Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course

by Mazo de La Roche

  The telephone rang in the next room. Wragge hurried to answer it. It was Aunt Harriet wanting to speak to Renny. He rose with alacrity as though a telephone talk in the middle of this meal were a relief. Those sitting at table could hear all he said.

  “Oh, yes, Aunt Harriet,” he was saying, “I’ll have the roof attended to at once. A pity it leaked on your best bed. Yes, I’ll come round and look at it myself. I want to talk to you in any case. I want Uncle Ernie’s opinion — and of course yours too — about two cables I’ve had from the Old Country. One is from Wakefield. He’s getting on fine. He’s been to Ireland to see a most extraordinary horse. It has a great future ahead of it…. Yes, it is interesting, isn’t it? Our cousin, Dermot Court, — Uncle Ernie must have spoken of him to you, — is frightfully keen about this horse. He urges me to let nothing stand in the way of my seeing it — not even the ocean! Ha! ha! But I don’t expect to go across — even though it’s the chance of a lifetime…. Would you? But of course you’re one woman in a thousand. Ha! Ha! Yes, I know you would. What do you suppose young Adeline wants? She wants to go with me, if I go! But there’s not much likelihood of a change for yours truly…. Yes, I still have a bit of a cough. But it’s nothing. I’m as strong as a horse. It’s Alayne who needs a change. I wish she would go South. You and she might go together, eh?... Yes, it would be a wonderful thing for Adeline to go to the Old Country. She’s old enough now to appreciate it. Oh, well, perhaps the day will come. It’s lucky you rang up. I was wanting to speak to you. Alayne and I are having a little theatre party tomorrow night and we want you and Uncle Ernie to join us. Candida. Is that highbrow enough for you? You’re a New England intellectual, aren’t you? Or once were…. No longer one, eh! No wonder, living among us! Well, whatever you are, you suit me!” There was a long silence while Aunt Harriet apparently relieved herself of much pent-up desire for conversation. Occasionally he made small noises of appreciation or gave a chuckle. Wragge had removed his plate from the table to keep his chop warm. Nicholas had made no attempt to eat but had sat with his hand curved about his ear determined to hear what was being said in the next room. Drops of moisture gleamed on the ends of his grey moustache and the shapely old hand lying on the tablecloth trembled a little.

  Leaning toward Alayne, he asked — “Are they coming? Is he going?”

  “I have no idea,” she returned remotely. Adeline answered, “Yes, they’re coming. Uncle Nick, and I think — I’m pretty sure — he’s going.”

  “You have no reason for making either statement,” said Alayne.

  “I guessed by the way he spoke.”

  “Please don’t speak of your father as he.”

  Adeline looked daring. “Renny, then.”

  “Now you’re being just silly.”

  Renny returned to the room.

  Nicholas demanded, without waiting to swallow a mouthful of peas, “Are they pleased about the play? And what do they think of your going to Ireland?”

  “Aunt Harriet is delighted to go to Candida. As to the other, well — she’s not unsympathetic. Rags, my dinner!”

  Wragge placed it before him as though he were an invalid. Renny shot a quick glance at Alayne. “Sorry to have interrupted the meal,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She was thinking, with a good deal of irritation, of her Aunt Harriet. Just a few years ago Harriet Archer had been a typical New England spinster of the intellectual sort, elderly, well-tuned-out, with an admirable, though not stiff-necked loyalty to her traditions. Her investments had gone wrong. She had lost almost all she had. Renny Whiteoak had invited her to spend the rest of her life at Jalna. There she had met Ernest and he and she had found each other so congenial that they had made a match of it.

  This was all very well and Alayne had been happy for her aunt’s sake. What she could not understand was her aunt’s desire to remodel herself on the Whiteoak design. Aunt Harriet, of course, denied that she had. She simply said that her new environment had brought out a latent something in herself. The very traits in the family which most irritated Alayne were interesting or amusing or even admirable to her aunt. To Alayne there was something affected in this. She did not believe in Aunt Harriet’s sincerity. She thought Harriet was posing and she hated poseurs.

  So their relations, though affectionate, were not so sympathetic as they once had been. Alayne was quite prepared to find her aunt favorable to Renny’s scheme and surprised at her own opposition to it.

  The theatre party was to have dinner in town. Uncle Ernest and Aunt Harriet appeared at Jalna promptly at five o’clock. Ernest was always glad of the opportunity to wear evening clothes, and he wore them extremely well. A man of sixty might well have been proud of the slender, upright figure of him, at eighty-five. His wife, many years younger, was a pretty sight in a black velvet evening gown, with jade necklace and earrings which had once graced the person of old Adeline Whiteoak. Her silvery hair was charmingly curled and her neat features and clear blue eyes expressed almost girlish anticipation.

  Nicholas, Renny, and Alayne rose to greet them. There was a pleasant flutter of excitement in the room. Alayne put aside her misgivings and prepared to enjoy the evening.

  “Well, my boy,” Ernest said to his brother, “and how are you? You’re looking very well, considering the weather.”

  Nicholas drew him aside. He said — “Alayne’s greatly upset over the Irish Question. If he takes that trip and buys that horse and loses that race, she’ll be a sick woman, and no wonder!”

  Ernest smiled tolerantly. “He’ll not lose the race. I have implicit trust in Dermot Court. I shall never forget the tip he gave me. I should not hesitate, if I were a few years younger, to buy the horse myself.”

  Nicholas was impressed. “Well, well, you’d better say something like that to Alayne.”

  Harriet took Renny’s hands in hers and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the chin.

  “All our good wishes go with you, my dear!” she exclaimed.

  Renny was embarrassed. “Nothing is settled yet.”

  “Oh, yes, it is,” put in Alayne, with a sharp tremor in her voice. “Everything is settled. Everything was settled from the moment the cables came. Don’t let any qualms of mine cramp your style!”

  “Alayne, darling,” said Harriet earnestly, “you must not feel like that.”

  “I should try to fed that all is for the best, eh?”

  Harriet coloured slightly. “I never could stand up against sarcasm. But I do feel that, from what I know of Dermot Court, we owe it to ourselves to take his advice.”

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed her husband, “it’s the chance of a lifetime.”

  “Hmph, well,” mumbled Nicholas, “it’s a big step to take. Quite a sum involved. Egad, I’ve lost my opera glasses! Wherever can they be?”

  They were found for him. Coals and wraps were put on. The car was waiting and Rags ushered them out to it with his grandest air. A bright new moon was just hesitating between rising and setting above the treetops. Harriet saw to it that she was beside Renny, asking him innumerable questions about horse racing, strengthening him, as Alayne thought, in his wrongheadedness. But she had given tip struggling against it. If he had made up his mind to do this thing, let him do it. There must not be coldness between them. Better anything than that. A mistiness dimmed her eyes. As he was helping her from the car she said softly: — “If your heart is set on this trip I want you to go.”

  He gave a delighted smile. He drew her for a second against his side.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you will come with me? You must!”

  “At this time of year! Nothing would induce me. You know what a bad sailor I am.”

  Ernest was saying — “There’s a new feeling in the air tonight. Spring is certainly on the way. I hear an orchestra playing. I do enjoy a dinner party in a hotel, don’t you, Harriet?”

  “There’s nothing I like better,” she said stoutly.

  Nicholas exclaime
d, “My opera glasses! Egad. I’ve left ’em in the car!”

  Renny tore after the car, bareheaded. Looking after him, Alayne thought: —

  “The darling!”

  II

  THE MEETING AT THE PREYDE THEATRE

  A MONTH BEFORE Wakefield sent the cable, he had not even known of the horse’s existence. He was entirely concerned with his determination to be interviewed by Ninian Fox — Fox of the Preyde, as he was generally called.

  The Preyde Theatre was in one of the network of streets all of which seem eventually to lead into the Strand. It was small but not obscure, for its manager was enterprising and while he often had failures, Ninian Fox occasionally produced a West End success. At this moment he was precariously recovering from two failures, one of them the translation of a macabre foreign play, the other an ambitious historical drama by a new author. He was consequently, so he said, almost bankrupt and was about to risk his all on another play by an unknown author.

  He was sitting in his inner office drinking a glass of whiskey and soda and looking anxiously at the well-thumbed manuscript of the play on the desk before him while his secretary, a tiny, harassed-looking young woman with a remarkably intelligent face, scanned the letters she had just typed. The month was February. Mr. Fox stretched out his hand, took a vase of hyacinths and daffodils from the window sill, and sniffed it.

  “I’m half dead,” he remarked.

  There was something effeminate in his way of doing this but in his tall angular frame and straight clear-cut profile, he was entirely masculine. He had a fine head covered with thick iron-grey hair, cold blue eyes and a smile that was consciously genial but without warmth.

  Miss Waite was used to his saying he was half dead and waited politely to hear if he had anything more important to declare. He went on, “Unless I can get the right sort of young fellow to play Frederick, the thing’s a failure.”

  Miss Waite already knew this. She said: —

  “There’s that boy I interviewed last week. He’s been here every day since. Had you perhaps better see him?”

  “Do you think he might be possible?”

  “He certainly would look the part. And he has a clever face but he’s not had much experience.”

  “You say he’s in the lobby”

  “Yes.”

  “H’m. Well — bring him in.”

  In the lobby Miss Waite found the young man walking nervously up and down. A young girl was sitting very upright on a small chair, by a small table, her handbag clasped tightly in her thin hands. She started and half rose when she saw Miss Waite.

  “Does Mr. Fox want to see me?” she asked.

  “Not yet. He wants to see the young man. What did you say your name is?” She turned from the girl’s tense pale face to his eager one.

  “Whiteoak. Wakefield Whiteoak. I’m terribly anxious to play the part of Frederick. I’m sure I can do it. I feel that I am Frederick.”

  Miss Waite had often heard this sort of thing from young actors and a look of pessimism on her small face chilled his warmth. But she said politely, “Please come this way. Mr. Fox is waiting.”

  The young girl pressed forward.

  “Do you think there’s any chance of his seeing me?”

  “Not this morning.” Miss Waite’s voice was dry. Then something in the girl’s eyes touched her and she added, “I’ll find out if there’s any possibility and let you know.”

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you.”

  Young Wakefield Whiteoak threw her a swift look. It was not the first he had given her. He had even tried to talk to her but she had been too nervous and too shy for conversation with a stranger. But now she met his look that was so full of friendliness and admiration, and she smiled in return.

  “Good luck,” she said.

  Mr. Fox’s glance was appraising as he shook hands with Wakefield. He looked coldly pleased.

  “Physically,” he said. “You are all right for the part. But so many young men are. What experience have you had?”

  “Not a great deal. I still —”

  “How could you have had much, at your age?” interrupted Mr. Fox impatiently, but with his genial smile. “Just tell me what parts you’ve played.”

  “I’ve done the usual thing at the Dramatic School. I played Romeo with a company in Cornwall last summer. And I played the tutor in A Month in the Country at the Portal Theatre.”

  “Quite a good beginning! You come from Canada?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have an interesting accent. How did you come by it?”

  “As a child I lived in the house with my uncles, who were educated at Oxford, and my grandmother, who was an Irish-woman. I was educated by a clergyman but I have got something from my brother and guardian, who is a horse breeder.”

  Mr. Fox looked at him sharply. Was the young fellow being humourous? No, he was quite serious and evidently certain that any details concerning himself would be interesting.

  “H’m, well — Miss Waite, will you please give Mr. Whiteoak Frederick’s part? Let him read the bit where he discovers his sister’s relations with Ransome.” To Wakefield he remarked — “This is a very fine play but it’s a terrible risk for me. No one knows what a risk. I stand to make well out of it or be ruined. I can’t afford to pay much in the way of salary, you understand.”

  “Of course,” said Wakefield sympathetically.

  Mr. Fox’s brow cleared a little. Miss Waite handed Wakefield the typescript. She noticed how steady his hand was and how his gravity barely concealed a look of mischief.

  “I think we’ll go on to the stage,” interrupted Mr. Fox. “I think both producer and author are in the theatre. We might as well have their opinion.”

  He finished his whiskey and soda with a sigh, bent to smell his hyacinths, then led the way in a measured walk. Just as Miss Waite and Wakefield passed through the door the telephone rang and she darted back to answer it. Mr. Fox, with an irritated frown, stopped and stared at the young girl who waited in the lobby. He remarked: — “The telephone is a nuisance. It provides ceaseless interruptions and little convenience. Were you waiting to see me, my dear?”

  The young girl had already sprung to her feet.

  “Yes. Yes — please, I should very much like to see you. I mean I want terribly to do the part of Catherine. I’ve had quite a lot of experience. If you’d just give me —”

  Mr. Fox interrupted testily — “I’ve all but engaged Geraldine Bland for the part. I’m sorry, my dear. Perhaps in some other play I might use you. I like your looks. How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “And your name?”

  “Molly Griffith.”

  She spoke almost breathlessly in her eagerness. She was tall, thin, and very fair. The fineness of the bones of her face was visible because of her thinness, which approached emaciation, but her profile had a daring tilt, and her thick hair and the scatter of bronze-coloured freckles on her nose gave her a look of boyish virility.

  Miss Waite appeared from the lobby. Mr. Fox at once approached her and they whispered together.

  “It’s that Geraldine Bland,” she said. “She doesn’t like the part now that she’s read it carefully. There isn’t enough in it for her, she says.”

  “Damn her,” said Mr. Fox. “She seemed keen enough when I interviewed her. Damn her, and her pretensions. Take a look at this girl. Do you think she looks the part? I do. And she’s a lady, — much as I hate to use the word, — which Geraldine Thingumbob isn’t.”

  “I like her looks,” said Miss Waite, “And after all, the part of Catherine isn’t frightfully important, I dare say we could get this girl for even less salary.”

  Mr. Fox turned briskly back to Wakefield and the girl, who stood holding themselves meekly, in readiness for his commands.

  “Well, my dear,” he said, “things have turned out fortunately for you. I’ve just had a message from Miss Bland. She tells me that she has had another part offered her which is more in h
er line. I myself wasn’t quite satisfied with her, so I’ll give you an audition, if you’ll come along with us. You and this young man can try that bit together — where Frederick discovers his sister’s affair. You should look very well together.”

  Cheerfully he led the way through the darkened theatre, along the aisle to some shallow steps which mounted to a doorway. Beyond it was backstage confusion, men working with ropes, lights, and props. There was pulling about and hammering, of an apparently senseless nature. Wakefield could see the girl’s jaw set, in an effort to control her excitement.

  “Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “Everything will be all right.”

  “If only I thought so!” she breathed. “But so much depends on my getting this job. I’ve had nothing for months.”

  In the hard light he discovered the shabbiness of her clothes, the sharpness of her features. With a pang he thought, “She looks half-fed. When this is over I’ll ask her to lunch.” He whispered — “We’ll get the job. You’ll see.”

  Mr. Fox’s progress was slow. Everybody wanted to ask him something. He answered all these with a pained look, as though he were convinced that the questioner was out to rob and cheat him. His ascetic profile was outlined against the dark green of a screen but his protruding corporation disclosed his fleshly tastes.

  A short man, with dark hair curling about a bald spot and a top coat that reached almost to his heels, was talking to a man with sandy hair and a cigarette between his lips. They were Robert Fielding, actor and producer, and George Trimble, journalist and author of the play.

  Finally Mr. Fox led the two young people to them. He said, after a formal introduction, “I want you to hear these two read a scene from the play. I want you to see what you think of them for the parts of Frederick and Catherine. I’ve had so many disappointments about these parts that I’m at my wit’s end and willing to try anyone.”