Giant’s Bread · Book II · I · Chapter 2 1 3

III

It was half-past six on the following afternoon when Joe returned from her stolen day’s pleasure. Her Aunt Ethel met her in the hall.

“Where’s Vernon?” inquired Joe, in case she might be asked how she had liked the concert.

“He came in about half an hour ago. He said there was nothing the matter, but somehow I don’t think he’s very well.”

“Oh!” Joe stared. “Where is he? In his room? I’ll go up and see.”

“I wish you would, dear. Really he didn’t look well at all.”

Joe ran quickly up the stairs, gave a perfunctory rap on Vernon’s door and walked in. Vernon was sitting on his bed, and something in his appearance gave Joe a shock. She had never seen Vernon look quite like this.

He didn’t answer. He had the dazed look of someone who has undergone a terrible shock. It was as though he were too far away to be reached by mere words.

“Vernon.” She shook him by the shoulder. “What is the matter with you?”

He heard her this time.

“Nothing.”

“There must be something. You’re looking⁠—you’re looking⁠—”

Words failed her to express how he was looking. She left it at that.

“Nothing,” he repeated dully.

She sat down on the bed beside him.

“Tell me,” she said gently but authoritatively.

A long shuddering sigh broke from Vernon.

“Joe, do you remember that man yesterday?”

“Which man?”

“That Salvation Army chap⁠—those cant phrases he used. And that one⁠—a fine one⁠—from the Bible: This night shall thy soul be required of thee. I said afterwards I wondered what it would be like to be saved. Just idly. Well, I know!”

Joe stared at him. Vernon! Oh! but such a thing was impossible.

“Do you mean⁠—do you mean⁠—” Difficult somehow to get the words. “Do you mean you’ve ‘got religion’⁠—suddenly⁠—like people do?”

She felt it was ridiculous as she said it. She was relieved when he gave a sudden spurt of laughter.

“Religion? Good God, no! Or is it that for some people? I wonder⁠ ⁠… No, I mean⁠—” He hesitated, brought the word out at last very softly, almost as though he dared not speak it. “Music.”

“Music?” She was still utterly at sea.

“Yes. Joe, do you remember Nurse Frances?”

“Nurse Frances? No, I don’t think I do. Who was she?”

“Of course you wouldn’t. It was before you came⁠—the time I broke my leg. I’ve always remembered something she said to me. About not being in a hurry to run away from things before you’ve had a good look. Well, that’s what happened to me today. I couldn’t run away any longer⁠—I just had to look. Joe, music’s the most wonderful thing in the world⁠—”

“But⁠—but⁠—you’ve always said⁠—”

“I know. That’s why it’s been such an awful shock. Not that I mean music is so wonderful now⁠—but it could be⁠—if you had it as it was meant to be! Little bits of it are ugly⁠—it’s like going up to a picture and seeing a nasty grey smear of paint⁠—but go to a distance and it falls into its place as the most wonderful shadow. It’s got to be a whole. I still think one violin’s ugly, and a piano’s beastly⁠—but useful in a way, I suppose. But⁠—oh! Joe, music could be so wonderful⁠—I know it could.”

Joe was silent, bewildered. She understood now what Vernon had meant by his opening words. His face had the queer dreamy exaltation that one associated with religious fervour. And yet she was a little frightened. His face had always expressed so little. Now, she thought, it expressed too much. It was a worse face or a better face⁠—just as you chose to look on it.

He went on talking, hardly to her, more to himself.

“There were nine orchestras, you know. All massed. Sound can be glorious if you get enough of it⁠—I don’t mean just loudness⁠—it shows more when it’s soft. But there must be enough. I don’t know what they played⁠—nothing, I think, that was real. But it showed one⁠—it showed one⁠—”

He turned queer bright excited eyes upon her.

“There’s so much to know⁠—to learn. I don’t want to play things⁠—never that. But I want to know about every instrument there is. What it can do, what are its limitations, what are its possibilities. And the notes, too. There are notes they don’t use⁠—notes that they ought to use. I know there are. Do you know what music’s like now, Joe? It’s like the little sturdy Norman pillars in the crypt of Gloucester Cathedral. It’s at its beginnings, that’s all.”

He sat silent, leaning forward dreamily.

“Well, I think you’ve gone quite mad,” said Joe.

She tried on purpose to make her voice sound practical and matter-of-fact. But, in spite of herself, she was impressed. That white-hot conviction. And she had always thought Vernon rather a slow coach⁠—reactionary, prejudiced, unimaginative.

“I’ve got to begin to learn. As soon as ever I can. Oh! it’s awful⁠—to have wasted twenty years!”

“Nonsense,” said Joe. “You couldn’t have studied music when you were an infant in a cot.”

He smiled at that. He was coming out of his trance by degrees.

“You think I’m mad? I suppose it must sound like that. But I’m not. And oh! Joe, it’s the most awful relief. As though you had been pretending for years, and now you needn’t pretend any more. I’ve been horribly afraid of music⁠—always. Now⁠—”

He sat up, squared his shoulders.

“I’m going to work⁠—work like a nigger. I’m going to know the ins and outs of every instrument. By the way, there must be more instruments in the world⁠—many more. There ought to be a kind of waily thing⁠—I’ve heard it somewhere. You’d want ten⁠—fifteen of those. And about fifty harps.”

He sat there, planning composedly details that to Joe sounded sheer nonsense. Yet it was evident that to his inner vision some event was perfectly clear.

“It’ll be supper time in ten minutes,” Joe reminded him timidly.

“Oh! will it? What a nuisance. I want to stay here and think and hear things in my head. Tell Aunt Ethel I’ve got a headache or that I’ve been frightfully sick. As a matter of fact, I think I am going to be sick.”

And somehow that impressed Joe more than anything else. It was a homely familiar happening. When anything upset you very much, either pleasurably or otherwise, you always wanted to be sick! She had felt that herself, often.

She stood in the door hesitating. Vernon had relapsed into abstraction again. How queer he looked⁠—quite different. As though⁠—as though⁠—Joe sought for the words she wanted⁠—as though he had suddenly come alive.

She was a little frightened.