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.
“Do tell me what is wrong,” she urged, in a low voice.
“Nothing. I’m tired. That’s all.”
“I’m so sorry.” She pressed his fingers. “Your hands are cold,” she said.
He wondered how she could touch him and know nothing of his emotions. Perhaps she was cold, self-centred. But no — she just didn’t feel any love for him.
“Good night,” he said huskily.
“Good night, Wake, and thank you for a lovely evening.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said bitterly, “thank my brother.”
“Why, it would have been nothing without you!”
He wheeled on her. “That’s not the truth,” he said harshly, “and you know it!”
She drew back from him. “I don’t know what you want me to do or say tonight. Perhaps what I said was not perfectly true, but your being there made all the difference. Why, all the good times I have come from you!”
In the light of the street lamp he could see tears glistening in her eyes. He stood hesitating, bewildered by his own confused thoughts and emotions. The arms of his spirit reached out to her in compassion but he heard himself saying — “I’m unreasonable, I suppose. Good night, Molly. See you tomorrow.”
He walked to Gayfere Street. Sarah had gone to bed. Finch was reading alone in the sittin
g room. Wakefield went in and sat down without speaking. Finch looked up from his book as though just conscious of his presence.
“I didn’t hear you come in. Have a good time?”
“Very. We saw A Month in the Country.”
“Was it good?”
“Molly said it was beautifully acted. I didn’t notice.”
Finch laid down his book. “Didn’t notice?”
Wakefield broke out, “I didn’t notice anything except the way Renny looked at Molly Griffith and how interested she was in him. You know, Finch, I love Molly. You don’t think — you don’t think —” He could not go on.
Finch’s eyes were filled with pity. This poor young beggar was very unhappy! “You mean do I think Renny would he so heartless as to play with your girl’s affections? If that’s what you mean — no, I don’t.”
Wakefield walked up and down the room. “I tell you, Finch, she had no eyes for me when he was there. And he looked at her as though she was the one girl on earth. As though he wanted to find out all about her. As though he were playing a game of skill and was the hell of a champion at it.”
Finch’s voice, which in moments of emotion he could not control, broke out loud and trembling: —
“He can’t do that to you, Wake! You mustn’t let him.”
“How can I prevent it?”
Finch spoke more quietly. “Why, Renny wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. He’s too fond of you. All you need to do is to let him see that you love the girl —”
Wakefield interrupted — “He knows I’m terribly keen about her. No — he’s off on a holiday. He’s going to have a little fun and he doesn’t care who suffers for it.”
“Wake, I won’t believe that Renny would consciously make you miserable. Shall I speak to him?”
“No,” Wakefield answered bitterly. “If I am such a weakling that I can’t hang on to my own girl —”
“Rot!”
“It isn’t rot…. If my girl thinks so little of me —”
“Wake, you’ve been engaged. You know something about women —”
“I was engaged to Pauline Lebraux. She wouldn’t have looked at another man as Molly looked at him tonight.”
“But you’re not engaged to Molly.”
“No. And probably never shall be!” He sat down and buried his face in his hands.
Renny’s presence was in the room with them, heady and strong; easy and ruthless, they felt, where women were concerned.
“And I looked forward to his coming!” exclaimed Wakefield. “I wanted him to meet Molly!”
Finch spoke comfortingly. “Now look here, Wake, you’re overwrought and perhaps you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. God knows, I do the same thing myself. After all, they need never meet again if you don’t want them to.”
“I’ve seen them meet tonight. Things can’t be the same again.”
“In a fortnight he’ll be on the ocean.”
“He’s done something that will remain.”
“Why don’t you have it out with Molly? A talk with her would clear the air.”
“Perhaps I shall. Anyhow I’m going to bed now … I wish I knew what is in his mind.”
“Probably he’s fast asleep and dreaming of Johnny the Bird.”
In spite of himself, Wakefield laughed.
XII
PLAY AND RECITAL
MOLLY WAS SO natural when Wakefield met her at the rehearsal next day that he felt a momentary ease of mind but it did not last. A note from Renny was handed to him. It read: —
DEAR WAKE,
I’ve got to take young Adeline about a bit. A friend who owns a launch has asked us to Marlow this afternoon for tea on the river. She’d like to have you, and Miss Griffith too, if you’ll come. The boy will wait for an answer.
R.
Wakefield knit his brow into furrows that gave him an odd resemblance to Nicholas. He did not know what to do. He could, as Finch had said, keep Renny and Molly from meeting. On the other hand, if he watched them together, he might find that his jealousy had no substance in fact. But if he threw them together, he might bitterly regret it. Still, Renny was a married man. Even if he did admire Molly, what could come of it? This way and that, Wake’s mind was torn by indecision.
The bell rang for the rehearsal to continue. He went to where Molly stood alone and asked abruptly. “Would you like to go up the river this afternoon? My brother has asked us.”
She answered at once, “I’d love to, if we can get away in time.”
“We can. It’s Wednesday. There’s a matinee. All right, I’ll accept.”
He scribbled — “Thanks. We’d like to come,” on the back of Renny’s note, and gave it to the boy.
The bell rang again.
They were rehearsing in the bar of the theatre. The little tables were pushed against the wall. Ninian Fox was producing. He sat on the edge of a table, gently swinging his leg and smiling at Miss Rhys, Fielding, and the leading man, who had begun one of their comedy scenes. Miss Rhys was indeed inimitable. She played with such zest that Wakefield was no longer conscious of the rattle of dishes in the adjoining kitchen and stared at her, as her son Frederick, in mingled tenderness and rage. His cue came and he threw himself impetuously into the scene. Things went well. He was better than usual. Ninian Fox was so pleased that he allowed Molly to say most of her lines in peace. They had not before had such a satisfactory rehearsal.
They had tea and sandwiches from the bar. Shafts of thin sunlight came in at the windows. Molly had a lovely colour in her cheeks. Wakefield thought — “She looks radiant, all because she’s going up the river. Or is it because she’ll be near Renny? Whichever it is, I have no part in it.” He said coldly: — “It’s been a good rehearsal, hasn’t it?”
She gave him a swift glance.
“Yes. Splendid. I’m so happy about it I wish we could go on all the afternoon.”
“What about the river?”
“Oh, I’d forgotten that.”
He saw that she spoke the truth. He could not doubt her. Happiness flowed back into him.
“I’d like to go on too,” he said. His eyes caressed her. But he did not see her. He was half blinded by the love that struggled to engulf him.
The principals were loudly talking, oblivious of the looks given them by the waitresses who were rearranging the tables. The theatre was beginning to fill. One of the actresses of the current play looked into the room.
“Is Mr. Fox here?” she asked.
He went to her, keyed up for trouble of some sort. She kissed him and they hurried off together. Miss Rhys was arguing with Fielding, but amiably. The leading man offered his cigarette case to Wake and Molly.
“The last act is going to be a flop,” he said, cheerfully.
“Oh, I think it’s lovely,” said Molly.
Wakefield looked judicial.
“I think it’s impossible to say till we all know our lines better.”
“You mean me?” laughed the leading man. “Oh, I’ll know them, when the night comes. But I can tell you the end’s all wrong.”
The waitresses almost pushed them from the room. They glimpsed a scattered audience in the house.
“Isn’t it a lovely life!” cried Molly, as they ran into the street. “I wouldn’t be anyone but an actress, in the whole world!”
They stopped to look at the poster advertising their play. They riveted their eyes on the space where their two names appeared.
“Some day yours will be in large letters,” said Wakefield.
“Yours too.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I’m too intelligent, if you know what I mean. I’m always thinking of different ways to do my part. I can’t settle down to any one way. While you settle down and go right ahead.”
Renny was waiting for them round the corner in his friend’s car. Adeline was there too. Though it was barely the first of April the air had summer’s warmth and in the parks the flowers showed an exquisite forwardness. London sp
rawled in the sunshine, peaceful and friendly, like an overgrown village.
Molly and Adeline immediately made friends. Renny was sitting in the front seat with his friend Mrs. Blake. She wore mannish clothes but had added to them long green earrings. Though she was of masculine tastes and thought of little else but fox-hunting and racing, the feminine strain in her was very up and doing. After an appraising glance and a brief welcome to Wake and Molly she devoted herself wholly to what, from the back seat, appeared to be a flirtatious attack on Renny.
Adeline sat upright between Wakefield and Molly. She was eager to miss nothing of what she saw. “I must remember to tell Archie about that,” she would say, or — “How I wish Mooey were here!” When they reached Richmond she was the first to enter the launch. She established herself close to the man at the helm, then, remembering her manners, she turned and asked Mrs. Blake’s permission to do so.
“Delighted,” said Mrs. Blake absently. She was choosing the best chairs for herself and Renny. The two young people sat together in the stern.
Molly was in a state of dreamlike happiness. She was one of those people who are never content in towns yet by their ambition are driven to live in them. This was her first outing on the river. Wakefield was at her side. The background of care, of her family life, was dissolved like a troubling mist. She wore a new, bright-coloured scarf. New spring clothes were impossible to her. This gauzy scarf kept fluttering against Wakefield’s ear. It made delicate fluttering noises, like words tittered in confidence. It flicked his cheek. It wound itself about his neck, binding him and Molly together, yet she knew nothing of its vagaries. She sat gazing blissfully at the riverbanks, her hands relaxed in her lap. They were ringless, thin, capable-looking.
One riverbank lay in sunlight, the other in olive-green shadow. They passed barges and small river craft, but after Windsor, with its Castle ethereal against the sky, they had the river almost to themselves.
Adeline had captivated the man at the helm. She had it in her mind to steer the launch herself but was just biding her time. She had taken off her hat, and her hair, in waving russet vitality, curled itself on the breeze. Her black-lashed brown eyes were raised in sweet blandishment to the helmsman’s face.
Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course Page 126
