The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (446 page)

“Yes, Mr. Fox. I’ll try.”

“Please begin the scene again.”

The manager’s shoulders and head rose Imposing in the stalls. The producer slumped in his greatcoat that was too large for him. The author sat tense, his chin on his clenched hands, his sandy hair almost in his eyes. Several scenes were tried. Then, with a wave of dismissal to the young actors, Mr. Fox turned to his companions.

“Well, what do you think?”

“They might do,” said Robert Fielding, warily. “What do you think yourself?”

“The girl will never be really good unless we can hammer some emotion into her. But she looks the part and has a lovely voice. The boy has good stuff in him. And, with his looks, I’ll wager he’ll end on the screen. What do you think, Mr. Trimble?”

“I think they’re perfect,” he exclaimed enthusiastically.

As he had been far from enthusiastic about the casting of the play so far, even to the choice of Robert Fielding for the comic part, Mr. Fox was surprised. He was one of the few London managers with whom the opinion of the author carried weight.

“Perfect!” he repeated. “This is surprising from you.”

“What I mean is, they’re convincing. They’re just fumbling with their parts, of course, but they look real — authentic. I feel that, if we searched London over, we couldn’t find a better Frederick and Cathie.”

“I don’t see it,” put in Fielding, “but I think we might do worse than try them.”

“I’ve reached the end of my tether,” said Mr. Fox. “I can’t struggle any more over the casting of this play. I’ll take these two all if you want me to, but as I’ve said before, it’s a play that, if not perfectly cast, can never be anything but a failure.”

This was the only remark in the nature of a compliment which he ever paid to the play. A flicker of gratitude passed over the author’s face. He said: —

“I don’t believe we can make a mistake in engaging these two.”

“And, after all, they’re minor parts,” said Fielding.

“There are no unimportant parts in the play,” said Mr. Fox.

“Well,” said Fielding, “we might have had Clive Rogers and Peggy Ardale.”

“At ruinous salaries,” snapped Mr. Fox.

He rose irritably and moved, with his slightly pompous gait, toward the stage.

“He’s a mean old dog,” said Fielding. “He’ll offer those poor kids starvation salaries and they’ll jump at the offer.”

Trimble looked worried. “A damned shame!”

“I could never manage if I didn’t both act and produce. I’ve somehow got on with him through a good many productions.”

“He’s taking them into his office. I wonder when we shall have a rehearsal.”

“In a few days. I hope.”

Wakefield and Molly Griffith looked into each other’s eyes and laughed as they passed through the stage door of the Preyde Theatre on to the pavement.

“Isn’t it grand,” he exclaimed, “that we’re both taken on?”

“Yes. I
am
glad. I’m so nervous and you’re not a bit. I think you’re going to be splendid as Frederick.”

“Isn’t it extraordinary the way we’ve just hopped into the theatre, hopped into two good parts and hopped out again — hand in hand — like two old friends?” He caught her hand in his.

“We sound rather like frogs — all that hopping, I mean.”

“Will you have some lunch with me? I know of a nice place. We’ll talk over our parts.”

“I’d love to.”

“‘We’ll tell each other about our pasts and boast about our futures,” He hailed a passing taxi.

“Why — you’re not taking a taxi, are you?”

“Why not?”

“Goodness — you’re affluent!”

“I’m the sort who would spend his last shilling on a taxi.”

“Please don’t. I’m terribly hungry.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve just got my allowance from home.”

They were in the taxicab.

He examined her profile out lined against the window. “How happy you look since we’ve got these jobs.”

“It means a lot to me. I’d have had to go home — otherwise.”

“Where is home?”

“Wales.”

“Wales! I’ve never been there.”

“Where is your home? “ “Canada. But my mother was a Londoner.”

“Haven’t you any relatives over here?”

“I’ve cousins in Ireland. I’m part Irish. And I’ve a brother in London. I live with him.”

“Is he like you?”

“Not a bit. He’s a pianist. Let’s talk about the play.”

They did and were so absorbed that they were surprised to find themselves at their destination. She looked up at the sign over the door.

“L’Ècu de France! How grand you are! I thought it would be — no, I won’t say that.”

“An A.B.C.! I’ll bet that’s the impression I gave you.”

He paid the driver.

She coloured. Then she gave a happy little laugh. “This is my lucky day.”

They put their heads together over the menu. “I like everything.” She folded her hands in her lap, like a well-behaved little girl, and gazed at the people at nearby tables. The order was given and they broke the crusty rolls and ate them while they waited. A bottle of while wine appeared with the sale.

“We must drink,” said Wakefield. “to the success of the play and to our friendship.”

They touched glasses and their eyes met in a look in which he revealed the warmth and self-confidence of his name and his sensitive, yet resilient egotism, and she nothing but a girl’s interest in the male, and her pleasure in the moment. She ate more than Wakefield did. In truth she seemed so hungry that he judged that she had been cooking her own meals over a gas ring and not spending a penny more than necessary on them. She wore her clothes well and he liked that. He quite probably would not have invited her to lunch had she not. He noticed that other men were looking at her. He noticed the lovely curve of her short upper lip that was oddly combined with a look of physical courage.

They talked of the play and their parts in it. They poured out confidences of their professional past. If he had been an actor grown old in the profession he could scarcely have seemed to have had greater experience. She drank in every word.

Over coffee he said — “It’s a wonder your family would let you come so far from home alone.”

She stared. “Why not? I’ve been acting since I was sixteen. I’m able to take care of myself. I’ve been in London a year.”

“And we’ve never met till today! What a waste of time.”

“I’m glad.”

“Why?”

“Because today wouldn’t have been such a nice surprise.”

“I do think that was a charming thing to say. Molly — Molly Griffith. I like your name. I’ll bet your parents are proud of you.”

“My mother’s dead. I don’t think my father is particularly proud of me.”

“Why?”

“Well, he’s not that sort.”

Wakefield considered this, and took an instant dislike to Mr. Griffith.

“Have you brothers and sisters?” he asked.

“A brother and three sisters.”

“Four girls! What a lot ! Do you get on well together?”

“Yes ... not always.”

“And your brother? What about him?”

“He’s a darling. I love him better than anyone else in the world.” Her face flushed and she tapped with her finger tips on the table. She added — “We’re awfully poor.”

“The Welsh generally are. But they are recompensed by being picturesque and musical, aren’t they?”

She considered this gravely. “I think my family is rather picturesque. At any rate the place we live in is. But we’re not musical. One of my sisters paints. I don’t know how good her pictures are. She’s never had any lessons.” She was disinclined to say anything more of her family and asked him about his.

“My mother is dead too. Also my father, I was a posthumous child. My eldest brother and my sister brought me up — with help from my grandmother, my aunt, and my two uncles.”

“That partly explains you.”

“How?”

“You’re so well-brought-up.”

“Am I?”

“What I mean is, you seem as though you’d been the centre of a lot of attention.”

Wakefield’s face lighted in mischief.

“I wish you could have seen them about me, when I was a kid. I had them all going. There was Grandmother, nearly a hundred. She was a bit fierce but really full of love. There was Aunt Augusta, dignity personified, haughty and covered with bracelets and brooches but with a heart of gold. There was Uncle Nicholas, a grand looking old fellow, with a lot of grey hair and a drooping moustache. When I was on his shoulder I felt as though nothing in the world could hurt me. Then Uncle Ernest, very careful of my manners, very fastidious about his person, very much absorbed in the family. My eldest brother, Renny — he’s been a father to me. He breeds horses. You ought to see him ride. He’s married now and has two children. Then there’s Piers, my next brother. He farms and helps Renny with the horses. The brother next me is Finch, who is here in London. My only sister is married and lives next door to us.”

“What a family! Are all living?”

“Gran and Aunt Augusta are dead, and one of my brothers — Eden.”

“Funny. You have three brothers and a sister and I have three sisters and a brother.”

“Tell me about them.”

She frowned a little. “Some other time. Just now I want only to enjoy myself.”

Her family must be different from his, Wakefield thought, for it was always a pleasure to him to talk of his family. She was a good listener and the time went quickly as he poured out stories of the idiosyncrasies of his kin. She exclaimed, “I can just see that house and those people! You’re such a good one at describing.”

“You must come out some time and visit us. They’d make you very welcome. Supposing the play is a great success! I’ll tell you what will happen. It will go to New York. They’ll take us too and, at the end of the run, we’ll go to Canada and visit Jalna.”

“If only we could!”

“I’m a prophet. I feel it in my bones.”

They exchanged a look of happy expectancy.

IN GAYFERE STREET

T
HE
F
EBRUARY SUNSHINE
was warm over London. The sky was a mild blue and small ethereal clouds were barely moved by the light breeze. People in the streets walked slowly, enjoying the warmth of the sun. The windows of the lumbering buses were open and people peered out, as though expecting to see some palpable sign of spring, such as lambs frisking along Piccadilly or a milkmaid milking a cow in the Green Park. Wakefield slopped to buy a bunch of daffodils from a flower seller just outside St. James’s Palace. He felt a new confidence in life and in his ability to make himself a place here in London. It was not only that he had got a part in a West End theatre but that his meeting with Molly Griffith had, in some way, intensified all his feelings. If he were to become suddenly sad or depressed he knew that such emotions would be the more keenly felt because of her, and he felt that this was because of some quality in her rather than in him.

He could scarcely wait for tomorrow when he would meet her again, possibly again take her out to lunch. He could scarcely wait till he got back to Gayfere Street, so that he might tell his brother, Finch, about her. He could scarcely wait till he might sit down in his own room and learn his part. Yet in the midst of his straining forward he found himself loitering in the street to stare at the black Arab steed on which one of the Horse Guards sat immobile in his niche outside the Palace. The man was lean, ruddy, and his eyes looked straight ahead of him into space beyond the people who stood staring. His silver helmet, with its white plume, his silver breastplate, gleamed in the sun. The close-curled sheepskin lay soft on the horse’s muscular back. Its eyes too looked straight ahead and, in their depths, Wakefield thought he saw reflected deserts with waving palm trees and galloping Arab hordes. It stood rigid on its four slender legs, as though carved out of ebony.

He walked on, past the Houses of Parliament, on and on into Smith Square and turned at last into Gayfere Street. He knocked on the door of one of the smallest houses and it was opened by an enormous elderly woman, with a face that looked too large even for her body. But her hand resting on the side of the door looked massive, beyond proportion, even for that face. She greeted Wakefield with a melancholy smile.

“I ’ope you don’t find the ’eat of this sun too much for you, sir. It does take it out of one when it first opens up in the spring.”

“I think it’s glorious,” said Wakefield. “There can’t be too much of it for me. Will you please put these daffodils in water. Is my brother in?” He entered the narrow hall.

“Yes, sir. ’E’s just done ’is practising. ’E looks tired, poor young man.”

She took the flowers and disappeared into the basement. Wakefield could hear the drag of her heavy cloth skirt from step to step. She was Henriette, the half-Cockney, half-French housekeeper. The brothers had leased the tiny house for a term, Henriette being left in charge. The one room on the ground floor was the sitting room, an end of which was used as a dining room, half-drawn curtains dividing it. On the floor above were two bedrooms, and on the next floor, another bedroom and a bathroom, while Henriette had her being in the basement.

Wakefield opened the door of the sitting room and went in. No sunlight entered here and, for a moment, he did not see Finch. He saw the hired piano, strewn with music, the untidy room. Then he discovered Finch lying face down on the sofa, his fair head pillowed on his arms. He raised his head and turned his long, grey-blue eyes on Wakefield, with a dazed look.

“Hullo,” said the younger. “Did I wake you?”

“No. I was just thinking. Did you get the job?”

“What do you guess? “ “I’ll bet you did, to judge by your face.”

“Yes. I got it. I’ve my part here. We’re to begin rehearsals in a few days. Finch, I’m going to make a success of it. You’ll see. God, how glad I am. The old boy Ninian Fox, I mean — is a queer egg, but I like him. And I’ve met the producer and the author and the girl who’s going to take the part of Catherine. She’s Welsh. We had lunch together. I want you to meet her. I don’t know when I’ve admired a girl so much. Not since Pauline.”

Finch had been listening to him only half tolerantly. He was skeptical of Wakefield’s enthusiasms, his eager outpourings. Wakefield was too articulate, as he himself was too reticent. If he had been Wakefield it would have been impossible to speak casually of Pauline. As it was, he could bring himself to utter her name only with difficulty. Yet it was Wakefield who had been engaged to her, who had broken off the engagement because he had made up his mind to enter a monastery, and so been the cause of her entering a convent. The monastery had not lasted. It had been a boy’s impulse. Finch thought scornfully, yet had to admit that Wakefield’s sojourn there had made a man of him. He would never forget how kind Wakefield had been to him when his nerves had gone to pieces. Wakefield had comforted and controlled him. But now, in London, far away from home, their boyhood relations had been more or less re-established: Finch the older, half scornful, half admiring of Wakefield’s ease with himself and with the world; Wakefield pouring out his experiences to Finch, wanting his approval, yet a little contemptuous of Finch’s awkwardness and self-depreciation.