Giant’s Bread · Book II · IV · Chapter 2 4 2

II

Vernon was in the seventh heaven. He had had the luck to meet Nell in the park that morning, and now there was a whole glorious rapturous evening! So happy was he that he almost felt affectionate towards Mrs. Vereker.

Instead of saying to himself: “That woman is a gorgon!” as he usually did, he found himself thinking, “She may not be so bad after all. Anyhow, she’s very fond of Nell.”

At dinner he studied the other members of the party. There was an inferior girl dressed in green, a being not to be mentioned in the same breath with Nell, and there was a tall dark man, a Major Somebody, whose evening dress was very faultless, and who talked about India a lot. An insufferably conceited being⁠—Vernon hated him. Boasting and swaggering and showing off! A cold hand closed round his heart. Nell would marry this blighter and go away to India. He knew it, he simply knew it. He refused a course that was handed to him and gave the girl in green a hard time, so monosyllabic were his responses to her efforts.

The other man was older⁠—very old to Vernon. A rather wooden figure, very upright. Grey hair, blue eyes, a square determined face. It turned out that he was an American though no one would have known it, for he had no trace of accent.

He spoke stiffly and a little punctiliously. He sounded rich. A very suitable companion for Mrs. Vereker, Vernon thought him. She might even marry him, and then, perhaps, she would cease worrying Nell and making her lead this insane life.⁠ ⁠…

Mr. Chetwynd seemed to admire Nell a good deal, which was only natural, and he paid her one or two rather old-fashioned compliments. He sat between her and her mother.

“You must bring Miss Nell to Dinard this summer, Mrs. Vereker,” he said. “You really must. Quite a party of us going. Wonderful place.”

“It sounds delightful, Mr. Chetwynd, but I don’t know whether we can manage it. We seem to have promised so many people for visits and one thing and another.”

“I know you’re always so much in request that it’s hard to get hold of you. I hope your daughter’s not listening when I congratulate you on being the mother of the beauty of the season.”

“And I said to the syce⁠ ⁠…”

This from Major Dacre.

All the Deyres had been soldiers. Why wasn’t he a soldier, thought Vernon, instead of being in business in Birmingham? Then he laughed to himself. Absurd to be so jealous. What could be worse than to be a penniless subaltern? There would be no hope of Nell then.

Americans were rather long-winded⁠—he was getting tired of the sound of Chetwynd’s voice. If only dinner could come to an end! If he and Nell could wander together under the trees.

Wandering with Nell wasn’t easy. He was foiled by Mrs. Vereker. She asked him questions about his mother and Joe, kept him by her side. He was no match for her in tactics. He had to stay there, answer, pretend he liked it.

There was only one crumb of comfort. Nell was walking with the old boy⁠—not with Dacre.

Suddenly they encountered friends. Everyone stood talking. It was his chance. He found his way to Nell’s side.

“Come with me⁠—do. Quickly⁠—now.”

He had done it! He had got her away from the others. He was hurrying so that she had almost to run to keep up with him, but she didn’t say anything⁠—didn’t protest or make a joke about it.

The voices sounded from farther and farther away. He could hear other sounds now⁠—the hurried unevenness of Nell’s breathing. Was that because they had walked so fast? He didn’t somehow think it was.

He slowed up. They were alone now⁠—alone in the world. They couldn’t have been more alone, he felt, on a desert island.

He must say something⁠—something ordinary and commonplace. Otherwise she might think of going back to the others⁠—and he couldn’t bear that. Lucky she didn’t know how his heart was beating⁠—in great throbs, right up in his throat somewhere.

He said abruptly:

“I’ve gone into my uncle’s business, you know.”

“Yes, I know. Do you like it?”

A cool, sweet voice. No trace of agitation in it now.

“I don’t like it much. I expect I shall get to, though.”

“I suppose it will be more interesting when you understand it more.”

“I don’t see how it ever could be. It’s making the shanks of buttons, you know.”

“Oh! I see⁠—no, that doesn’t sound very thrilling.”

There was a pause, and then she said, very softly:

“Do you hate it very much, Vernon?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“I’m awfully sorry. I⁠—I understand just how you feel.”

If someone understood, it made the whole world different. Adorable Nell! He said unsteadily:

“I say, that’s⁠—that’s most awfully sweet of you.”

Another pause⁠—one of those pauses that are heavy with the weight of latent emotion. Nell seemed to take fright. She said rather hurriedly:

“Weren’t you⁠—I mean, I thought you were taking up music?”

“I was. I⁠—I gave that up.”

“But why? Isn’t that the most awful pity?”

“It’s the thing I wanted to do most in the world. But it’s no good. I’ve got to make some money somehow.” Should he tell her? Was this the moment? No, he daren’t⁠—he simply daren’t. He blundered on quickly. “You see, Abbots Puissants⁠—you remember Abbots Puissants?”

“Of course. Why, Vernon, we were talking about it the other day.”

“Sorry. I’m stupid tonight. Well, you see I want awfully to live there again some day.”

“I think you’re wonderful.”

“Wonderful?”

“Yes. To give up everything you cared about and set to like you are doing. It’s splendid!”

“It’s ripping of you to say that. It makes⁠—oh! you don’t know what a difference it makes.”

“Does it?” said Nell in a very low voice. “I’m glad.”

She thought to herself: “I ought to go back. Oh! I ought to go back. Mother will be very angry about this. What am I doing? I ought to go back and listen to George Chetwynd, but he’s so dull. Oh! God, don’t let Mother be very cross.”

And she walked on by Vernon’s side. She felt out of breath. Strange⁠—what was the matter with her? If only Vernon would say something. What was he thinking about?

She said in a would-be detached voice: “How’s Joe?”

“Very artistic at present. I thought perhaps you might have been seeing something of each other as you were both in town?”

“I’ve seen her once, I think. That’s all.” She paused and then added, rather diffidently: “I don’t think Joe likes me.”

“Nonsense. Of course she does.”

“No, she thinks I’m frivolous, that I only care for social things⁠—dances and parties.”

“Nobody who really knew you could think that.”

“I don’t know. I feel awfully⁠—well, stupid sometimes.”

“You? Stupid?”

That warm incredulous voice. Darling Vernon. He did think her nice, then. Her mother had been right.

They came to a little bridge across some water. They walked on to it, stood there, side by side, leaning over, looking down on the water below.

Vernon said in a choked kind of voice:

“It’s jolly here.”

“Yes.”

It was coming⁠—it was coming. She couldn’t have defined what she meant, but that was the feeling. The world standing still, gathering itself for a leap and a spring.

“Nell⁠ ⁠…”

Why did her knees feel so shaky? Why did her voice sound so far away?

“Yes.”

Was that queer little “Yes” hers?

“Oh! Nell⁠ ⁠…”

He had got to tell her. He must.

“I love you so⁠ ⁠… I do love you so⁠ ⁠…”

“Do you?”

It couldn’t be her speaking? What an idiotic thing to say!

“Do you?” Her voice sounded stiff and unnatural.

His hand found hers. His hand was hot⁠—hers was cold. They both shook.

“Could you⁠—do you⁠—do you think you could ever manage to love me?”

She answered, hardly knowing what she was saying: “I don’t know.”

They continued to stand there like dazed children, hand in hand, lost in a kind of rapture that was almost fear.

Something must happen soon. They didn’t know what.

Out of the darkness two figures appeared⁠—a hoarse laugh, a girl’s giggle.

“So here you are! What a romantic spot!”

The green girl and that ass Dacre. Nell said something, a saucy something⁠—said it with the utmost self-possession. Women were wonderful. She moved out into the moonlight⁠—calm, detached, at ease. They all walked together, talking, chaffing each other. They found George Chetwynd with Mrs. Vereker on the lawn. He looked very glum, Vernon thought.

Mrs. Vereker was distinctly nasty to him. Her manner when bidding him goodbye was quite offensive.

He didn’t care. All he wanted was to get away and lose himself in an orgy of remembrance.

He’d told her⁠—he’d told her. He’d asked her whether she loved him⁠—yes, he had dared to do that⁠—and instead of laughing at him she had said, “I don’t know.”

But that meant⁠—that meant⁠ ⁠… Oh, it was incredible! Nell, fairy-like Nell, so wonderful, so inaccessible, loved him⁠—or at least, she was willing to love him.

He wanted to walk on and on through the night. Instead he had to catch the midnight train to Birmingham. Damn! If he could only have walked⁠—walked⁠—till morning.

With a little green hat and a magic flute like the prince in that tale!

Suddenly he saw the whole thing in music⁠—the high tower and the princess’s cascade of golden hair, and the eerie haunting tune of the prince’s pipe which called the princess out from her tower.

Insensibly, this music was more in accordance with recognized canons than Vernon’s original conception had been. It was adapted to the limits of known dimensions, though at the same time, the inner vision remained unaltered. He heard the music of the tower⁠—the round globular music of the princess’s jewels, and the gay, wild, lawless strain of the vagabond prince: “Come out, my love, come out⁠ ⁠…”

He walked through the bare drab streets of London as through an enchanted world. The black mass of Paddington station loomed up before him.

In the train he didn’t sleep. Instead, on the back of an envelope, he wrote microscopic notes: “Trumpets⁠ ⁠… French horns⁠ ⁠… Cor Anglais,” and alongside them lines and curves that to his understanding represented what he heard.

He was happy.