Giant’s Bread · Book II · I · Chapter 2 1 2

II

Mrs. Levinne’s drawing-room was a curious mixture of sheer blatant opulence, and an almost austere good taste. The opulence was due to her⁠—she liked velvet hangings and rich cushions and marble and gilding⁠—the taste was Sebastian’s. It was he who had torn down a medley of pictures from the wall and substituted two of his own choosing. His mother was reconciled to their plainness, as she called it, by the immense price that had been paid for them. The old Spanish leather screen was one of her son’s presents to her⁠—so was the exquisite cloisonné vase.

Seated behind an unusually massive silver tea-tray, Mrs. Levinne raised the teapot with two hands and made conversational inquiries, lisping slightly.

“And how’th your dear mother? She never comes to town nowadays. You tell her from me she’ll be getting rusty.”

She laughed, a good-natured fat wheezy chuckle.

“I’ve never regretted having this town hou’th as well as a country one. Deerfields is all very well, but one wantth a bit of life. And of course Sebastian will be home soon for good⁠—and that full of schemes as he ith! Well, well, his father was much the same. Went into deals against everybody’th advice, and instead of losing his money he doubled and trebled it every time. A smart fellow, my poor Yakob.”

Sebastian thought to himself: “I wish she wouldn’t. That’s just the sort of remark Joe always hates. Joe’s always against me nowadays.⁠ ⁠…”

Mrs. Levinne went on: “I’ve got a box for Kings in Arcady on Wednesday night. What about it, my dearth? Will you come?”

“I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Levinne,” said Vernon. “I wish we could. But we’re going down to Birmingham tomorrow.”

“Oh! you’re going home.”

“Yes.”

Why hadn’t he said “going home”? Why did it sound so fantastic in his ears? There was only one home, of course⁠—Abbots Puissants. Home! A queer word, so many meanings to it. It reminded him of the ridiculous words of a song that one of Joe’s young men used to bray out (what a damnable thing music was!) while he fingered his collar and looked at her sentimentally. “Home, love, is where the heart is, where’er the heart may be⁠ ⁠…”

But in that case his home ought to be in Birmingham where his mother was.

He experienced that faint feeling of disquietude that always came over him when he thought of his mother. He was very fond of her, naturally. Mothers, of course, were hopeless people to explain things to, they never understood. But he was very fond of her⁠—it would be unnatural if he wasn’t. As she so often said, he was all she had.

Suddenly a little imp seemed to jump in Vernon’s brain. The imp said suddenly and unexpectedly: “What rot you are talking! She’s got the house, and the servants to talk to and bully, and friends to gossip with, and her own people all round her. She’d miss all that far more than she’d miss you. She loves you, but she’s relieved when you go back to Cambridge⁠—and even then she’s not as relieved as you are!”

“Vernon!” It was Joe’s voice, sharp with annoyance. “What are you thinking of? Mrs. Levinne was asking about Abbots Puissants⁠—if it’s still let?”

How fortunate that when people said, “What are you thinking about?” they didn’t in the least mean that they wanted to know! Still, you could always say “Nothing much,” just as when you were small you had said “Nothing.”

He answered Mrs. Levinne’s questions, promised to deliver her various messages to his mother.

Sebastian saw them to the door, they said a final goodbye and walked out into the London streets. Joe sniffed the air ecstatically.

“How I love London! You know, Vernon, my mind’s made up. I’m coming up to London to study. I’m going to tackle Aunt Myra about it this time. And I won’t live with Aunt Ethel, either. I’m going to be on my own.”

“You can’t do that, Joe. Girls don’t.”

“They do. I could share rooms with another girl or girls. But to live with Aunt Ethel, always asking me where I’m going, and who with⁠—I just can’t stand it. And anyway she hates me being a suffragette.”

The Aunt Ethel they referred to was Aunt Carrie’s sister, an aunt by courtesy only. They were staying with her at the present moment.

“Oh, and that reminds me,” went on Joe. “You’ve got to do something for me, Vernon.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow afternoon Mrs. Cartwright’s taking me to that Titanic Concert as a special treat.”

“Well?”

“Well, I don’t want to go⁠—that’s all.”

“You can make some excuse or other, I suppose.”

“It’s not so easy as that. You see, Aunt Ethel’s got to think I’ve gone to the concert. I don’t want her ferreting out where I am going.”

Vernon gave a whistle.

“Oh! so that’s it? What are you really up to, Joe? Who is it this time?”

“It’s La Marre, if you really want to know.”

“That bounder.”

“He’s not a bounder. He’s wonderful⁠—you don’t know how wonderful he is.”

Vernon grinned.

“No, indeed I don’t. I don’t like Frenchmen.”

“You’re so horribly insular. But it doesn’t matter whether you like him or not. He’s going to motor me down to the country to a friend’s house where his chef d’oeuvre is. I do so want to go, and you know perfectly that Aunt Ethel would never let me.”

“You oughtn’t to go racketing about the country with a fellow like that.”

“Don’t be an ass, Vernon. Don’t you know that I can look after myself?”

“Oh! I suppose so.”

“I’m not one of those silly girls who know nothing about anything.”

“I don’t see, though, where I come in.”

“Well, you see,” Joe displayed a trace of anxiety. “You’re to go to the concert.”

“No, I won’t do anything of the kind. You know I hate music.”

“Oh! you must, Vernon. It’s the only way. If I say I can’t go, she’ll ring up Aunt Ethel and suggest one of the girls coming instead, and then the fat will be in the fire. But if you just turn up instead of me⁠—I’m to meet her at the Albert Hall⁠—and give some weak excuse, everything will be all right. She’s very fond of you⁠—she likes you heaps better than me.”

“But I loathe music.”

“I know, but you can just bear it for one afternoon. An hour and a half. That’s all it will be.”

“Oh, damn it all, Joe, I don’t want to.”

His hand shook with irritation. Joe stared at him.

“You are funny about music, Vernon! I’ve never known anyone who sort of⁠—well, hates it like you. Most people just don’t care for it. But I do think you might go⁠—you know I always do things for you.”

“All right,” said Vernon abruptly.

It was no good. It had got to be. Joe and he always stood together. After all, as she had said, it would only be an hour and a half. Why should he feel that he had taken a momentous decision? His heart felt like lead⁠—right down in his boots. He didn’t want to go⁠—oh! he didn’t want to go!

Like a visit to the dentist⁠—best not to think about it. He forced his mind away to other things. Joe looked up sharply as she heard him give vent to a chuckle.

“What is it?”

“I was thinking of you as a kid⁠—so grand about saying you were never going to have anything to do with men. And now it’s always men with you, one after the other. You fall in and out of love about once a month.”

“Don’t be so horrid, Vernon. Those were just silly girls’ fancies. La Marre says if you have any temperament that always happens⁠—but the real grand passion is quite different when it comes.”

“Well, don’t go and have a grand passion for La Marre.”

Joe did not answer. Presently she said:

“I’m not like Mother. Mother was⁠—was so soft about men. She gave in to them⁠—would do anything for anyone she was fond of. I’m not like that.”

“No,” said Vernon, after thinking for a moment. “No, I don’t think you are. You won’t make a mess of your life in the same way she did. But you might make a mess of it in a different way.”

“What sort of a way?”

“I don’t quite know. Going and marrying someone you thought you had a grand passion for, just because everyone else disliked him, and then spending your life fighting him. Or deciding to go and live with someone just because you thought Free Love was a fine idea.”

“So it is.”

“Oh! I am not saying it isn’t⁠—though as a matter of fact, I really think it is antisocial myself. But you’re always the same. If anyone forbids you anything you always want to do it⁠—quite irrespective of whether you really want to. I haven’t put that well, but you know what I mean.”

“What I really want is to do something! To be a great sculptor.”

“That’s because you’ve got a pash for La Marre.”

“It isn’t. Oh! Vernon, why will you be so trying? I’ve always wanted to do something⁠—always⁠—always! I used to say so at Abbots Puissants.”

“It’s odd,” said Vernon thoughtfully. “Old Sebastian used to say then very much what he says now. Perhaps one doesn’t change as much as one thinks.”

“You were going to marry someone very beautiful and live at Abbots Puissants always,” said Joe with slight scorn. “You don’t still feel that to be your life’s ambition, do you?”

“One might do worse,” said Vernon.

“Lazy⁠—downright lazy!”

Joe looked at him in unconcealed impatience. She and Vernon were so alike in some ways, and so different in others!

Vernon was thinking, “Abbots Puissants. In a year I shall be twenty-one.”

They were passing a Salvation Army meeting. Joe stopped. A thin, white-faced man was standing on a box. His voice, high and raucous, came echoing across to them:

“Why won’t you be saved? Why won’t you? Jesus wants you! Jesus wants you!” Tremendous emphasis on the you. “Yes, brothers and sisters, and I’ll tell you something more. You want Jesus. You won’t admit it to yourselves, you turn your back on him, you’re afraid⁠—that’s what it is, you’re afraid, because you want him so badly⁠—you want him and you don’t know!” His arms waved, his white face shone with ecstasy. “But you will know⁠—you will know⁠—there are things that you can’t run away from forever.” He spoke slowly, almost menacingly. “I say unto you, this very night shall thy soul be required of thee.”

Vernon turned away with a slight shiver. A woman on the outskirts of the crowd gave a hysterical sob.

“Disgusting,” said Joe, her nose very much in the air. “Indecent and hysterical! For my part, I can’t see how any rational being can be anything but an atheist.”

Vernon smiled to himself, though he said nothing. He was remembering the time, a year ago, when Joe had risen every day to attend early service and had insisted on eating a boiled egg with some ostentation on Fridays, and had sat spellbound listening to the somewhat uninteresting but strictly dogmatical sermons of handsome Father Cuthbert at the Church of St. Bartholomew’s, which was reputed to be so “high” that Rome itself could do no more.

“I wonder,” he said aloud, “what it would feel like to be ‘saved’?”