Alayne thought — “What grand words! I wish they might be shouted from the housetops in these days. I wonder what Renny thinks of them. Or does he think about the Lessons? He read better than usual. Today he seems almost perfect to me. If only I could go on feeling like this!” She gave her little ironic smile. One thing she liked about church. It was a good place for thinking in.
The service was over before she realized it, she was so deep in thought. She had made no attempt to listen to the sermon. In a dream she rose at the end with the others, passed down the aisle and waited outside the door for Renny. She lifted her face to the sweetness of the breeze. The air inside the church had grown close. Not feeling unfriendly but merely aloof, she moved away from the family and walked slowly down the steep path toward the gate. She knew they would not be pleased at her doing this but she did not care. They all would be at Jalna for lunch. She was entitled to this privacy. She wanted to make sure that Renny and she would have the walk home together. She clung, with almost pathetic tenderness, to these first moments of isolation with him. In a strange way the feeling of her first love for him came back to her, its troubled and perilous straining toward their moments alone. She shunned every face she knew and walked out of the gate and down the road alone.
He came running after her.
“You are in a hurry!” he said.
He gave her a swift look, conscious of some emotion in her deeper than she would reveal. He smiled down into her face.
“I had to shake hands with everybody,” he said, “and they all seemed to know I’d bought Johnny the Bird.”
“Darling,” she said, and caught his fingers in hers.
They dallied on the way home, following the stream, looking for the first hepaticas. The sun came out hot. Alayne’s shoes were muddy. It was a long while since she had been so carefree and happy. She was glad that she had not stood in the way of his going to Ireland. “If anything happens to him,” she thought, “I can say that I did not stand in the way of his doing the things he most wanted to.”
It was the first time she had ever thought of anything happening to him. He had seemed immune to illness and danger. Since their marriage he had had many accidents but had come through them so well that she had a sudden feeling of shame to remember how calmly she had taken the news of a bone broken in polo, cuts and bruises in his other activities. Suddenly, moving among the trees, he looked strangely vulnerable in his quickness and leanness. Why, a bullet, a splinter of shell, would kill or blind him as easily as any man. She knew that, if war came, he would join his old regiment. What if she should lose him or have him returned to her arms maimed?
When they reached Jalna the family was there in full possession. Returning and finding them everywhere Alayne felt how slight was her hold on the place, compared to theirs. In truth she never had had any feeling of possession toward the old house. Like an alloy, which it could not absorb into its metal, it rejected her. Yet young Philip Whiteoak, who had not slept half a dozen nights under its roof, seemed as much a part of the place as Piers.
Nicholas was rested, freshly shaved and eager for company. He and Paris had had a long talk and Nicholas had decided that the young man was as unlike his father as possible and a very lively companion. Everyone asked questions about Johnny the Bird, the Grand National, the house in Gayfere Street and the doings of Finch and Wakefield. Maurice and Meg both said they thought it was a good thing that Finch and Sarah had come together again. It did seem a pity that her fortune should be lost to the family.
Paris Court had heard Jalna and its occupants so often described by his father, yet described as they were thirty years ago, that he had a strange dreamlike feeling, as though he had slept and woken to find figures in some familiar tale grown up or aged in the interval. What a letter he would write home! He pictured his father and mother laughing over it for weeks. The well-stocked stables, the crowded table, the abundant food, the sense of plenty, gave Paris the feeling that the Whiteoaks were indeed relatives to be cherished, to say nothing of the fact that he liked them for their own sakes. The portrait his father had given Renny was a delight to the family. Adeline, the child, was hung beside Adeline the young woman, and the living Adeline was stood beneath them for comparison and a deep satisfaction.
If anything were needed to spoil her further, thought Alayne, the visit abroad and the acquiring of the picture were enough. Adeline’s head was carried more overbearingly, if possible, her glance was more daring than before. Yet she was overflowing with love and her gentleness toward Archer was charming. He, coming downstairs in his Sunday best and finding the house full of people, walked among them as though the weight of the world were on his brow.
“Upon my word,” said Meg, “the look of him would turn sweet milk sour.”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” said Nicholas. “He really is a good old scout, aren’t you, Archie?”
Archer gave a wry smile, stared past them and marched on about his business.
The afternoon was well on its way before Renny was able to have Piers to himself. He took him to his own room further to inspect the photographs and record of Johnny the Bird. While Piers was still examining these Renny said: — “It strikes me that Mooey isn’t coming along very well.”
Piers frowned and answered impatiently — “You’re right. He’s a problem, that boy. He’s growing fast yet he doesn’t eat as he should. He’s lackadaisical about riding. He gets in a blue funk if a horse begins to cut up. If I reprimand him he’s on the point of tears. I’d think he was like those artistic brothers of ours but he doesn’t show any talent for anything — not for anything.”
“I’ve always been fond of Mooey,” said Renny.
“Good Lord, so have I! If I hadn’t I’d have skinned him alive. Now I understand Nook — more or less. But I don’t understand Mooey and never shall.”
Renny took a pipe from the rack and began to fill it. He said, “I was telling Cousin Dermot about Mooey.”
Piers looked vague and said, “Oh, were you?”
“He was very much interested in him. His own sons are dead and his only grandson was killed in the hunting field some years ago. He has a nice fortune and he has no heir. He liked what I told him about Mooey.”
Piers opened his eyes wide. What was coming? Now he was completely alert.
“The upshot of our talk was,” Renny went on, “that Cousin Dermot would like to have Mooey visit him. If they got on well together — and I’m sure they would — he would want to keep Mooey as his own son — make him his heir. It would be a grand thing for the boy.”
“How long do you think the old man will live?” asked Piers.
“Do you ask that from a mercenary point of view?” asked Renny sharply.
“You are asking me to part with my eldest son!”
“Well — Cousin Dermot says he’s good for another ten years, and I’m inclined to believe him. Mooey would then be twenty-three.”
“Pheasant would never agree.”
“We should tell her that it would be just a visit but that it might lead to Cousin Dermot making the boy his heir. Pheasant’s too sensible not to realize what that would mean to Mooey. It would change his whole life, without a doubt.”
“When does he want him to go? How would he get there?”
“I am thinking of sending Wright over to help with the training of the horse. I want someone of my own on the spot. Wright would look after Mooey very well. He’s known him all his life.”
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 th
at! 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!”
XVI
THE PLAY’S PROGRESS
THE 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, th
e 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.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 379
