Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“You ought to find me easy to read,” he said. “I’m not complicated.”
“Not complicated!” she echoed. “You’re the deepest of all. I could feel with Eden. I can understand Piers and Wake. But you’re as deep as the sea.”
“You read far too many stories,” he said. “You should take a course in real life.”
She had a beautiful speaking voice. Even when she raised it in anger, as she did now, it had a strange sweetness.
“Heavens, how I pity Alayne!” she cried.
“I’m writing to her today. I’ll send her that message.”
Finch had heard Sarah’s raised voice. He came into the hall.
“Tell him how happy we are, Finch,” she said. “Tell him not to torment me.”
“Good God, girl!” interrupted Renny. “Have sense!”
Wakefield opened the door into the street.
“I must be off,” he said.
“I’ll go to the corner with you.” Renny followed him bareheaded.
In the street Wakefield exclaimed — “That woman drives me mad! It seems hard that I haven’t had a moment yet when I could talk to you of Molly.”
“Never mind. I shall meet her at dinner.”
“But I wanted to tell you about her first.”
“Tell me about her now.”
Wake answered petulantly — “I can’t set out to describe a girl, on a street corner, with just a few seconds to do it in. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters so long as Sarah and Finch have sufficient space to spread themselves in. Goodbye.”
Renny watched him stride through Smith Square. He was half amused, half annoyed by Wake’s petulance, yet he had a satisfaction in it. The boys still clung to him, were jealous for his attention. Neither of them was really changed by living in London. He stood pensive, the cigarette between his lips, the grey shape of St. Mary’s Church rising before him. On the shining pavement lay the reflections of old houses. A tug on the river was making thick foggy noises, comfortable, rich-sounding noises, the very heart of London communing with itself. He heard steps scampering along the pavement. Adeline had run down the street after him. Now she stood with an arm about his waist.
“Isn’t it funny, us being here together,” she said, “so far from Jalna?”
Wakefield was late at the theatre. He had held up the rehearsal of his best scene with Molly. She was tense from waiting.
“Whatever kept you?” she asked. “Mr. Fox has been in a perfect stew. Miss Rhys is in a temper. We’re all at sixes and sevens.”
“I’ve been meeting my brother from Ireland. He wants us to have dinner with him tonight at his hotel. Will you come?”
“Did you ever know me to refuse an invitation?”
“But you will like coming. I can tell you, he’s a very nice fellow.”
“The worst is that I haven’t anything proper to wear. No — I can’t go.” She looked at him ruefully. “I haven’t a decent dinner dress.”
“Never mind. I’ll tell him we had to rehearse to the last moment and had no time to change. He’ll be glad.”
“I’m dying to meet him!”
They were called to take their place in the rehearsal.
It was an afternoon of hard work. Robert Fielding was in his most meticulous mood, making the actors repeat scenes again and again. In his own part with the leading lady they had an open quarrel as to how he should support her when she fainted. She fainted repeatedly — getting angrier all the while. At last it came to the point when she fell in one direction and he reached for her in the opposite. She would have fallen to the floor had not Ninian Fox caught her. She broke into a storm of weeping and left the stage. Wakefield went with her to her dressing room.
“Help me on with my coat,” she sobbed.
“Please don’t go, Miss Rhys,” he pleaded. “You were doing so splendidly.”
“What does that man Fielding think I am?” she demanded. “A dummy, to be thrown here and there! No, I can’t stand it!” She wound a green chiffon scarf repeatedly about her neck as though to strangle herself in her despair.
Ninian Fox came to the door.
“Miss Rhys,” he pleaded, “please don’t upset everything by going.”
“I’m tired out,” she said. “I’m a complete wreck.”
“I know, my dear — I know. But I’m quite sure Mr. Fielding will let you faint as you please from now on.”
“It’s too late.” she said grimly. “I’m going.”
Fox came into the room and took her hand. “Come into my office and have a drink.”
“You can write a letter to him,” she said, “on my behalf, and tell him that if he does not show more consideration for me, I’ll throw up my part.”
Fielding came into the room. He no longer wore the long topcoat but a natty grey suit and blue tie. His clever sallow face was deeply concerned, though how sincere the concern was, Wakefield could not guess. It might be simulated merely to pacify Miss Rhys.
“Phyllis,” he began.
“There has been enough talk,” she said, with a tragic wave of her hand. “I’m going home.”
“Phyllis — you can’t do that!”
“I can and will.” She jammed a becoming green toque on her head at a rakish angle and made for the door.
Ninian Fox intercepted her.
There was another door and she turned passionately toward it. There Fielding awaited her with outstretched arms and the selfsame expression he wore when she fainted in the play. It was too much. She struck at him. She faced both men like a tigress at bay. There was a moment’s terrible tension. Then they advanced on her and put their arms about her. She laid her handsome head on Fielding’s shoulder and sobbed — but suffered herself to be divested of her outer garments and led back to the stage.
The rehearsal began again.
One of the most emotional scenes was that in which Catherine accused her mother of having been a bad influence in her life. Molly could not do her part to please Ninian Fox. He listened to her with a smile of suffering on his ascetic mouth, then interrupted her with a staccato — “Miss Griffith!” Each time the colour fled from her face and she started like a sensitive child.
“Again, please,” he would say. “Miss Rhys, will you please say that bit beginning — ‘Cathie, you’re still a child to me.’”
“‘Cathie, you’re still a child to me. You’re still my own dear child. If you say such things, you’ll kill me.’” Miss Rhys’s magnetic voice pierced Molly to the heart, yet her response never satisfied Mr. Fox. He would exclaim: —
“Miss Griffith, I wish you could hear yourself saying, ‘But why did you bring Captain McArthur to the house, Mummie?’ It’s just as though you were saying, ‘But why can’t I have jam with my blancmange, Mummie?’ You must remember this is a moment of high emotion on your part. Now let us try it again.”
In the taxi on the way to Brown’s Hotel Molly said, in a small, controlled voice: —
“He hates me. I shall never do my part to please him. I’m getting worse instead of better. I know Miss Rhys thinks so. If it weren’t for you, I should wish I’d never got the part.”
Wakefield looked tenderly at the pale profile turned to him. “I’d like to bash his head in,” he said. “I think you say your lines beautifully and so does Trimble. So do Robert Fielding and the others. Keep your courage up. You’re going to be a success. Especially in the scenes with me. Look round, Molly.”
She turned her face to him and smiled. She laid her thin hand impulsively on his.
“You’re so sweet to me,” she said, then added — “I wish we were going to be alone. I’m not in a mood to meet strangers. Your brother will think me stupid.”
“Don’t worry about meeting Renny. I’m glad he’s married. Otherwise you’d be casting me off for him.”
He spoke teasingly. She laughed and with childlike swiftness she turned to a happier mood. She took out a vanity case and made a few swift dabs at her face.
“Is that better?” she asked.
There was nothing provocative about her.
“Yes, much better,” he answered, matter-of-factly. “But you’re paler than I like to see you. I wish you could have a week in the country.”
“I wish I could. I’ll not be happy till I’ve shown you the Welsh mountains.”
That remark drew them still closer. A feeling of adventure made the air in the taxi quiver with a new life. A flower seller’s barrow at the corner overflowed and flowers followed them all the way to the hotel. Wakefield doubled his tip to the driver.
Renny was waiting for them in the lobby. Wakefield had forgotten to tell him that Molly would have no time to dress for dinner and he wore a dinner jacket. Molly drew back behind Wakefield.
“I can’t go in,” she said. “You didn’t tell him!”
“Good Lord. I forgot! But it doesn’t matter” He took her arm and drew her in. Renny came to meet them.
“Sorry,” said Wakefield. “We simply had no time to change. We’re straight from rehearsal.”
“Wakefield promised to telephone,” said Molly, when the introductions were over. “I know I look all wrong.”
“You look very nice to me but, if you like, I’ll change.”
“Goodness, no!” She gave him a look almost of wonder. Compared to the men she and Wakefield had just left he was a being from such a different world that she felt she could find nothing to say to him. She was indeed almost silent during the first course of dinner. Renny appeared to ignore her, perhaps to put her at her ease, more likely because he had spent the afternoon with some horsy acquaintances whose conversation he repeated almost word for word. This conversation had great import, in his eyes, because of his recent acquisition of Johnny the Bird.
But he was conscious of Molly. She was very different from what he had expected. She seemed not to belong to the theatre as he pictured it. There was a courage in her way of holding her slender body and in the tilt of her face that troubled him, he could not have told why. As he saw her constraint wearing off he drew her on to talk. He was not particularly interested in the play but she found he was interested in Wales. She could see that he loved country life and felt himself at home only there. He had a way of turning his head aside and looking out through the window as though escape were in his mind. Yet he was not restive. The three brothers, she thought, were strangely alike, with all their outward differences. She felt Renny’s swift, penetrating glance in all her nerves. He seemed to be asking her some question for which she had no answer.
On his part he wondered at his interest in her. He was not a man who was attracted by young girls. He preferred the society of experienced women. But he was glad that the girl Wakefield had apparently fallen for was like this. There was something good and wholesome in Wake. He believed he would run straight. He asked the two of them if they would like to go to a play. They would, and instantly chose a Russian revival running at the Westminster.
His look of resigned boredom at such a prospect made Wakefield exclaim: —
“No, no — not that play! It’s too highbrow for Renny. Let’s see a musical comedy or a thriller.”
Now Renny saw the girl’s disappointed look. He forced his weather-beaten features into an expression of purposeful asceticism. “I like Russian plays. I don’t often have the chance to see them. We’ll go to the Westminster.”
Molly’s face lightened. “Oh, I’m so glad!” she said. She gave him a grateful look.
Wakefield scarcely saw what was passing on the stage. He only knew that his eldest brother was deeply conscious of Molly, and she of him. Wakefield felt no resentment as yet for her interest in Renny. It was natural. Women felt like that about him. But what right had he to look at her the way he did? What was in the look? Wakefield could not tell. He felt himself suddenly terribly young and inexperienced. He felt bewildered and swept by moments of rage. He remembered remarks he had heard about Renny’s love affairs. Yet he did not seem particularly keen about women. He seemed, in fact, a devoted husband. But when they went to the foyer between acts Wakefield saw that intense look in his eyes, that adroit look about the lips, as though they knew, without effort, just what to say and do. Renny went to get sherry for them, his narrow, hard-looking head with the pointed ears rising above the crowd. Wakefield asked: — “Do you like him?”
“Very much.”
Wakefield searched her face for embarrassment but found none.
“Is he what you expected?”
“No one ever is.”
“Do you form such fantastic ideas in advance, then?”
“He is much more exciting than I had expected.”
“Really?” Wakefield gave her an icy look. Renny returned with the sherry.
“Do you like the play?” she asked him.
“Very much. But, upon my word, those people led an awful life.”
“Don’t you think that all of us are like that underneath — only we don’t know it?”
He made a quick grimace of amusement.
“Do you want me to believe that you are?”
Again that look in his face. Wake felt a sudden dismay. Surely Renny couldn’t do such a thing to him! Not Renny, who had been like his father!
“Why are you so quiet?” asked Molly.
“Am I quiet? I didn’t know.”
As they moved along the aisle to their seats she whispered — “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“Of course I am,” he answered irritably. “You don’t expect me to be hilarious at this play, do you?”
She was hurt and showed it.
He recovered himself during the last act and at supper afterward was able to force some liveliness into his talk. Renny, returned from the Russian atmosphere, was exhilarated. He hoped he would never have to see such a play again but he was glad they had seen it, because the girl was so obviously delighted by the acting.
“I’ll wager you can do as well,” he said.
She opened her eyes wide. “Me? You should hear the things Mr. Fox says of my acting.”
“He’s an old brute,” said Wakefield. He put unnecessary vehemence into the words. He wondered at himself. He scarcely knew what was wrong.
When they had dropped Renny at his hotel and stood outside her lodgings in Ebury Street, a new feeling for her welled from Wakefield’s heart. Renny’s disturbing presence was gone. They stood alone together in the cool dark night. He wanted to take her into his arms and press his lips to hers. He wanted to prove that love had really flowered that night in him. Yet he was too unhappy to have confidence in himself more than to touch her hand. It hurt him to think that his love should flower in anger and jealousy. It had all been so beautiful.