“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.
They had left London at seven in the morning. It was midafternoon when they entered the Valley of the Wye. The deep-bosomed beauty of Herefordshire enfolded them. They got out of the car and lay on the grass high above the river to rest. Before them, wooded as thick as trees can stand, rose Symond’s Yat.
“Some of the names begin to be funny,” said Wakefield. “Are we getting near Wales?”
“Pretty near.”
She plucked nervously at the grass in silence for a space, then she said — “I think I ought to tell you something about my family.”
“You have mentioned your brother but scarcely spoken of the rest. I expect I talk so much of mine that I haven’t given you a chance. I wish you’d tell me what they’re like. How Welsh are you?”
“Christopher and I aren’t Welsh at all. We’re English. You see, my mother made a second marriage. My stepfather had three children, all girls. He was an engineer. He built bridges and things. But he drank and he made mistakes. We lived near London for years. Then we couldn’t afford that and Mother thought it might be good for Father to go far into the country. He’d inherited a house and some land in Wales, so he agreed and we went there. Christopher loves farming and animals. He was very happy. Things went better for a while. Then Mother died.” Her voice began to shake. Wake put his hand on hers but she drew away.
“Don’t sympathize with me,” she said. “It always makes me cry. I shall be all right in a minute.”
After a little she went on steadily. “After that Father seemed not to care how things went. It’s Christopher who keeps the family together. He’s a lovely brother — and stepbrother, too. He’s just as good to the others as he is to me.”
“Molly,” asked Wake, “are you fond of your stepfather?”
She nodded. “Yes. I am. He’s very kind — in his own way — especially when he’s not been drinking.”
“It’s all different from what I’ve pictured.”
“My sisters are shy. You’ll probably find them odd at first, especially Gemmel. She’s crippled and rather spoilt.”
“Which of them paints?”
“Althea, the eldest of all of us, and the shyest too. You mustn’t ask about her pictures unless she suggests it.”
“Which is the youngest?”
“Garda. She’s only sixteen. She’s a fat little thing and sensible. She and Christopher hold the place together. If it weren’t for them, I don’t know what would happen.”
Wakefield considered all this, then looked at his watch.
“I say, how much longer will it take us?”
“About two hours. Are you tired?”
“Just pleasantly. Do you know what I’ve been thinking?”
“What?”
“That I wish we could spend the night somewhere about here and take our time tomorrow.”
“I wish we could,” she answered simply.
There was nothing flirtatious about her, he thought. It was one of her charms that she was so straightforward.
“I wonder what we shall be saying when we drive back this way,” he said.
“I never look forward more than I can help.”
“How strange! I’m always looking forward.”
“You’ve nothing to fear.”
He was startled. “Have you?”
“Well, it’s like this. Father has a small annuity. When he dies that dies too. Whether Christopher and I could make enough between us to keep the home together is what worries me. The girls simply aren’t capable of looking after themselves.”
“Good Lord! Are you to have them on your hands for the rest of your days?”
“Don’t look so upset, Wake. I may be famous and make masses of money.”
“Maybe Garda. Not the others. Come, let’s go on.” She sprang up and brushed the grass spears from her dress.
As he slid under the wheel he asked — “Why haven’t you told me this before, Molly?”
“Why should I worry you?”
“You know very well why. That’s what I’m for.”
“You are sweet to me, Wake. Let’s not think about my troubles. I daresay Father will live to be ninety…. He would if he’d behave himself,” she added, bitterly.
They drove in silence for a while, each content in the thought that the intimate space within the car was shared by the other. Clouds came up from the west and the breeze freshened to a wind. They turned into a narrow road, with low irregular stone walls on either side. The face of the country changed. From opulent curves it changed to a hard boniness. The land was open and sparsely treed. There were scattered farms but no large houses. The air had a sharpness in it. Molly threw back her head and took deep breaths. She laughed.
“I’ve got you here at last,” she said. “We’ve a whole week ahead of us.”
“If you think,” said Wakefield, “that I can drive straight when you say things like that, you’re mistaken.”
He turned swiftly and kissed her on the cheek. The car swerved. Her cheeks were a bright pink.
“Be careful!”
“Of what?” he asked.
“Of our precious tires. This is a rough road.”
It grew wilder and rougher as they penetrated deeper into the heart of Wales. They were among barren hills that seemed to have upheaved themselves from the bowels of the earth. Beyond and beyond they reared their rocky heads, their shoulders shaggy with bracken. Beyond and beyond they crouched and sank like retreating waves. There was endless variety, and endless monotony. The motorcar was like a grey beetle making its way along the rough road. Wakefield exclaimed: —
“If Sarah had known what her car would go through she’d have thought twice before lending it.”
Molly was concerned. “I should have told you. I do hope the car won’t he hurt. Anyhow we shall soon be there…. Is it as wild as I said?”
Wakefield put on the tone of his Uncle Ernest. “My child, I’ve never known such an example of understatement. It’s as though you said you were going to present me to a gazelle and produced a dinosaur.”
She was delighted. “I thought you’d like it…. Look, there’s the Abbey, and away below — our house!”
He stopped the car on a level green plateau. On a rocky hilltop before them stood the ruin of an Abbey. A broken arch of stone and a crumbling tower, dark against the fragile blueness of the June sky. A flock of sheep were grazing on the rich grass surrounding the ruin. The white lambs sported in and out like mischievous choirboys. Below in the valley a grey stone house had spread a flower garden about it as though in passing challenge to the hills.
Wakefield stared in silence, trying to fit Molly Griffith into this picture. Then he said: —
“I can’t do it. I can’t believe in your living here. Perhaps I shall later, but just at this first glimpse it seems incredible.”
She laughed. “When you see Christopher you’ll think he fits in. And so do my sisters. Do you like the Abbey? It was built in the thirteenth century. Christopher says the monks had a garden and that a richness is still in the soil. That’s why it’s such good pasture. Those sheep are his.”
“I see a girl,” said Wakefield, “going down the mountainside beyond the valley.”
Molly exclaimed, “It’s Althea! She’s been sketching. Remember, you mustn’t ask to see her pictures. We’d better go. They’ll be expecting us. I’m tired and hungry. Are you?”
“I scarcely know what I am. I’m in a dream.”
Slowly the car bumped down the steep road into the valley. It lay in the purple shadow of the mountain. In that light the colours of the garden flowers took on a strange intensity. The house looked incredibly remote. An old thorn tree, distorted by gales, grew by the door. A great boulder, half hidden in flowering gorse, lay near the tree. The girl descending the mountain path had evidently seen them and was hurrying to the house.
Molly seemed tense, Wakefield thought, almost as though she were uncertain of their welcome as they stood in the stone porch. An iron boot-scraper was by the door, flakes of mud beneath it.
“We’ll go straight in,” said Molly. But she opened the door softly and stood as though irresolutely in the hall.
It was square and furnished only with an old oak table and settle where a yellow cat lay sleeping. He rose, arched his back, and blinked a half-welcome at Molly.
She bent to stroke his back. “Hullo, Owen! Where is everybody?” She pushed open a door and disclosed an old-fashioned parlor, small and unused, with a faint smell of must.
“Wait here a moment,” she said. “I can’t think what’s become of everybody.”
Wakefield waited, thinking how different this was to Jalna, where no one could arrive without a warning from the dogs that brought the family on the scene. These people were odd and he pitied Molly. He had a sudden desire to protect her from her own family. He had a feeling that he would dislike them on sight. The cat had followed her and he was alone. There was nothing in the room that gave him a clue to the tastes of the younger generation, for it had obviously been furnished at least fifty years before.
Wakefield was both tired and restless. He could not sit down. He looked out of one window and saw the mountainside in deepening purple, flame-etched clouds moving westward above it. Up there, there must be a strong wind. Here, everything was still.
A voice spoke suddenly behind him.
“How do you do?” The voice was clear, young, and self-assured.
Wakefield started and looked sharply round. He discovered no one. Then came a teasing laugh with a note of triumph in it. It came from under a table over which lay an old-fashioned embroidered cover. But the voice was not a child’s voice. He drew away to the other side of the room.
A corner of the tablecover was drawn aside. A girl’s face, pale and pointed, with dense dark hair and greenish-blue eyes, smiled up at him.
“Oh, how do you do,” he answered. “I didn’t see you before.” He tried to speak naturally. If this was the way they welcomed guests in Wales he must play up to it.
She came from under the table on her hands and seat, moving quickly, as though accustomed to this means of getting about. Though she was pale it was not the pallor of ill-health. She looked strong and her hands were extraordinarily supple and capable-looking.
Now she folded them in her lap and sat looking up at him. He saw that her back was somewhat curved, though not deformed. She asked: —
“Did Molly tell you about me?”
“She said …” He hesitated.
“Then she did! I wanted to be the first to meet you. We’ve all been so curious. We never have visitors, you know. You’re the first in years and years.” She looked up at him admiringly. “Goodness, you’re handsome! No wonder Molly raved about you!”
He was recovering himself. “How nice of her! Well, I’ll tell you what she told me about you. She said her sisters were shy.”
She answered seriously — “I am when I want to be. It saves me trouble. But I’m not going to be shy with you. You’re our first visitor and I want to do all I can to make your visit happy.” Was there malice in her smile?
He heard Molly’s quick step. She came into the room.
“Oh, Gemmel,” she exclaimed — “you’re here!” She bent to kiss the girl, who was about her own age. She put up strong arms and pulled Molly to the floor beside her.
“Sit down here,” she said, “where I can look at you.”
They sat on the floor, side by side.
How extraordinary all this was! For a moment Wakefield did not know what to do with himself. Then he dropped to the floor beside them.
“Good,” said Gemniel. “Now I can see you better too.” She gave him
a long look, then turned to her stepsister. “He’s just like you said, Molly. I couldn’t have believed it.”
Molly gave a little apologetic smile at Wakefield.
“Didn’t I tell you she is spoilt?” she asked.
“No,” declared Gemmel. “You told him I was shy. But, as I said to him, I can’t afford to he shy with our only visitor in years. I’ve got to make the most of him.”
“Here comes Christopher,” said Molly. “He will take you to your room. Then we’ll have some food.”
Both sisters turned eagerly to the door where the one brother entered.
Christopher was lightly built and of a fairness that takes on a warm golden tan. It was easy to see that he and Molly were brother and sister, but while her young face showed her awareness of the threatenings and pitfalls of life, his wore an expression of serene confidence in the good intentions of the world. Wake thought he had never seen a sweeter smile. The two shook hands.
Wake and Molly had got to their feet. Gemmel had moved herself so as to be the centre of the group, turning up her face to peer inquisitively into theirs. From this continual upgazing her neck had become extraordinarily supple. She turned her face from side to side with a graceful movement, as of a windflower on its stem.
Christopher smiled down at her good-humouredly. She struck at him with petulance.
“I should think you’d be ashamed,” she said, “to come in here wearing those old clothes. Why didn’t you change?”
“I hadn’t time.”
“Where is the honey in the comb you promised to get for me?”
“By George, I forgot.”
“There’s a brother for you!” she cried, scornfully. “He promises one thing, and does another. I’ll bet you didn’t forget the things Althea ordered!”
“They were for the evening meal, Gemmel.”
“And the honey was for my breakfast. I won’t eat any breakfast. Do you hear?”
She looked furious, but Wake had the feeling that she was showing off. Where Finch would have been embarrassed by the situation, Wake was amused. Her voice pursued them into the hall. She propelled herself swiftly to the door and raised her face to their retreating figures.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 380
