The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (466 page)

A glow of fatherly feeling welled up in Piers’s heart. It was one thing to find your son a problem, quite another to give him up. He tied his forehead into a knot and bit his thumb. “You’d better tell Pheasant about it yourself.”

Renny did. He returned with Piers and his family that evening and laid the plan before Pheasant after the younger boys were in bed and young Maurice was undressing. She listened with a startled, wary look in her brown eves.

“For heaven’s sake,” exclaimed Renny, “don’t look like that! I thought I’d something pleasant to tell you.”

Pheasant wrung her hands together. “I’ve felt this coming,” she said.

“Did you ever see such a girl?” said Piers. “That’s the way she takes things.”

Pheasant laid her arms on the table and her head on her arms. “If I give him up now, I’ll never get him back,” she said.

“Now that’s all nonsense,” said Renny. “He can come back whenever you say the word or if he doesn’t like living in Ireland. But I do think you ought to consider his future.”

“Would you give up your boy?” she cried.

For a moment he was disconcerted. Then he said, “If I had three sons I should certainly think I was lacking in foresight if I refused an offer like this.”

“Then you’d be willing to sell your boy!” She raised her streaming eyes to their two faces.

“You needn’t do it,” said Piers, “if you don’t want to.”

“Of course not,” said Renny. “We’ll not talk of it any more. But, just before we close the subject, I want to tell you that Cousin Dermot is a very kind old fellow. He has an understanding way with him. I think perhaps he’d understand Mooey better than his own father does.”

Piers said nothing.

“Are you sure,” asked Pheasant, in a shaking voice, “that it’s just for a visit?”

“Positive. Unless you wish otherwise. I’ll tell you what. Let’s have the boy down and ask what he thinks about it.”

Piers went to the foot of the staircase and called up: — “Mooey!”

“Yes, Daddy,” came from above.

“Come down here.”

Piers waited at the bottom step for him. Mooey descended slowly, his eyes, darkened by apprehension, on his father’s face. He was in his pyjamas and his fine brown hair was tumbled. What had he done, he wondered. Was there trouble in store for him?

But as he reached Piers’s side, Piers put an arm about him and, holding him so, led him into the sitting room. Then he went and sat down beside Pheasant. She had dried her eyes but she shaded them with her hand and forced a smile to her lips.

“Uncle Renny has something to tell you,” she said.

Mooey stood, slim and straight, facing them. A load had rolled from his mind. He had done nothing wrong. His father had even given him a caress. But why did his mother’s face look so strained? Why was her hand before her eyes? Why had Uncle Renny that smile which was not a smile?

Renny said, as though speaking to another grownup: —

“I hope you don’t mind being brought down here at this hour.”

He answered politely, “I don’t mind, Uncle Renny.”

“Good. Now, look here, I’ve got a nice surprise for you.”

If it was a nice surprise, why did his mother look like that? He answered: —

“What is it, Uncle Renny?”

Renny stretched out a long arm and drew Mooey onto his knee. Now his smile was truly a smile. Mooey relaxed. I hope it has nothing to do with horses, he thought.

Renny came straight to the point. “You heard me tell about Cousin Dermot and what a fine place he has in Ireland. Very well. He lives alone and he likes boys. He has invited you to visit him. You’d have a grand time. What do you say?”

He could say nothing. He could not take it in. He had never been away from home in his life. His mother — his eyes flew to her face. Her lips were parted as though she had been running but her eyes looked brightly into his.

“Wake up,” said his father, “and tell us how you like the idea. Mind, you don’t have to go unless you really want to.”

“How could I get there?”

“Wright is going over,” answered Renny. “He’d take you.”

“And bring me back?”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Piers. “Boys of six have crossed the ocean alone. I’ll bet Philip would think nothing of it.”

“Wright will bring you back too, if you like,” said Renny.

“How long should I stay?”

“As long or as short a time as you want. I think you’d enjoy it immensely. You don’t want Adeline to be so far ahead of you, do you? She loved it. There’s a nice boy near by about your age named Pat Crawshay. It would be fun for you to be the only child in the house and have everything your own way. Cousin Dermot is very keen to have you and to give you a good time. He told me so.”

Mooey rose and went to the other end of the room. He stood rigid, his arms at his sides. Bewildering pictures passed through his mind. Himself, on a hill in Ireland, free from all things that troubled him. Himself and Cousin Dermot shaking hands, and neither understanding a word the other said. Himself free from the journeys to a school he did not like — free from the constant strain of pretending that he liked to ride, pretending he was not afraid. Himself separated from Nook — torn from his mother’s arms! He wanted to ask if he would have to ride to hounds or at the horse show but he could not find words in which to conceal his reason for asking. He was silent so long that Pheasant exclaimed: —

“You don’t want to go, do you, Mooey?”

“Give him time,” said Renny. With a sudden swift intuition he went to the boy and put his arm about him.

“Come with me,” he said. “I want to talk with you alone for a bit.”

He took him into the dining room and closed the door.

“Now,” he said, “what is it you want to ask me?”

Mooey twisted his fingers together. He put one bare foot on top of the other.

“Uncle Renny, will you please not tell Daddy what I’m going to ask?”

“May I drop dead if I do.”

“Well — I want to know — I want to know, if I’ll ride to hounds like Adeline did. And if I’ll have to school polo ponies.”

“Neither. I promise you. Not unless you really want to. I told Cousin Dermot that you didn’t like horses and that your father couldn’t understand and he said that didn’t matter. He said you were to do as you pleased. That’s the way when you’re visiting, you know — you’re not forced to do things you don’t like.”

Mooey drew a breath from the very bottom of his being. He went to the door. Then he said over his shoulder: —

“I’ll do it. I’ll go. Tell Daddy.”

He tore up the stairs.

When Piers and Pheasant were again alone, Piers said: —

“I don’t want you to think for a moment that I’m urging this. I don’t want to part with Mooey — except for a visit. But you look as though you were giving him up forever.” He spoke almost angrily.

They were standing in the hall, the dark spring night framed in the doorway between them.

“I am,” she answered in a choking voice. “I know I am. And another thing —” She was going to say something she’d never intended to say but now she could not help herself. The bitterness of years made the words burn her lips: —

“You don’t love Mooey! You never have!”

Piers was aghast. He stared at her in silence for a moment. Then he shouted: —

“That’s a lie! I’ll not let him go! I’ll go right upstairs and tell him he’s not to go!”

He began to run up the stairs but she ran after him and held him. She burst into tears.

“I didn’t mean it, Piers! I don’t know what made me say such a thing. I want him to go to Cousin Dermot. I know he’ll have a lovely time — poor little boy!”

THE PLAY’S PROGRESS

T
HE AUDIENCES AT
The Preyde Theatre grew more and more scattered. More complimentary tickets were given away. Every day Ninian Fox became more irritable. Phyllis Rhys was considering a new offer. The leading man more frequently visited the bar round the corner. Molly was afraid to send money home and Wakefield called at a theatrical agency to see what were the prospects for a new part. He was more disappointed than ever before in his life. He had been so sure that the play would be a success. He knew it was a good play. Everyone said it was beautifully acted, yet, for some reason, the public did not like it. Ninian Fox tried several newspaper stunts to rouse interest in it but without avail. One afternoon he announced that the run would come to an end in a fortnight. He was putting on a new play.

Wakefield and Molly left the theatre in silence. They turned their eyes from the pink posters in the street. There was heaviness in the air, heaviness pressing down on their spirits. Wakefield no longer used taxis. They went to a nearby basement restaurant for tea. No others of the company were there. They were glad of that. They wanted nothing to remind them of the play.

They ordered crumpets and tea. The waitress knew them well by now and asked sympathetically: —

“How’s things? Any better?”

“No,” answered Wakefield. “We’re closing. They’re putting on a new play.”

“My goodness, what a pity! I do hope you’ll be in it.”

“No such luck.”

He gloomily pressed the melting butter into the holes in his crumpet. The way his hair grew on his forehead, and the bend of his lips, touched the waitress. She wished she could do something to help the play.

When she had gone Molly said — “I wonder if ever we shall act together again.”

“Probably not.”

“I wonder if it will be very hard to get new parts.”

“Very hard indeed, I should say.”

“Well, I shall have to get a job of some sort.”

“Do you think you’re fitted for anything else?”

“Not particularly.”

“I sometimes wish I’d stayed in the monastery.”

“I suppose they’d take you back.”

“And I suppose you’d be quite willing,” he returned bitterly.

“Well, you just said you wished you were back.”

“I said I wish I’d
stayed
there. Surely you can see the difference.”

She was silent. After a little he said — “Perhaps war will come. Then I needn’t worry. I shall join the Air Force.”

“Phyllis Rhys says there’ll be no war. Her husband has just come back from Paris and he says the Germans will never dare to attack France. He says France has a magnificent army.”

Wakefield laid his hand on hers.

“Don’t look so serious, Molly. You look like you did when we first met. Let’s not care what happens. Let’s try to be happy.”

She smiled. “All right. I’ll try.”

How plucky she was, he thought. She had a way of bracing her slender shoulders that touched him. He said: —

“If it’s humanly possible, we’ll get parts in the same play. Let’s go to the Agency in the morning. If we can’t do anything else we can go into summer repertory.”

“It’s late for that. It’s June.”

They took turns in despondency and in cheering each other. They had two crumpets apiece.

Henriette was in a state of black disapproval of the populace of London.

“They don’t do anything to improve their minds,” she said. “All they ask is tea at Lyons and the flicks. Why don’t they improve theirselves while there’s time! Since my own association with the theatre my friends marvel at me. I’ve told them straight — I never want to see another flick.”

That very night she waited up late to see Wakefield on his return from the theatre. She stood under the ceiling light in the hall, strange shadows etched on her large face, her pendulous underlip trembling in excitement.

“I’ve been to a crystal gazer,” she said. “I’d made up my mind to find out the truth about the play even if it did cost five shillings. This man has told things to my friends that ’as made their ’air rise and ’e’s never wrong. I said to ’im, says I, ‘I’m connected with a play in a London theatre.’ Says I, ‘Is this play going to he a success or a failure? I may tell you, I’m worried about it,’ I says. He stared into the crystal for a long while with a dismal look, then ’e smiled. ‘The play is about to come off,’ ’e said, ‘but don’t you worry. That play is just gathering speed. It will move fast. It will move to a larger theatre.’”

Wakefield smiled tolerantly. “Thanks, Henriette. It’s sweet of you to have done this for me. I’ll try to believe it but, if you’d seen the theatre tonight, you’d have wept.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry. The crowds will come yet.”

The two following nights were just as dispiriting, but at the Saturday matinee there was quite a good house. That night the theatre was more than half-full. A thrill of hope went through the company. They strained toward what the following week might bring.

It brought better and better houses. It was one of those mysteries of the theatre which no one can solve. On Saturday night the house was sold out. The actors were in good heart. Ninian Fox was at his wit’s end to know what to do with the two plays on his hands. The improvement held and even gained in the next week. It was announced that the play would be moved to a larger theatre. That night Wakefield carried a dozen roses and a box of chocolates to Gayfere Street for Henriette. She felt as much justified in her triumph as the playwright himself.

Ninian Fox announced that there would be a week’s holiday with pay during the transfer. Molly Griffith invited Wakefield to spend the week at her father’s house in Wales. At last they were to walk among the Welsh hills together.

They made their preparations in a state of almost complete happiness. A whole precious week beckoned them. Everything was propitious. Sarah had lately acquired a car and, in one of her moments of erratic generosity, she offered to lend it to them. She liked Molly and she was tired of Wakefield as a single man about the house. She would like to see them marry.

June was presented to them like a bouquet in a crystal vase, as they sped northward. Little gardens overflowing in flowers, rivers tracing their silver way through opulent meadows, flocks of grazing sheep fringed by capering, woolly-legged lambs. No extravagance could flatter the beauty of the day.

They drove through Oxford, its spires pricking the green roundness of its groves, its streets lively with young cyclists. They turned westward through the Vale of Evesham. They saw the Severn winding its pleasant way and had a glimpse of the stark Malverns humped against the sky, their sides purple in the shadow, the ancient British Camp guarding their crown.