Giant’s Bread · Book II · V · Chapter 2 5 1

I

“Then you can’t love me!”

“Oh! but Vernon, I do. If you’d only try and understand.”

They faced each other desperately, bewildered by this sudden rift between them⁠—by the queer unexpected vagaries of life. One minute they had been so near that each thought even had seemed to be shared by the other⁠—now they were poles apart, angry and hurt by the other’s lack of comprehension.

Nell turned away with a little gesture of despair and sank down on a chair.

Why was it all like this? Why couldn’t things stay as they ought to be, as you had felt they were going to be forever? That evening at Ranelagh⁠—and the night afterwards when she had lain awake, wrapped in a happy dream. Enough that night just to know that she was loved. Why, even her mother’s scathing words had failed to upset her. They had come from so far away. They couldn’t penetrate that shining web of misty dream.

She had woken up happy the next morning. Her mother had been pleasant, had said nothing more. Wrapped in her secret thoughts Nell had gone through the day doing all the usual things: chattering with friends, walking in the park, lunching, teaing, dancing. Nobody, she was sure, could have noticed anything different, and yet all the time she herself was conscious of that one deep strand underneath everything else. Just for a minute, sometimes, she would lose the thread of what she was saying, she would remember.⁠ ⁠… “Oh! Nell, I do love you so⁠ ⁠…” The moonlight on the dark water. His hand in hers.⁠ ⁠… A little shiver and she would recall herself hastily, chatter, laugh. Oh, how happy one could be⁠—how happy she had been.

Then she had wondered if, perhaps, he would write. She watched for the post, her heart giving little throbs whenever the postman knocked. It came the second day. She hid it beneath a pile of others, kept it till she went up to bed, then opened it with a beating heart.

Oh, Nell⁠—oh, darling Nell! Did you really mean it? I’ve written three letters to you and torn them up. I’m so afraid of saying something that might make you angry. Because perhaps you didn’t mean it after all. But you did, didn’t you? You are so lovely, Nell, and I do love you so dreadfully. I’m always thinking about you, the whole time. I make awful mistakes at the office just because I’m thinking about you. But oh, Nell, I will work so hard! I want so dreadfully to see you. When can I come up to town? I must see you. Darling, darling Nell, I want to say such lots and lots of things, and I can’t in a letter, and, anyway, perhaps I’m boring you. Write and tell me when I can see you. Very soon, please. I shall go mad if I can’t see you very soon.

She read it again and again, put it under her pillow when she slept, read it again the next morning. She was so happy, so dreadfully happy. It was not till the day after that she wrote to him. When the pen was in her hand she felt stiff and awkward. She didn’t know what to say.

Dear Vernon.

Was that silly? Ought she to say Dearest Vernon? Oh, no, she couldn’t⁠—she couldn’t.

Dear Vernon. Thank you for your letter.

A long pause. She bit the stem of her penholder and gazed in an agonized way at the wall in front of her.

A party of us are going to the Howards’ dance on Friday. Will you dine here first and come with us? Eight o’clock.

A longer pause. She’d got to say something⁠—she wanted to say something. She bent over, and wrote hastily.

I want to see you too⁠—very much. Yours, Nell.

He wrote back:

Dear Nell, I’d love to come on Friday. Thanks ever so much.

A little panic swept over her when she read it. Had she offended him? Did he think she ought to have said more in her letter? Happiness fled. She lay awake, miserable, uncertain, hating herself in case it had been her fault.

Then had come Friday night. The moment she saw him she knew it was all right. Their eyes met across the room. The world changed back to radiant happiness again.

They did not sit near each other at dinner. It was not till the third dance at the Howards’ that they were able really to speak to each other. They moved round the crowded room, gyrating in a deep-toned, sentimental waltz. He whispered:

“I haven’t asked for too many dances, have I?”

“No.”

Queer how absolutely tongue-tied it made her feel being with Vernon. He held her just a minute longer when the music stopped. His fingers tightened over hers. She looked at him and smiled. They were both deliriously happy. In a few minutes he was dancing with another girl, talking airily in her ear. Nell was dancing with George Chetwynd. Once or twice her eyes met Vernon’s and they both smiled very faintly. Their secret was so wonderful.

At his next dance with her, his mood had changed.

“Nell, darling, isn’t there anywhere where I can talk to you? I’ve got such heaps of things I want to say. What a ridiculous house this is⁠—nowhere to go.”

They tried the stairs, mounting higher and higher as you do in London houses. Still, it seemed impossible to get away from people. Then they saw a tiny iron ladder that led to the roof.

“Nell, let’s get up there? Could you? Would it ruin your dress?”

“I don’t care about my dress.”

Vernon went up first, unbolted the trapdoor, climbed out and knelt down to help Nell. She climbed through safely.

They were alone, looking down on London. Insensibly they drew nearer to each other. Her hand found its way into his.

“Nell⁠—darling⁠ ⁠…”

“Vernon⁠ ⁠…”

Her voice could only whisper.

“It is true? You do love me?”

“I do love you.”

“It’s too wonderful to be true. Oh, Nell, I do so want to kiss you.”

She turned her face to his. They kissed, rather shakily and timidly.

“Your face is so soft and lovely,” murmured Vernon.

Oblivious of dirt and smuts they sat down on a little ledge. His arms went round her, held her. She turned her face to his kisses.

“I do love you so, Nell⁠—I love you so much that I’m almost afraid to touch you.”

She didn’t understand that⁠—it seemed queer. She drew a little closer to him. The magic of the night was made complete by their kisses.⁠ ⁠…