Crescendo by Phyllis Bentley Page B

in their life, namely when they lost their first hope of a child some twenty years ago. (One of the good things about his wife, Arnold had often reflected, was that she was not given to frequent tears—unlike his mother.) He was thus very much upset to see Meg’s tears now, and put his arm round her protectively. His wife buried her face in his shoulder and quietly, without any fuss, in her own reserved and undemanding manner, wept as though her heart would break.
    â€œJerry says he feels at ease with this man Chillie—Chillie’s the only person in the world he feels at ease with. Why doesn’t he feel at ease with us any more, Arnold? We all love each other.”
    â€œParents and children,” said Arnold gruffly. “When the children grow up they have to leave the nest, you know. Jerry’ll come round to us again when he gets a bit older.”
    â€œIt’s hard, Arnold,” said Meg.
    â€œYes, it’s hard,” agreed Arnold.
    He felt sore all over. But the boy had a right to choose hisown career. Men should do the work they wanted and marry the girls they wanted and pay the necessary prices for their choice, in Arnold’s opinion.
    â€œDon’t worry, Meg. We’ll sort it out somehow. It’s a disappointment, but it’s not the end of the world. I’ll talk to Jerry,” he said staunchly. “If he really wants that kind of career, he’ll have to go to a university. I’m ready to start the boy off properly in any profession he chooses.”
    Meg gave him one of those looks of trust and love on which his whole life had been founded, and he felt that this difficulty too he could conquer for her sake, as he had conquered all the rest.
    The interview with his son, however, which he undertook that same evening, did not go off quite as well as he had hoped. Jerry stated with something like horror in his tone that he did not wish to go to a university.
    â€œVery well, don’t,” said Arnold. “But what
do
you want, Jerry? I only want to help you do what you want, you know.”
    Jerry, frowning and hanging his head, muttered that he wanted to go to London and live with Chillie.
    â€œBut what does this Charlie
do?”
persisted Arnold.
    At this Jerry threw up his head and announced sharply, his fair face flushed:
    â€œIt’s not Charlie. His name is John. Chillie is a nickname.”
    â€œOh,” said Arnold. His tone was dry; with his practical, realistic view of life he tended to dislike nicknames, and why a man should abandon a decent solid name like John for a sloppy address like Chillie passed his comprehension. However, it was clear that Jerry thought Chillie extremely
chic.
Arnold experienced a pang of tenderness for his son’s youth.
    â€œWhat does—he—do for a living?” pursued Arnold, not quite able all the same to utter the appellation.
    â€œHe writes and paints. He has a small private income, of course,” muttered Jerry, hanging his head again.
    It was at this moment that Arnold began to wish his son was not called Gervase. The boy’s reserve, which Arnold had hitherto regarded as an inheritance from Meg, the mistrust of himself which he had been ready to regard as his own fault, now struck him as the kind of weak inability to face up to life he had known in his own father, which had contributed so greatly to the Holmelea misfortunes. Jerry’s obvious predilection for an unearned private income also struck him unpleasantly as resembling the conduct of the elder Gervase, who had maintained the standards of Barraclough gentility far longer than honesty dictated.
    â€œWell, Jerry, I’m afraid I can’t provide you with a private, that is an unearned, income,” he said gravely. “You’ll have to work for your living.”
    â€œOh, of course. I thought perhaps just for a year or two—until I found my feet—it wouldn’t cost as much as going to