Giant’s Bread · Book I · I · Chapter 1 1 6

VI

Vernon always remembered the day that the American lady came to lunch. To begin with, because of Nurse’s explanations about America which, as he realized later, she confused with Australia.

He went down to dessert in an awestricken state. If this lady had been at home in her own country, she would be walking about upside down with her head hanging down. Quite enough, this, to make him stare. And then, too, she used odd words for the simplest things.

“Isn’t he too cute? See here, honey, I’ve gotten a box of candy for you. Won’t you come and fetch it?”

Vernon came gingerly; accepted the present. The lady clearly didn’t know what she was talking about. It wasn’t candy, but good Edinburgh Rock.

There were two gentlemen there also, one the husband of the American lady. This one said:

“Do you know half a crown, my boy, when you see it?”

And it presently turned out that the half-crown was to be for his very own to keep. Altogether it was a wonderful day.

Vernon had never thought very much about his home. He knew that it was bigger than the Vicarage, where he sometimes went to tea, but he seldom played with any other children or went to their homes. So it came to him with a shock of wonder that day. The visitors were taken all over the house, and the American lady’s voice rose ceaselessly.

“My, if that isn’t too wonderful. Did you ever see such a thing? Five hundred years, you say? Frank, listen to that. Henry the Eighth⁠—if it isn’t just like listening to English history. And the Abbey older still, you say?”

They went everywhere, through the long picture gallery where faces strangely like Vernon’s, with dark eyes set close together and narrow heads, looked out from the painted canvas arrogantly or with cold tolerance. There were meek women there in ruffs or with pearls twisted in their hair⁠—the Deyre women had done best to be meek, married to wild lords who knew neither fear nor pity⁠—who looked appraisingly at Myra Deyre, the last of their number, as she walked beneath them. From the picture gallery they went to the square hall, and from there to the Priest’s Chamber.

Vernon had been removed by Nurse long since. They found him again in the garden feeding the goldfish. Vernon’s father had gone into the house to get the keys of the Abbey ruins. The visitors were alone.

“My, Frank,” said the American lady. “Isn’t it too wonderful? All these years. Handed down from father to son. Romantic, that’s what I call it, just too romantic for anything. All these years. Just fancy! How is it done?”

It was then that the other gentleman spoke. He was not much of a talker, so far Vernon had not heard him speak at all. But he now unclosed his lips and uttered one word⁠—a word so enchanting, so mysterious, so delightful that Vernon never forgot it.

“Brumagem,” said the other gentleman.

And before Vernon could ask him (as he meant to do) what that marvellous word meant, another diversion occurred.

His mother came out of the house. There was a sunset behind her⁠—a scene painter’s sunset of crude gold and red. Against that background Vernon saw his mother⁠—saw her for the first time⁠—a magnificent woman with white skin and red-gold hair⁠—a being like the pictures in his fairy book, saw her suddenly as something wonderful and beautiful.

He was never to forget that strange moment. She was his mother and she was beautiful and he loved her. Something hurt him inside, like a pain⁠—only it wasn’t a pain. And there was a queer booming noise inside his head⁠—a thundering noise that ended up high and sweet like a bird’s note. Altogether a very wonderful moment.

And mixed up with it was that magic word Brumagem.