Crescendo by Phyllis Bentley

a destiny. All the same, Arnold rather wished that his son was not called Gervase.
    As a child Jerry—for this was the suitable, less high-flown, modern version of his name—had been everything a man could wish for a son: fair and healthy and merry, with plenty of friends always about him; equable in disposition, he betrayed none of the more disagreeable faults one had to watch for in little boys, for he was neither a bully nor a coward, did not cheat or lie, showed no excessive greed, could win without jubilation and lose without resentment. That the boy had never displayed any special brilliance in lessons did not worry Arnold. His own performances at school had been mediocre; of course he hadn’t tried very hard, but he knew quite well that he couldn’t have done much better if he
had
tried. Meg on the other hand had tried quite hard, but had not been brilliant either. They were ordinary people, with no special claims to intelligence but shrewd enough to hold their own; all they asked of their son was similar common sense anddecent behaviour. Arnold therefore made no grumble when Jerry’s end of term reports, whether at the little private day school, or the “prep” and public school whose bills Arnold winced at but paid manfully, showed only a moderate level of attainment. He was a little surprised perhaps that Jerry seemed rather worse at mathematics and science than at literature and history, but there was not enough difference in the marks Jerry gained in any of these subjects to excite comment. The boy was not good at football, and this was indeed something of a disappointment to Arnold, who had been a scrum half of some fierceness in his day; but on the other hand Jerry wielded a graceful bat and played very successfully for his school at a surprisingly early age. At seventeen he was a quiet, gentlemanly lad, with a pleasant young face, fair smooth hair and serious grey eyes; he was devoted to his mother (which was very proper), took Holmelea and his position therein for granted (knowing nothing of his father’s struggles and his grandfather’s defeat), showed a little carelessness about money but nothing to speak of, and altogether was a highly satisfactory and much beloved son. Arnold did not know him very well nowadays, of course; Jerry had been away at school so much these last years, and in any case had a rather reserved disposition, like his mother, so that it was rather difficult to tell what he was thinking. But he was clearly a thoroughly good lad, whom Arnold looked forward to introducing with pride into Holmelea Mills when he left school.
    And then suddenly everything changed. It changed in the Easter holidays of this year, after Jerry had been away to stay with a friend in London. The boy’s reserve seemed to have grown upon him unduly; he appeared positively morose, strolled about by himself with his head bent, kicking stones, for hours on end, spent days alone out on the moors, and so contrived engagements and excuses that, as Arnold realised when it was too late, he never once set foot in the mill. Even so, Arnold had not attached much importance to all this. Ladshad their private disappointments and worries, just as men had, one should not intrude, one should let them live their own lives. Jerry’s moodiness would pass.
    But it had not passed, and presently its cause had been made clear. On the last day of Jerry’s Easter holidays, the day before he was to return to school for his last term, Meg rushed out of the house to meet her husband the moment the car reached the top of the Hall drive at the end of the afternoon, and drew him through the open French windows into a small room known as the library—not that anyone ever read in it. Her eyes were wide with distress.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, love?” said Arnold, kissing her.
    â€œArnold, I’m afraid this is going to be a great disappointment to you,” said Meg, her hands against his