only strawberries and rolls for food. “If I had known you were coming,” she said, “I should have provided plenty of cream.”
“I don’t need cream,” he said sulkily. “I hate everything milky.” And he picked up a strawberry and ate it.
They drew a small table near the open window and sat there with the night air blowing in. It was so natural to them to be isolated together that this New York apartment became another Fiddler’s Hut. Instead of the towering trees surrounding them, tall buildings rose palely against the moonlit sky.
They ate fruit and rolls, drank coffee, and she asked questions about the family at Jalna. He had written to tell her of Sylvia’s death. Now she said, “I wrote to Finch and had an answer from him — a very restrained answer. But he must be heartbroken. All his lovely plans for their future come to nothing.”
Wakefield looked at her steadily. He was searching for words to move her. In a low voice he said, “And what of my plans for our future — yours and mine?”
“We have no future together. You know that.”
“I will not believe it,” he said violently. “You and I, Molly, were made for each other. We’ve known that from the first.”
“what we did not know from the first,” she said, “was what must always separate us. Nothing can change that.”
“But you have changed!” he cried. “Before my illness you were content — you seemed content — to live with me as my wife. What happened?”
“I saw our lives clearly. I saw the theatre as the greatest influence in my life.”
“And in mine,” he said eagerly. “Next to you. I will always put your influence first, Molly.”
“I won’t,” she said. “Equally there is the influence of your family —your religion. You can’t be yourself when you are cut off from them. You belong to them more than you belong to the theatre or to me. I have thought it all out.”
He fretted up and down the small room, stared into the street below from the open window, then up into the moonlit expanse of the sky, and always, always talking.
“You talk so well,” she broke out. “Always you have talked so well.”
“Does that mean,” he demanded, bending over her, where she sat on the side of the bed, “that all my talk is useless?”
“It means I see our two ways as separate. I’m too tired tonight to change things. They must stay as they are.”
“Molly — my darling!” He sought to take her into his arms but she eluded him.
“No — ” she cried. “You must not.… Talk as much as you will but — not that.”
“Very well,” he said gently. “I will talk, because I am sure I can make you see that we are necessary — each to each. There’s no one else for me, Molly. Is there anyone else for you?”
“No — nor ever will be.”
The other incident — and this at the beginning appeared a minor one indeed — was that Maurice and Finch told Dennis of his prospective visit to Ireland. This came at the end of the week during which Dennis had been ordered by Finch to remain solitary in his own room.
He had given no trouble. He had obeyed to the letter. An outsider might have come to the house, stayed there for days, without ever guessing that a boy lived under its roof. Noiselessly he went in and out of the bathroom. He took care not to turn the taps on full. He ate lightly of the trays which the daily woman carried to him. Her heart went out in sympathy to Dennis, but she could not persuade him to talk of his punishment, except to say that he and his father agreed that he should rest for a week.
What did he do in those long hours of solitude? How did he pass the time? He was always listening. He knew exactly what were Finch’s movements throughout the day. When Finch played on the piano, Dennis consciously drank in the meaning of every phrase, as he in his childish way interpreted it. He thought of himself as a skilled critic, as an unrecognized musical genius, as above all a devoted s
on. Yet that week seemed endless.
When it was over he appeared, neatly dressed, before Finch and Maurice, who were having a drink in the music room. He appeared so quietly that the two men were startled. Maurice thought, How small, what a child he is. What he said was, “Dennis, I’ve been thinking of you.”
Dennis gave a polite little inclination of the head toward Maurice, but his eyes were on Finch. They were asking, “Is it all right? May I come?” A slight smile hovered on his lips.
Finch returned his look soberly. “Sit down,” he invited, as though to a visitor but not a visitor he desired.
Dennis gave his sudden spontaneous laugh. “I think I shall stand,” he said. “I’ve been sitting all the week.”
Maurice looked embarrassed. There was a moment’s silence before he continued, “I’ve been thinking how much I should like to have you visit me in Ireland.”
“Visit you?” Dennis repeated, as though he could not quite take this in. “Visit you … you mean visit you — alone?” Now he looked straight at Maurice.
“Yes. Just you and me. Do you think it might be fun?”
Dennis turned his eyes inquiringly to Finch. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “You’d have to ask my father.”
Maurice thought, “why the devil doesn’t he speak to Finch straight? why this queer, slanting approach?” However painful had been the relations between himself and his own father, they had at least been direct — or so he thought.
“It’s certainly very kind of Maurice to invite you,” said Finch.
“what about school?” asked Dennis.
“I’ve had a letter from the headrd,” said Finch. “He doesn’t want you to go back.”
Dennis looked startled. “He doesn’t want me back at school?” he repeated, almost in a whisper. “I wonder why.”
“You’d better ask yourself that,” said Finch.
Dennis appeared lost in thought. “I can’t think why,” he said, and Maurice had a sudden feeling of pity for him. Somehow, standing before them he looked a lonely little figure.
“I’ll get a tutor for you,” Maurice said, “if you come to visit me. A nice Irish tutor. It’ll be better for you than school.”
“How long should I stay?”
“That depends on how we get on together. I think we should get on well together, don’t you?” Even as he said these words, a doubt assailed Maurice.
“I don’t know,” said Dennis.
“Well, in the first place,” said Maurice. “Do you want to come?”
“No,” answered the boy, abruptly. “I’d rather stay here with my father.”
Finch rose impatiently, went to the window and looked out. Dennis kept his eyes expectantly on Finch’s back. Maurice said:
“You must do as you choose. This may be an important thing for you.”
“A reward, eh?” said Finch, his back still turned. “A reward for all he’s done.”
“No, no,” said Maurice. “Pleasure for me and possibly some profit for him.”
“when shall you be leaving, Maurice?” asked Dennis.
“Right after the wedding.”
“That’s a wedding you don’t like, isn’t it?” said Dennis.
Maurice was quite taken aback. “what gave you that idea?” he exclaimed.
“Oh, I see what’s going on.”
“You see?” stammered Maurice. “But — how?”
“Out of my green eyes,” said Dennis.
Finch wheeled to face Maurice. “That’s the sort of cheeky thing he says” — Finch spoke with bitterness — “after a week of being shut in his room for punishment.”
“I try not to be cheeky,” said the boy, with a humility that might be or might not be real. “The trouble is I don’t know when I am.” He stood with bent head and folded hands.
Maurice tried to speak lightly. “Can you be ready,” he said, “in that time — if you decide to come?”
“If he decides,” laughed Finch. “That’s a funny way of putting it — if he decides.”
“Well, I’m the one, aren’t I,” said Dennis, “who has to bear the punishments?”
“But this is different!” Maurice spoke eagerly, his brown gaze warm with sympathy. “It’s to be an interesting experience for both of us — if it comes off.”
Dennis took a step towards Finch. “what do you want me to do?” he asked, with an air of throwing himself on Finch’s affection, rather than his mercy.
“I want you to go,” said Finch.
There was silence for a space; then Dennis turned and ran out of the room. He ran with a child’s grace and abandon. They saw him pass the window and disappear among the trees.
“You have been awfully kind, Maurice,” said Finch. “I won’t deny that you have solved a problem for me. I did not know what to do about Dennis. He’s a problem that’s beyond me.”
“He’s greatly attached to you,” said Maurice.
“Oh, Lord, don’t speak of that,” said Finch.
Dennis did not appear at any of the family houses for lunch. There were plenty of ripe strawberries and of these he made a meal. Indeed, he was not very hungry.
XXXII
A Hundred Years Old
A heat wave heralded the centenary celebration. The flowers of the garden drooped in the heat. Fruit ripened with unwonted speed. In the poultry runs young chicks scratched and pecked. Horses and cattle sought out the shade. The stream moderated its springtime flow and dallied with reeds and under the rustic bridge. In the five houses occupied by the family, every single member, not excepting the infant Ernest, had something new to wear. There was Jalna itself, in its new coat of fresh paint, its new mantle of Virginia creeper leaves that this season seemed larger and glossier than ever. There were all the family sporting new clothes for the occasion. There were the dogs, having shed their winter coats and grown summer ones and been groomed to the point where pride ends and annoyance begins.
In the afternoon, farmers and their wives, also acquaintances of the countryside, were invited to a garden party. In the evening there was a party for friends from a distance, and young people. A small orchestra was engaged. There was to be dancing. The day was to end in fireworks — with a bang.
At the Fox Farm, the Bells were dressing for the evening party.
“Thank goodness,” said Patience, “it has got cooler. The temperature has dropped seven degrees.”
“why are you eternally consulting the thermometer?” said Humphrey, his features tied up tightly, as he tied his tie. “It seems to me a most fruitless occupation.”
“It helps,” said Patience.
“Helps whom?” he asked crossly. “How?”
“whatever is the matter with you, darling?” Patience gave him a maddeningly solicitous look. “Won’t your tie tie?”
“I’ve been to one party today,” he retorted. “why should I dress for another?”
“After all,” she said, “your new TV play is liked by the producer. That’s something.”
“Do you think that is all I ask for in life?” he demanded. The truth was that Patience had utterly spoiled him. Their little house was hot and breathless, yet try as he would Humphrey could not look hot, because of his extremely pale albino-like colouring, whereas Patience could glory in flushed cheeks and perspiring forehead.
To please him she said, “Victoria was greatly admired at the garden party this afternoon.”
He tried to stop himself from making the remark, but he could not. He said, “She can’t hold a candle to young Ernest for looks. He’s a knockout.”
During all their married life Humphrey had not before made such an unfeeling remark — and that was about their own little daughter! Patience stared at him, scarcely able to believe her ears. She feared he might be sickening for something. She was thankful that Victoria could not comprehend what had been said. She chose to ignore the remark. Still, it was right that he should be punished a little. “That cut on your chin looks rather bloody,” she said. “I hadn�
��t noticed it before.”
Humphrey’s beard, or lack of it, was a tender subject with him. He observed his reflection in the looking-glass. “Perhaps I’d better not go,” he said dolefully.
“I’ll put a bit of plaster on it,” she comforted, “and it’ll never be noticed. Otherwise you look quite passable.”
A few minutes later they descended into the ravine, which was not yet sought out by evening coolness. They crossed the bridge and panted up the steep path to the small gate that opened on to the lawn of Jalna. Renny and Alayne came forward to meet them. They were the first arrivals. An enormous moon was rising, as though ordered for the occasion. There were lights among the rich leaves of the trees and a really strong one in the porch. The small orchestra was tuning up.
Renny Whiteoak peered at Humphrey Bell’s chin. “I see you have cut your chin,” he remarked genially.
Trying to keep his temper, Humphrey said, “I think I had better not stay — I’m in such a bloody mess.”
Alayne, overhearing, was conscious of the word “bloody,” and felt a moment’s shock that the mild young man should use such a word, but Patience quickly put her right. “It’s the heat,” she said. “He bleeds easily in the heat.”
Relieved, Alayne exclaimed, “Does he? I had thought he looks nicer than usual.”
Adeline and Archer now came racing out of the house and were reprimanded by their parents for their dilatoriness.
“I had practically to dress Archer,” said Adeline. “He couldn’t find a blessed thing.”
“How soon will the party be over?” asked Archer. “I love the end of a party. Just to see the guests depart. The race is run. Consummatum est.”
At the Rectory the car, with the Rector at the wheel and Meg at his side, was waiting for Roma and Fitzturgis.
“Two parties in one day,” said the Rector, “are a burden in this heat. As we went to the garden party, we should not be expected to go to the evening party.”
Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna Page 141