upright woman--and yet you can demean yourself to make a nasty mean
taunt like that."
"That's right! Abuse me! I'm used to it! You don't mind what you say to
me."
"That's not true. I try to be as courteous as I can."
"Yes. And that's partly why I hate you--you never do say right out.
Always polite and sneering--your tongue in your cheek. All this keeping
up appearances--why should one, I should like to know? Why should I
care if everyone in the house knows what I feel?"
"I've no doubt they do--thanks to the carrying power of your voice."
"There you are--sneering again. At any rate I've enjoyed telling you
what I think of your precious sister. Running away with one man, going
off with a second--and why can't the second man keep her, I should like
to know? Or is he tired of her already?"
"I've already told you, but you didn't listen. He's threatened with
galloping consumption--has had to throw up his job. He's no private
means."
"Ah! Nina brought her pigs to a bad market that time."
"There's one thing about Nina--she's never been actuated by motives of
gain. She's a fool, a damned fool, or she wouldn't have got herself
into this mess. But it's always her affections that run away with her
common sense. It's the deuce of a tangle. She won't touch a penny from
Fred. Anstey wants to make her an allowance--she won't hear of it. And,
mind you, I agree with her. There are things one can't do. But I've
certainly got to go and see to things. I'm sorry if it annoys you, but
there it is."
"You never do anything I want! You hate me! You do this on purpose to
make me miserable. But there's one thing. You don't bring this precious
sister of yours under this roof while I'm here. I'm not accustomed to
meeting that kind of woman. You understand?"
"You make your meaning almost offensively clear."
"If you bring her here, I go back to Birmingham."
There was a faint flicker in Walter Deyre's eyes, and suddenly Vernon
realized something that his mother did not. He had understood very
little of the actual words of the conversation though he had grasped
the essentials. Aunt Nina was ill or unhappy somewhere and Mummy was
angry about it. She had said that if Aunt Nina came to Abbots Puissants
she would go back to Uncle Sydney at Birmingham. She had meant that
as a threat--but Vernon knew that his father would be very pleased
if she did go back to Birmingham. He knew it quite certainly and
uncomprehendingly. It was like some of Miss Robbins's punishments, like
not speaking for half an hour. She thought you minded that as much as
not having jam for tea, and fortunately she had never discovered that
you didn't really mind it at all--in fact rather enjoyed it.
Walter Deyre walked up and down the room. Vernon watched him, puzzled.
That his father was fighting out a battle in his own mind, he knew. But
he couldn't understand what it was all about.
"Well?" said Myra.
She was rather beautiful just at that moment--a great big woman,
magnificently proportioned, her head thrown back and the sunlight
streaming in on her golden-red hair. A fit mate for some Viking
seafarer.
"I made you the mistress of this house, Myra," said Walter Deyre. "If
you object to my sister coming to it, naturally she will not come."
He moved toward the door. There he paused and looked back at her.
"If Llewellyn dies--which seems almost certain--Nina must try to get
some kind of a job. Then there will be the child to think of. Do your
objections apply to her?"
"Do you think I want a girl in my home who will turn out like her
mother?"
His father said quietly: "Yes or No would have been quite sufficient
answer."
He went out. Myra stood staring after him. Tears stood in her eyes and
began to fall. Vernon did not like tears. He edged toward the door--but
not in time.
"Darling, come to me."
He had to come. He was enfolded--hugged. Fragments of phrases
reiterated in his ears:
"You'll make up to me--you, my own boy. You shan't be like
them--horrid, sneering. You won't fail me--you'll never fail me--will
you? Swear it--my boy, my own boy!"
He knew it all so well. He said what was wanted of him--Yes and No in
the right places. How he hated the whole business! It always happened
so close to your ears.
That evening after tea Myra was in quite another mood. She was writing
a letter at her writing table and looked up gaily as Vernon entered.
"I'm writing to Daddy. Perhaps, very soon, your Aunt Nina and your
cousin Josephine will come to stay. Won't that be lovely?"
But they didn't come. Myra said to herself that really Walter was
incomprehensible. Just because she'd said a few things she really
didn't mean....
Vernon was not very surprised, somehow. He hadn't thought they would
come.
Aunt Nina had said she wasn't a nice woman--but she was very pretty.
chapter 6
If Vernon had been capable of summing up the events of the next few
years, he could best have done it in one word--scenes! Everlasting and
ever-recurring scenes.
And he began to notice a curious phenomenon. After each scene his
mother looked larger and his father looked smaller. Emotional storms of
reproach and invective exhilarated Myra mentally and physically. She
emerged from them refreshed; soothed--full of good will toward all the
world.
With Walter Deyre it was the opposite. He withdrew into himself, every
sensitive fibre in his nature shrinking from the onslaught. The faint
polite sarcasm that was his weapon of defence never failed to goad his
wife to the utmost fury. His quiet weary self-control exasperated her
as nothing else could have done.
Not that she was lacking for very real grounds of complaint. Walter
Deyre spent less and less time at Abbots Puissants. When he did return
his eyes had baggy pouches under them and his hand shook. He took
little notice of Vernon, and yet the child was always conscious of an
underlying sympathy. It was tacitly understood that Walter should not
"interfere" with the child. A mother was the person who should have the
say. Apart from supervising the boy's riding, Walter stood aside. Not
to do so would have roused fresh matter for discussion and reproach.
He was ready to admit that Myra had all the virtues and was a most
careful and attentive mother.
And yet he sometimes had the feeling that he could give the boy
something that she could not. The trouble was that they were both
shy of each other. To neither of them was it easy to express his
feelings--a thing Myra would have found incomprehensible. They remained
gravely polite to each other.
But when a scene was in progress Vernon was full of silent sympathy. He
knew exactly how his father was feeling--knew how that loud angry voice
hurt the ears and the head. He knew, of course, that Mummy must be
right--Mummy was always right, that was an article of belief not to be
questioned--but all the same, he was unconsciously on his father's side.
Things went from bad to worse--came to a crisis. Mummy remained
locked in her room for two days--servants whispered delightedly in
corners--and Uncle Sydney arrived on the scene to see what he could do.
Uncle Sydney undoubtedly had a soothing influence over Myra. He walked
up and down the room, jingling his money as of old, and looking stouter
and more rubicund than ever.
Myra poured out her woes.
"Yes, yes, I know," said Uncle Sydney, jingling hard. "I know, my dear
girl. I'm not saying you haven't had a lot to put up with. You have.
Nobody knows that better than I do. But there's give and take, you
know. Give and take. That's married life in a nutshell--give and take."
There was a fresh outburst from Myra.
"I'm not sticking up for Deyre," said Uncle Sydney. "Not at all. I'm
just looking at the whole thing as a man of the world. Women lead
sheltered lives and they don't look at these things as men do--quite
right that they shouldn't. You're a good woman, Myra, and it's always
hard for a good woman to understand these things. Carrie's just the
same."
"What has Carrie got to put up with, I should like to know?" cried
Myra. "_You_ don't go off racketing round with disgusting women.
_You_ don't make love to the servants."
"N-no," said her brother. "No, of course not. It's the principle of the
thing I'm talking about. And mind you, Carrie and I don't see eye to
eye over everything. We have our tiffs--why, sometimes we don't speak
to each other for two days on end. But bless you, we make it up again,
and things go on better than before. A good row clears the air--that's
what I say. But there must be give and take. And no nagging afterward.
The best man in the world won't stand nagging."
"I never nag," said Myra tearfully, and believed it. "How can you say
such a thing?"
"Now don't get the wind up, old girl. I'm not saying you do. I'm just
laying down general principles. And remember, Deyre's not our sort.
He's kittle cattle--the touchy sensitive kind. A mere trifle sets them
off."
"Don't I know it?" said Myra bitterly. "He's impossible. Why did I ever
marry him?"
"Well, you know, Sis, you can't have it both ways. It was a good match.
I'm bound to admit it was a good match. Here you are, living in a swell
place, knowing all the county, as good as anybody short of royalty. My
word, if poor old Dad had lived, how proud he'd have been! And what I'm
getting at is this--everything's got its seamy side. You can't have the
halfpence without one or two of the kicks as well. They're decadent,
these old families, that's what they are--decadent, and you've just
got to face the fact. You've just got to sum up the situation in a
businesslike way--advantages, so and so; disadvantages, ditto. It's the
only way. Take my word for it, it's the only way."
"I didn't marry him for the sake of 'advantages,' as you call it,"
said Myra. "I hate this place. I always have. It's because of Abbots
Puissants he married me--not for myself."
"Nonsense, Sis, you were a jolly pretty girl--and still are," he added
gallantly.
"Walter married me for the sake of Abbots Puissants," said Myra
obstinately. "I tell you I know it."
"Well, well," said her brother. "Let's leave the past alone."
"You wouldn't be so calm and cold-blooded about it if you were me,"
said Myra bitterly. "Not if you had to live with him. I do everything
I can think of to please him--and he only sneers and treats me like
this."
"You nag him," said Sydney. "Oh! yes, you do. You can't help it."
"If only he'd answer back! If he'd say something--instead of just
sitting there."
"Yes, but that's the kind of fellow he is. You can't alter people
in this world to suit your fancy. I can't say I care for the chap
myself--too ladida for me. Why, if you put him in to run a concern it
would be bankrupt in a fortnight! But I'm bound to say he's always been
very polite and decent to me. Quite the gentleman. When I've run across
him in London he's taken me to lunch at that swell club of his, and if
I didn't feel too comfortable there that wasn't his fault. He's got his
good points."
"You're so like a man," said Myra. "Carrie would understand! He's been
unfaithful to me, I tell you. Unfaithful!"
"Well, well," said Uncle Sydney, with a great deal of jingling and his
eyes on the ceiling. "Men will be men."
"But Syd, you never----"
"Of course not," said Uncle Sydney hastily. "Of course not--of course
not. I'm speaking generally, Myra--generally, you understand."
"It's all finished," said Myra. "No woman could stand more than I've
stood. And now it's the end. I never want to see him again."
"Ah!" said Uncle Sydney. He drew a chair to the table and sat down with
the air of one prepared to talk business. "Then let's get down to brass
tacks. You've made up your mind? What is it you do want to do?"
"I tell you I never want to see Walter again!"
"Yes, yes," said Uncle Sydney patiently. "We're taking that for
granted. Now what do you want? A divorce?"
"Oh!" Myra was taken aback. "I hadn't thought...."
"Well, we must get the thing put on a businesslike footing. I doubt if
you'd get a divorce. You've got to prove cruelty, you know, as well,
and I doubt if you could do that."
"If you knew the suffering he's caused me----"
"I daresay. I'm not denying it. But you want something more than that
to satisfy the law. And there's no desertion. If you wrote to him to
come back he'd come, I suppose?"
"Haven't I just told you I never want to see him again?"
"Yes, yes, yes. You women do harp on a thing so. We're looking at the
thing from a business point of view now. I don't think a divorce will
wash."
"I don't want a divorce."
"Well, what do you want, a separation?"
"So that he could go and live with that abandoned creature in London?
Live with her altogether? And what would happen to me, I should like to
know?"
"Plenty nice houses near me and Carrie. You'd have the boy with you
most of the time, I expect."
"And let Walter bring disgusting women into this very house, perhaps?
No, indeed, I don't intend to play into his hands like that!"
"Well, dash it all Myra, what do you want?"
Myra began to cry again.
"I'm so miserable, Syd, I'm so miserable. If only Walter were
different!"
"Well, he isn't--and he never will be. You must just make up your mind
to it, Myra. You've married a fellow who's a bit of a Don Jooan--and
you've got to try and take a broad-minded view of it. You're fond of
the chap. Kiss and make friends--that's what I say. We're none of us
perfect. Give and take--that's the thing to remember--give and take."
His sister continued to weep quietly.
"Marriage is a ticklish business," went on Uncle Sydney in a ruminative
voice. "Women are too good for us, not a doubt of it."
"I suppose," said Myra in a tearful voice, "one ought to forgive and
forgive--again and again."
"That's the spirit," said Uncle Sydney. "Women are angels and men
aren't, and women have got to make allowances. Always have had to and
always will."
Myra's sobs grew less. She was seeing herself now in the rôle of the
forgiving angel.
"It isn't as if I didn't do everything I could," she sobbed. "I run
the house and I'm sure nobody could be a more devoted mother."
"Of course you are," said Uncle Sydney. "And that's a fine youngster
of yours. I wish Carrie and I had a boy. Four girls--it's a bit thick.
Still, as I always say to her: 'Better luck next time, old girl.' We
both feel sure it's going to be a boy this time."
Myra was diverted.
"I didn't know. When is it?"
"June."
"How is Carrie?"
"Suffering a bit with her legs--swelled, you know. But she manages to
get about a fair amount. Why, hullo, here's that young shaver. How long
have you been here, my boy?"
"Oh! a long time," said Vernon. "I was here when you came in."
"You're so quiet," complained his uncle. "Not like your cousins. I'm
sure the racket they make is almost too much to bear sometimes. What's
that you've got there?"
"It's an engine," said Vernon.
"No, it isn't," said Uncle Sydney. "It's a milk cart!"
Vernon was silent.
"Hey," said Uncle Sydney. "Isn't it a milk cart?"
"No," said Vernon. "It's an engine."
"Not a bit of it. It's a milk cart. That's funny, isn't it? You say
it's an engine and I say it's a milk cart. I wonder which of us is
right?"
Since Vernon knew that he was, it seemed hardly necessary to reply.
"He's a solemn child," said Uncle Sydney, turning to his sister. "Never
sees a joke. You know, my boy, you'll have to get used to being teased
at school."
"Shall I?" said Vernon, who couldn't see what that had to do with it.
"A boy who can take teasing with a laugh, that's the sort of boy who
gets on in the world," said Uncle Sydney, and jingled his money again,
stimulated by a natural association of ideas.
Vernon stared at him thoughtfully.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing," said Vernon.
"Take your engine on the terrace, dear," said Myra.
Vernon obeyed.
"Now I wonder how much that little chap took in of what we were talking
about?" said Sydney to his sister.
"Oh! he wouldn't understand. He's too little."
"H'm," said Sydney. "I don't know. Some children take in a lot--my
Ethel does. But then she's a very wide-awake child."
"I don't think Vernon ever notices anything," said Myra. "It's rather a
blessing in some ways."
_2_
"Mummy," said Vernon later, "what's going to happen in June?"
"In June, darling?"
"Yes--what you and Uncle Sydney were talking about."
"Oh! that----" Myra was momentarily discomposed. "Well, you see--it's a
great secret."
"Yes?" said Vernon eagerly.
"Uncle Sydney and Aunt Carrie hope that in June they will have a dear
little baby boy. A boy cousin for you."
"Oh!" said Vernon, disappointed. "Is that all?"
After a minute or two he said:
"Why are Aunt Carrie's legs swelled?"
"Oh! well--you see--she has been rather overtired lately."
Myra dreaded more questions. She tried to remember what she and Sydney
had actually said.
"Mummy?"
"Yes, dear."
"Do Uncle Sydney and Aunt Carrie want to have a baby boy?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then why do they wait till June? Why don't they have it now?"
"Because, Vernon, God knows best. And God wants them to have it in
June."
"That's a long time to wait," said Vernon. "If I were God I'd send
people things at once, as soon as they wanted them."
"You mustn't be blasphemous, dear," said Myra gently.
Vernon was silent. But he was puzzled. What was blasphemous? He rather
thought that it was the same word Cook had used speaking of her
brother. She had said he was a most--something--man and hardly ever
touched a drop! She had spoken as though such an attitude was highly
commendable. But evidently Mummy didn't seem to think the same about it.
Vernon added an extra prayer that evening to his usual petition of "God
bless Mummy and Daddy and makemeagooboy armen."
"Dear God," he prayed. "Will you send me a puppy in June!--or July
would do if you are very busy."
"Now why in June?" said Miss Robbins. "You _are_ a funny little
boy. I should have thought you would have wanted the puppy now."
"That would be blamafous," said Vernon, and eyed her reproachfully.
_3_
Suddenly the world became very exciting. There was a war--in South
Africa--and Father was going to it!
Everyone was excited and upset. For the first time, Vernon heard of
some people called the Boers. They were the people that Father was
going to fight.
His father came home for a few days. He looked younger and more alive
and a great deal more cheerful. He and Mummy were quite nice to each
other and there weren't any scenes or quarrels.
Once or twice, Vernon thought, his father squirmed uneasily at some of
the things his mother said. Once he said irritably:
"For God's sake, Myra, don't keep talking of brave heroes laying down
their lives for their country. I can't stand that sort of cant."
But his mother had not got angry. She only said:
"I know you don't like me saying it. But it's _true_."
On the last evening before he left, Vernon's father called to his
small son to go for a walk with him. They strolled all round the place,
silently at first, and then Vernon was emboldened to ask questions.
"Are you glad you're going to the war, Father?"
"Very glad."
"Is it fun?"
"Not what you'd call fun, I expect. But it is in a way. It's
excitement, and then, too, it takes you away from things--right away."
"I suppose," said Vernon thoughtfully, "there aren't any ladies at the
war?"
Walter Deyre looked sharply at his son, a slight smile hovering on his
lips. Uncanny, the way the boy sometimes hit the nail on the head quite
unconsciously.
"That makes for peace, certainly," he said gravely.
"Will you kill a good many people, do you think?" inquired Vernon
interestedly.
His father replied that it was impossible to tell accurately beforehand.
"I hope you will," said Vernon, anxious that his father should shine.
"I hope you'll kill a hundred."
"Thank you, old man."
"I suppose----" began Vernon, and then stopped.
"Yes?" said Walter Deyre encouragingly.
"I suppose--sometimes--people do get killed in war."
Walter Deyre understood the ambiguous phrase.
"Sometimes," he said.
"You don't think you will, do you?"
"I might. It's all in the day's work, you know."
Vernon considered the phrase thoughtfully. The feeling that underlay it
came dimly to him.
"Would you mind if you were, Father?"
"It might be the best thing," said Walter Deyre, more to himself than
to the child.
"I hope you won't," said Vernon.
"Thank you."
His father smiled a little. Vernon's wish had sounded so politely
conventional. But he did not make the mistake Myra would have done, of
thinking the child unfeeling.
They had reached the ruins of the Abbey. The sun was just setting.
Father and son looked round and Walter Deyre drew in his breath with a
little intake of pain. Perhaps he might never stand here again.
"I've made a mess of things," he thought to himself.
"Vernon?"
"Yes, Father?"
"If I am killed Abbots Puissants will belong to you. You know that,
don't you?"
"Yes, Father."
Silence again. So much that he would have liked to say--but he wasn't
used to saying things. These were the things that one didn't put into
words. Odd, how strangely at home he felt with that small person, his
son. Perhaps it had been a mistake not to have got to know the boy
better. They might have had some good times together. He was shy of the
boy--and the boy was shy of him. And yet, somehow, they were curiously
in harmony. They both of them disliked saying things.
"I'm fond of the old place," said Walter Deyre. "I expect you will be
too."
"Yes, Father."
"Queer to think of the old monks--catching their fish--fat fellows.
That's how I always think of them--comfortable chaps."
They lingered a few minutes longer.
"Well," said Walter Deyre, "we must be getting home. It's late."
They turned. Walter Deyre squared his shoulders. There was a
leavetaking to be got through--an emotional one, if he knew Myra--and
he rather dreaded it. Well, it would soon be over. Good-byes were
painful things--better if one made no fuss about them, but then of
course Myra would never see it that way.
Poor Myra! She'd had a rotten deal on the whole. A fine-looking
creature, but he'd married her really for the sake of Abbots
Puissants--and she had married him for love. That was the root of the
whole trouble.
"Look after your mother, Vernon," he said suddenly. "She's been very
good to you, you know."
He rather hoped, in a way, that he wouldn't come back. It would be best
so. Vernon had his mother.
And yet, at that thought, he had a queer traitorous feeling. As though
he were deserting the boy....
_4_
"Walter," cried Myra, "you haven't said good-bye to Vernon."
Walter looked across at his son, standing there wide-eyed.
"Good-bye, old chap. Have a good time."
"Good-bye, Father."
That was all. Myra was scandalized. Had he no love for the boy? He
hadn't even kissed him. How queer they were--the Deyres. So casual.
Strange, the way they had nodded to each other across the width of the
room. So alike....
"But Vernon," said Myra to herself, "shall not grow up like his father."
On the walls around her Deyres looked down and smiled sardonically.
chapter 7
Two months after his father sailed for South Africa Vernon went to
school. It had been Walter Deyre's wish and arrangement, and Myra,
at the moment, was disposed to regard any wish of his as law. He was
her soldier and her hero, and everything else was forgotten. She was
thoroughly happy at this time. Knitting socks for the soldiers, urging
on energetic campaigns of "white feather," sympathizing and talking
with other women whose husbands had also gone to fight the wicked
ungrateful Boers.
She felt exquisite pangs parting with Vernon. Her darling--her baby--to
go so far away from her. What sacrifices mothers had to make! But it
had been his father's wish.
Poor darling, he was sure to be most terribly homesick! She couldn't
bear to think of it.
But Vernon was not homesick. He had no real passionate attachment to
his mother. All his life he was to be fondest of her when away from
her. His escape from her emotional atmosphere was felt by him as a
relief.
He had a good temperament for school life. He had an aptitude for
games, a quiet manner, and an unusual amount of physical courage. After
the dull monotony of life under the reign of Miss Robbins, school was a
delightful novelty. Like all the Deyres, he had the knack of getting on
with people. He made friends easily.
But the reticence of the child who so often answered "Nothing" clung to
him. Except with one or two people, that reticence was to go through
life with him. His school friends were people with whom he shared
"doing things." His thoughts he was to keep to himself and share with
only one person. That person came into his life very soon.
On his very first holidays he found Josephine.
_2_
Vernon was welcomed by his mother with an outburst of demonstrative
affection. Already rather self-conscious about such things, he bore it
manfully. Myra's first raptures over, she said:
"There's a lovely surprise for you, darling. Who do you think is here?
Your cousin Josephine, Aunt Nina's little girl. She has come to live
with us. Now, isn't that nice?"
Vernon wasn't quite sure. It needed thinking over. To gain time, he
said:
"Why has she come to live with us?"
"Because her mother has died. It's terribly sad for her and we must be
very, very kind to her to make up."
"Is Aunt Nina dead?"
He was sorry Aunt Nina was dead. Pretty Aunt Nina with her curling
cigarette smoke.
"Yes. You can't remember her, of course, darling."
He didn't say that he remembered her perfectly. Why should one say
things?
"She's in the schoolroom, darling. Go and find her and make friends."
Vernon went slowly. He didn't know whether he was pleased or not. A
girl! He was at the age to despise girls. Rather a nuisance having a
girl about. On the other hand, it would be jolly having _someone_.
It depended what the kid was like. One would have to be decent to her
if she'd just lost her mother.
He opened the schoolroom door and went in. Josephine was sitting on the
window sill swinging her legs. She stared at him, and Vernon's attitude
of kindly condescension fell from him.
She was a squarely built child of about his own age. She had dead
black hair cut very straight across her forehead. Her jaw stuck out
a little in a determined way. She had a very white skin and enormous
eyelashes. Although she was two months younger than Vernon, she had the
sophistication of twice his years--a kind of mixture of weariness and
defiance.
"Hullo," she said.
"Hullo," said Vernon, rather feebly.
They went on looking at each other, suspiciously, as is the manner of
children and dogs.
"I suppose you're my cousin Josephine," said Vernon.
"Yes, but you'd better call me Joe. Everyone does."
"All right--Joe."
There was a pause. To bridge it, Vernon whistled.
"Rather jolly, coming home," he observed at last.
"It's an awfully jolly place," said Joe.
"Oh! do you like it?" said Vernon, warming to her.
"I like it awfully. Better than any of the places I've lived."
"Have you lived in a lot of places?"
"Oh! yes. At Coombes first--when we were with Father. And then at Monte
Carlo with Colonel Anstey. And then at Toulon with Arthur--and then a
lot of Swiss places because of Arthur's lungs. And then I went to a
convent for a bit after Arthur died. Mother couldn't be bothered with
me just then. I didn't like it much--the nuns were so silly. They made
me have a bath in my chemise. And then, after Mother died, Aunt Myra
came and fetched me here."
"I'm awfully sorry--about your mother, I mean," said Vernon awkwardly.
"Yes," said Joe. "It's rotten in a way--though much the best thing for
her."
"Oh!" said Vernon, rather taken aback.
"Don't tell Aunt Myra," said Joe. "Because I think she's rather easily
shocked by things--rather like the nuns. You have to be careful what
you say to her. Mother didn't care for me an awful lot, you know. She
was frightfully kind and all that--but she was always soppy about some
man or other. I heard some people say so in the hotel, and it was quite
true. She couldn't help it, of course. But it's a very bad plan. I
shan't have anything to do with men when I grow up."
"Oh!" said Vernon. He was still feeling very young and awkward beside
this amazing person.
"I liked Colonel Anstey best," said Joe reminiscently. "But of course
Mother only ran away with him to get away from Father. We stayed at
much better hotels with Colonel Anstey. Arthur was very poor. If I ever
do get soppy about a man when I grow up, I shall take care that he's
rich. It makes things so much easier."
"Wasn't your father nice?"
"Oh! Father was a devil--Mother said so. He hated us both."
"But why?"
Joe wrinkled her straight black brows in perplexity.
"I don't quite know. I think--I think it was something to do with
_me_ coming. I think he had to marry Mother because she was going
to have me--something like that--and it made him angry."
They looked at each other, solemn and perplexed.
"Uncle Walter's in South Africa, isn't he?" went on Joe.
"Yes. I've had three letters from him at school. Awfully jolly letters."
"Uncle Walter's a dear. I loved him. He came out to Monte Carlo, you
know."
Some memory stirred in Vernon. Of course, he remembered now. His father
had wanted Joe to come to Abbots Puissants then.
"He arranged for me to go to the convent," said Joe. "Reverend Mother
thought he was lovely--a true type of high-born English gentleman--such
a funny way of putting it."
They both laughed a little.
"Let's go out in the garden. Shall we?" said Vernon.
"Yes, let's. I say, I know where there are four different nests--but
the birds have all flown away."
They went out together, amicably discussing birds' eggs.
_3_
To Myra, Joe was a perplexing child. She had nice manners, answered
promptly and politely when spoken to, and submitted to caresses without
returning them. She was very independent and gave the maid off to
attend to her little or nothing to do. She could mend her own clothes
and keep herself neat and tidy without any outside urging. She was,
in fact, the sophisticated hotel child whom Myra had never happened
to come across. The depths of her knowledge would have horrified and
shocked her aunt.
But Joe was shrewd and quick-witted, well used to summing up the people
with whom she came in contact. She refrained carefully from "shocking
Aunt Myra." She had for her something closely akin to a kindly contempt.
"Your mother," she said to Vernon, "is very good--but she's a little
stupid too, isn't she?"
"She's very beautiful," said Vernon hotly.
"Yes, she is," agreed Joe. "All but her hands. Her hair's lovely. I
wish I had red-gold hair."
"It comes right down below her waist," said Vernon.
He found Joe a wonderful companion, quite unlike his previous
conception of "girls." She hated dolls, never cried, was as strong if
not stronger than he was, and was always ready and willing for any
dangerous sport. Together they climbed trees, rode bicycles, fell
and cut and bumped themselves, and ended up by taking a wasp's nest
together, with a success due more to luck than skill.
To Joe, Vernon could talk and did. She opened up to him a strange new
world, a world where people ran away with other people's husbands and
wives, a world of dancing and gambling and cynicism. She had loved her
mother with a fierce protective tenderness that almost reversed the
rôles.
"She was too soft," said Joe. "I'm not going to be soft. People are
mean to you if you are. Men are beasts anyway, but if you're a beast to
them first, they're all right. All men are beasts."
"That's a silly thing to say, and I don't think it's true."
"That's because you're going to be a man yourself."
"No, it isn't. And anyway I'm not a beast."
"No, but I daresay you will be when you're grown up."
"But, look here, Joe, you'll have to marry someone some day, and you
won't think your husband a beast."
"Why should I marry anyone?"
"Well--girls do. You don't want to be an old maid like Miss Crabtree."
Joe wavered. Miss Crabtree was an elderly spinster who was very active
in the village and who was very fond of "the dear children."
"I shouldn't be the kind of old maid Miss Crabtree is," she said
weakly. "I should--oh! I should do things. Play the violin, or write
books, or paint some marvellous pictures."
"I hope you won't play the violin," said Vernon.
"That's really what I should like to do best. Why do you hate music so,
Vernon?"
"I don't know. I just do. It makes me feel all horrible inside."
"How queer! It gives me a nice feeling. What are you going to do when
you grow up?"
"Oh! I don't know. I'd like to marry someone very beautiful and live at
Abbots Puissants and have lots of horses and dogs."
"How dull!" said Joe. "I don't think that would be exciting a bit."
"I don't know that I want things to be very exciting," said Vernon.
"I do," said Joe. "I want things to be exciting the whole time without
ever stopping."
_4_
Joe and Vernon had few other children to play with. The Vicar, whose
children Vernon had played with when he was younger, had gone to
another living, and his successor was unmarried. Most of the children
of families in the same position as the Deyres lived too far away for
more than a very occasional visit.
The only exception was Nell Vereker. Her father, Captain Vereker, was
agent to Lord Coomberleigh. He was a tall stooping man, with very
pale blue eyes and a hesitating manner. He had good connections but
was inefficient generally. His wife made up in efficiency for what he
lacked. She was a tall commanding woman, still handsome. Her hair was
very golden and her eyes were very blue. She had pushed her husband
into the position he held, and in the same way she pushed herself into
the best houses of the neighbourhood. She had birth but, like her
husband, no money. Yet she was determined to make a success of life.
Both Vernon and Joe were bored to death by Nell Vereker. She was a thin
pale child with fair straggly hair. Her eyelids and the tip of her
nose were faintly tinged with pink. She was no good at anything. She
couldn't run and she couldn't climb. She was always dressed in starched
white muslin and her favourite games were dolls' tea parties.
Myra was very fond of Nell. "Such a thorough little lady," she used to
say. Vernon and Joe were kindly and polite when Mrs. Vereker brought
Nell to tea. They tried to think of games she would like, and they used
to give whoops of delight when at last she departed, sitting up very
straight beside her mother in the hired carriage.
It was in Vernon's second holidays, just after the famous episode of
the wasp's nest, that the first rumours came about Deerfields.
Deerfields was the property adjoining Abbots Puissants. It belonged to
old Sir Charles Alington. Some friends of Mrs. Deyre's came to lunch
and the subject came up for discussion.
"It's quite true. I had it from an absolutely authentic source.
It's been sold to these people.... Yes--_Jews!_ Oh! of
course--enormously wealthy.... Yes, a fancy price, I believe. Levinne,
the name is.... No, Russian Jews, so I heard.... Oh! of course
_quite_ impossible. Too bad of Sir Charles, I say.... Yes, of
course there's the Yorkshire property as well, and I hear he's lost a
lot of money lately.... No, no one will call. Naturally."
Joe and Vernon were pleasurably excited. All titbits about Deerfields
were carefully stored up. At last the strangers arrived and moved in.
There was more talk of the same kind.
"Oh! absolutely impossible, Mrs. Deyre.... Just as we thought.... One
wonders what they think they are doing.... What do they expect?...
I dare say they'll sell the place and move away.... Yes, there is a
family. A boy. About your Vernon's age, I believe."
"I wonder what Jews are like," said Vernon to Joe. "Why does everyone
dislike them? We thought one boy at school was a Jew, but he eats bacon
for breakfast, so he can't be."
The Levinnes proved to be a very Christian brand of Jew. They appeared
in church on Sunday, having taken a whole pew. The interest of the
congregation was breathless. First came Mr. Levinne--very round and
stout, tightly frock-coated--an enormous nose and a shining face. Then
Mrs.--an amazing sight. Colossal sleeves! Hour-glass figure! Chains
of diamonds! An immense hat decorated with feathers and black tightly
curling ringlets underneath it! With them was a boy rather taller than
Vernon with a long yellow face and protruding ears.
A carriage and pair was waiting for them when service was over. They
got into it and drove away.
"Well!" said Miss Crabtree.
Little groups formed, talking busily.
_5_
"I think it's rotten," said Joe.
She and Vernon were in the garden together.
"What's rotten?"
"Those people."
"Do you mean the Levinnes?"
"Yes. Why should everyone be so horrid about them?"
"Well," said Vernon, trying to be strictly impartial, "they did look
queer, you know."
"Well, I think people are beasts."
Vernon was silent. Joe, a rebel by force of circumstances, was always
putting a new point of view before him.
"That boy," continued Joe. "I dare say he's awfully jolly, even though
his ears do stick out."
"I wonder," said Vernon. "It would be jolly to have someone else. Kate
says they're making a swimming pool at Deerfields."
"They must be frightfully, frightfully rich," said Joe.
Riches meant little to Vernon. He had never thought about them.
The Levinnes were the great topic of conversation for some time. The
improvements they were making at Deerfields! The workmen they had had
down from London!
Mrs. Vereker brought Nell to tea one day. As soon as she was in the
garden with the children she imparted news of fascinating importance.
"They've got a motor car."
"A motor car?"
Motor cars were almost unheard of then. One had never been seen in the
Forest. Storms of envy shook Vernon. A motor car!
"A motor car _and_ a swimming pool," he murmured.
It was too much.
"It's not a swimming pool," said Nell. "It's a sunk garden."
"Kate says it's a swimming pool."
"Our gardener says it's a sunk garden."
"What is a sunk garden?"
"I don't know," confessed Nell. "But it is one."
"I don't believe it," said Joe. "Who'd want a silly sort of thing like
that when they could have a swimming pool?"
"Well, that's what our gardener says."
"I know," said Joe. A wicked look came into her eyes. "Let's go and
see."
"What?"
"Let's go and see for ourselves."
"Oh! but we couldn't," said Nell.
"Why not? We can creep up through the woods."
"Jolly good idea," said Vernon. "Let's."
"I don't want to," said Nell. "Mother wouldn't like it, I know."
"Oh! don't be a spoilsport, Nell. Come on."
"Mother wouldn't like it," repeated Nell.
"All right. Wait here, then. We won't be long."
Tears gathered slowly in Nell's eyes. She hated being left. She stood
there sullenly, twisting her frock between her fingers.
"We won't be long," Vernon repeated.
He and Joe ran off. Nell felt she couldn't bear it.
"Vernon!"
"Yes?"
"Wait for me. I'm coming too."
She felt heroic as she made the announcement. Joe and Vernon did not
seem particularly impressed by it. They waited with obvious impatience
for her to come up with them.
"Now then," said Vernon, "I'm leader. Everyone to do as I say."
They climbed over the Park palings and reached the shelter of the
trees. Speaking in whispers under their breath, they flitted through
the undergrowth, drawing nearer and nearer toward the house. Now it
rose before them, some way ahead to the right.
"We'll have to get farther still and keep a bit more up-hill."
They followed him obediently. And then suddenly a voice broke on their
ears, speaking from a little behind them to the left.
"You're trethpassing," it said.
They turned--startled. The yellow-faced boy with the large ears
stood there. He had his hands in his pockets, and was surveying them
superciliously.
"You're trethpassing," he said again.
There was something in his manner that awoke immediate antagonism.
Instead of saying, as he had meant to say, "I'm sorry," Vernon said,
"Oh!"
He and the other boy looked at each other--the cool measuring glance of
two adversaries in a duel.
"We come from next door," said Joe.
"Do you?" said the boy. "Well, you'd better go back there. My father
and mother don't want you in here."
He managed to be unbearably offensive as he said this. Vernon,
unpleasantly conscious of being in the wrong, flushed angrily.
"You might manage to speak politely," he said.
"Why should I?" said the boy.
He turned as a footstep sounded coming through the undergrowth.
"Is that you, Sam?" he said. "Just turn these trethpassing kids off the
place, will you?"
The keeper, who had stepped out beside him, grinned and touched his
forehead. The boy strolled away, as though he had lost all interest.
The keeper turned to the children and put on a ferocious scowl.
"Out of it, you young varmints! I'll turn the dogs loose on you unless
you're out of here in double-quick time."
"We're not afraid of dogs," said Vernon haughtily as he turned to
depart.
"Ho, you're not, h'aren't you? Well, then, I've got a rhinoHoceras here
and I'm a-going to loose that this minute."
He stalked off. Nell gave a terrified pull at Vernon's arm.
"He's gone to get it," she cried. "Oh! hurry--hurry!"
Her alarm was contagious. So much had been retailed about the Levinnes
that the keeper's threat seemed a perfectly likely one to the children.
With one accord they ran for home. They plunged in a bee line, pushing
their way through the undergrowth. Vernon and Joe led. A piteous cry
arose from Nell.
"Vernon--Vernon! Oh! do wait. I've got stuck."
What a nuisance Nell was! She couldn't run or do anything. He turned
back, gave her frock a vigorous pull to free it from the brambles with
which it was entangled (a good deal to the frock's detriment), and
hauled her to her feet.
"Come on, do."
"I'm so out of breath. I can't run any more. Oh! Vernon, I'm so
frightened."
"Come _on_."
Hand in hand, he pulled her along. They reached the Park palings,
scrambled over....
_6_
"We-ell," said Joe, fanning herself with a very dirty linen hat. "That
_was_ an adventure."
"My frock's all torn," said Nell. "What shall I do?"
"I hate that boy," said Vernon. "He's a beast."
"He's a beastly beast," agreed Joe. "We'll declare war on him. Shall
we?"
"Rather!"
"What shall I do about my frock?"
"It's very awkward their having a rhinoceros," said Joe thoughtfully.
"Do you think Tom Boy would go for it if we trained him to?"
"I shouldn't like Tom Boy to be hurt," said Vernon.
Tom Boy was the stable dog, a great favourite of his. His mother had
always vetoed a dog in the house, so Tom Boy was the nearest Vernon had
got to having a dog of his own.
"I don't know what Mother will say about my frock."
"Oh, bother your frock, Nell! It's not the sort of frock for playing in
the garden, anyway."
"I'll tell your mother it's my fault," said Vernon impatiently. "Don't
be so like a girl."
"I am a girl," said Nell.
"Well, so is Joe a girl. But she doesn't go on like you do. She's as
good as a boy any day."
Nell looked ready to cry, but at that minute they were called from the
house.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Vereker," said Vernon. "I'm afraid I've torn Nell's
frock."
There were reproaches from Myra, civil disclaimers from Mrs. Vereker.
When Nell and her mother had gone Myra said:
"You must not be so rough, Vernon darling. When a little girl friend
comes to tea you must take great care of her."
"Why have we got to have her to tea? We don't like her. She spoils
everything."
"Vernon! Nell is such a dear little girl."
"She isn't, Mother. She's awful."
"Vernon!"
"Well, she is. I don't like her mother either."
"I don't like Mrs. Vereker much," said Myra. "I always think she's a
very hard woman. But I can't think why you children don't like Nell.
Mrs. Vereker tells me she's absolutely devoted to you, Vernon."
"Well, I don't want her to be."
He escaped with Joe.
"War," he said. "That's what it is--war! I dare say that Levinne boy is
really a Boer in disguise. We must plan out our campaign. Why should he
come and live next door to us and spoil everything?"
The kind of guerilla warfare that followed occupied Vernon and Joe
in a most pleasurable fashion. They invented all kinds of methods
of harassing the enemy. Concealed in trees, they pelted him with
chestnuts. They stalked him with pea shooters. They outlined a hand in
red paint and crept secretly up to the house one night after dark and
left it on the doorstep with the word "Revenge" printed at the bottom
of the sheet of paper.
Sometimes their enemy retaliated in kind. He, too, had a pea shooter,
and it was he who laid in wait for them one day with a garden hose.
Hostilities had been going on for nearly ten days when Vernon came upon
Joe sitting on a tree stump looking unusually despondent.
"Hullo! What's up? I thought you were going to stalk the enemy with
those squashy tomatoes Cook gave us."
"I was. I mean I did."
"What's the matter, Joe?"
"I was up a tree and he came right by underneath. I could have got him
beautifully."
"Do you mean to say you didn't?"
"No."
"Why ever not?"
Joe's face became very red and she began to speak very fast.
"I couldn't. You see, he didn't know I was there, and he looked--oh!
Vernon, he looked so awfully _lonely_--as though he were simply
hating things. You know, it must be pretty beastly having no one to do
things with."
"Yes, but----"
Vernon paused to adjust his ideas.
"Don't you remember how we said it was all rotten?" went on Joe.
"People being so beastly about the Levinnes, and now we're being as
beastly as anyone."
"Yes, but he was beastly to _us_!"
"Perhaps he didn't mean to be."
"That's nonsense."
"No, it isn't. Look at the way dogs bite you if they're afraid or
suspicious. I expect he just expected us to be beastly to him, and
wanted to start first. Let's be friends."
"You can't be in the middle of a war."
"Yes, you can. We'll make a white flag, and then you march with it and
demand a parley, and see if you can't agree upon honourable terms of
peace."
"Well," said Vernon, "I don't mind if we do. It would be a change,
anyway. What shall we use for a flag of truce--my handkerchief or your
pinafore?"
Marching with the flag of truce was rather exciting. It was not long
before they encountered the enemy. He stared in complete surprise.
"What's up?" he said.
"We want a parley," said Vernon.
"Well, I'm agreeable," said the other boy, after a moment's pause.
"What we want to say is this," said Joe. "If you'll agree, we'd like to
be friends."
They looked from one to the other.
"Why do you want to be friends?" he asked suspiciously.
"It seems a bit silly," said Vernon, "living next door and not being
friends, doesn't it?"
"Which of you thought of that first?"
"I did," said Joe.
She felt those small jet-black eyes boring into her. What a queer boy
he was. His ears seemed to stick out more than ever.
"All right," said the boy, "I'd like to."
There was a minute's embarrassed pause.
"What's your name?" said Joe.
"Sebastian."
There was just the faintest lisp, so little as hardly to be noticed.
"What a funny name. Mine's Joe and this is Vernon. He's at school. Do
you go to school?"
"Yes. I'm going to Eton later."
"So am I," said Vernon.
Again a faint tide of hostility rose between them. Then it ebbed
away--never to return.
"Come and see our swimming pool," said Sebastian. "It's rather jolly."
chapter 8
The friendship with Sebastian Levinne prospered and throve apace. Half
the zest of it lay in the secrecy that had to be adopted. Vernon's
mother would have been horrified if she had guessed at anything of the
kind. The Levinnes would certainly not have been horrified--but their
gratification might have led to equally dire results.
School time passed on leaden wings for poor Joe, cooped up with a daily
governess who arrived every morning and who subtly disapproved of her
outspoken and rebellious pupil. Joe lived only for the holidays. As
soon as they came she and Vernon would set off to a secret meeting
place where there was a convenient gap in a hedge. They had invented
a code of whistles and many unnecessary signals. Sometimes Sebastian
would be there before time--lying on the bracken, his yellow face and
jutting ears looking strangely at variance with his knickerbocker suit.
They played games, but they also talked--how they talked! Sebastian
told them stories of Russia. They learned of the persecution of
Jews--of pogroms! Sebastian himself had never been in Russia, but he
had lived for years amongst other Russian Jews and his own father had
narrowly escaped with his life in a pogrom. Sometimes he would say
sentences in Russian to please Vernon and Joe. It was all entrancing.
"Everybody hates us down here," said Sebastian. "But it doesn't matter.
They won't be able to do without us because my father is so rich. You
can buy everything with money."
He had a certain queer arrogance about him.
"You can't buy everything," objected Vernon. "Old Nicoll's son has
come home from the war without a leg. Money couldn't make his leg grow
again."
"No," admitted Sebastian. "I didn't mean things like that. But money
would get you a very good wooden leg and the best kind of crutches."
"I had crutches once," said Vernon. "It was rather fun. And I had an
awfully nice nurse to look after me."
"You see, you couldn't have had that if you hadn't been rich."
Was he rich? He supposed he was. He'd never thought about it.
"I wish I was rich," said Joe.
"You can marry me when you grow up," said Sebastian, "and then you will
be."
"It wouldn't be nice for Joe if nobody came to see her," objected
Vernon.
"I wouldn't mind that a bit," said Joe. "I wouldn't care what Aunt Myra
or anybody said. I'd marry Sebastian if I wanted to."
"People will come and see her then," said Sebastian. "You don't
realize. Jews are frightfully powerful. My father says people can't
do without them. That's why Sir Charles Alington had to sell us
Deerfields."
A sudden chill came over Vernon. He felt without putting the thought
into words that he was talking to a member of an enemy race. But he
felt no antagonism toward Sebastian. That was over long ago. He and
Sebastian were friends--somehow he was sure they always would be.
"Money," said Sebastian, "isn't just buying things. It's ever so
much more than that. And it isn't only having power over people.
It's--it's--being able to get together lots of beauty."
He made a queer un-English gesture with his hands.
"What do you mean," said Vernon, "by 'get together'?"
Sebastian didn't know what he meant. The words had just come.
"Anyway," said Vernon, "things aren't beauty."
"Yes, they are. Deerfields is beautiful--but not nearly so beautiful as
Abbots Puissants."
"When Abbots Puissants belongs to me," said Vernon, "you can come and
stay there as much as ever you like. We're always going to be friends,
aren't we? No matter what anyone says?"
"We're always going to be friends," said Sebastian.
_2_
Little by little the Levinnes made headway. The church needed a new
organ--Mr. Levinne presented it with one. Deerfields was thrown open
on the occasion of the choir boys' outing and strawberries and cream
provided. A large donation was given to the Primrose League. Turn where
you would, you came up against the opulence and the kindness of the
Levinnes.
People began to say: "Of course they're impossible--but Mrs. Levinne is
wonderfully _kind_."
And they said other things.
"Oh! of course--_Jews!_ But perhaps it is absurd of one to be
prejudiced. Some very good people have been Jews."
It was rumoured that the Vicar had said: "Including Jesus Christ," in
answer. But nobody really believed that. The Vicar was unmarried, which
was very unusual, and had odd ideas about Holy Communion, and sometimes
preached very incomprehensible sermons, but nobody believed that he
would have said anything really sacrilegious.
It was the Vicar who introduced Mrs. Levinne to the Sewing Circle which
met twice a week to provide comforts for our brave soldiers in South
Africa. And meeting her twice a week there certainly made it awkward.
In the end, Lady Coomberleigh, softened by the immense donation
to the Primrose League, took the plunge and called. And where Lady
Coomberleigh led, everybody followed.
Not that the Levinnes were ever admitted to intimacy. But they were
officially accepted, and people were heard saying:
"She's a very _kind_ woman--even if she does wear impossible
clothes for the country."
But that, too, followed. Mrs. Levinne was adaptable like all her race.
A very short time elapsed before she appeared in even tweedier tweeds
than her neighbours.
Joe and Vernon were solemnly bidden to tea with Sebastian Levinne.
"We must go this once, I suppose," said Myra sighing. "But we need
never get really intimate. What a queer-looking boy he is. You won't be
rude to him, will you, Vernon darling?"
The children solemnly made the official acquaintance of Sebastian. It
amused them very much.
But the sharp-witted Joe fancied that Mrs. Levinne knew more about
their friendship than Aunt Myra did. Mrs. Levinne wasn't a fool. She
was like Sebastian.
_3_
Walter Deyre was killed a few weeks before the war ended. His end was
a gallant one. He was shot when going back to rescue a wounded comrade
under heavy fire. He was awarded a posthumous V. C. and the letter his
colonel wrote to Myra was treasured by her as her dearest possession.
Never [wrote the Colonel] have I known anyone so fearless of
danger. His men adored him and would have followed him anywhere. He
has risked his life again and again in the gallantest way. You can
indeed be proud of him.
Myra read that letter again and again. She read it to all her friends.
It wiped away the faint sting that her husband had left no last word or
letter for her.
"But, being a Deyre, he wouldn't," she said to herself.
Yet Walter Deyre had left a letter "in case I should be killed." But
it was not to Myra and she never knew of it. She was grief-stricken,
but happy. Her husband was hers in death as he had never been in life,
and with her easy power of making things as she wished them to be, she
began to weave a convincing romance of her wonderfully happy married
life.
It is difficult to say how Vernon was affected by his father's death.
He felt no actual grief--was rendered even more stolid by his mother's
obvious wish for him to display emotion. He was proud of his father--so
proud that it almost hurt--yet he understood what Joe had meant when
she said that it was better for her mother to be dead. He remembered
very clearly that last evening walk with his father--the things he had
said--the feeling there had been between them.
His father, he knew, hadn't really wanted to come back. He was sorry for
his father--he always had been. He didn't know why.
It was not grief he felt for his father--it was more a kind of
heart-gripping loneliness. Father was dead--Aunt Nina was dead. There
was Mother, of course, but that was different.
He couldn't satisfy his mother--he never had been able to. She was
always hugging him, crying over him, telling him they must be all in
all to each other now. And he couldn't, he just couldn't, say the
things she wanted him to say. He couldn't even put his arms round her
neck and hug her back.
He longed for the holidays to be over. His mother, with her red eyes
and her widow's weeds of the heaviest crape--somehow she overpowered
things.
Mr. Flemming, the lawyer from London, came down to stay, and Uncle
Sydney came from Birmingham. He stayed two days. At the end of them
Vernon was summoned to the library.
The two men were sitting at the long table. Myra was sitting in a low
chair by the fire, her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Well, my boy," said Uncle Sydney, "we've got something to talk to you
about. How would you like to come and live near your Aunt Carrie and me
at Birmingham?"
"Thank you," said Vernon, "but I'd rather live here."
"A bit gloomy, don't you think?" said his uncle. "Now I've got my eye
on a jolly house--not too big, thoroughly comfortable. There'll be your
cousins near for you to play with in the holidays. It's a very good
idea, I think."
"I'm sure it is," said Vernon politely. "But I'd really like being here
best, thank you."
"Ah! H'm," said Uncle Sydney. He blew his nose and looked questioningly
at the lawyer, who assented to the look with a slight nod.
"It's not quite so simple as that, old chap," said Uncle Sydney. "I
think you're quite old enough to understand if I explain things to
you. Now that your father's dead--er--passed from us, Abbots Puissants
belongs to you."
"I know," said Vernon.
"Eh? How do you know? Servants been talking?"
"Father told me before he went away."
"Oh!" said Uncle Sydney, rather taken aback. "Oh!--I see. Well, as I
say, Abbots Puissants belongs to you, but a place like this takes a lot
of money to run--paying wages and things like that--you understand? And
then there are some things called Death Duties. When anyone dies you
have to pay out a lot of money to the government.
"Now, your father wasn't a rich man. When his father died, and he came
into this place, he had so little money that he thought he'd have to
sell it."
"Sell it?" burst out Vernon incredulously.
"Yes, it's not entailed."
"What's entailed?"
Mr. Flemming explained carefully and clearly.
"But--but--you aren't going to sell it now?"
Vernon gazed at him with agonizing imploring eyes.
"Certainly not," said Mr. Flemming. "The estate is left to you, and
nothing can be done until you are of age--that means twenty-one, you
know."
Vernon breathed a sigh of relief.
"But you see," continued Uncle Sydney, "there isn't enough money to
go on living here. As I say, your father would have had to sell it.
But he met your mother and married her, and fortunately she had enough
money to--to keep things going. But your father's death has made a lot
of difference. For one thing, he has left certain--er--debts which your
mother insists on paying."
There was a sniff from Myra. Uncle Sydney's tone was embarrassed and he
hurried on.
"The common-sense thing to do is to let Abbots Puissants for a term of
years--till you are twenty-one, in fact. By then, who knows? Things
may--er--change for the better. Naturally your mother will be happier
living near her own relations. You must think of your mother, you know,
my boy."
"Yes," said Vernon. "Father told me to."
"So that's settled--eh?"
How cruel they were, thought Vernon. Asking him--when he could see that
there was nothing to ask him about. They could do as they liked. They
meant to. Why call him in here and _pretend_!
Strangers would come and live in Abbots Puissants.
Never mind! Some day he would be twenty-one.
"Darling," said Myra. "I'm doing it all for you. It would be so sad
here without Daddy, wouldn't it?"
She held out her arms, but Vernon pretended not to notice. He walked
out of the room, saying with difficulty:
"Thank you, Uncle Sydney, so much, for telling me."
_4_
He went out into the garden and wandered on till he came to the old
Abbey. He sat down with his chin in his hands.
"Mother _could_!" he said to himself. "If she liked, she
_could_! She wants to go and live in a horrid red brick house with
pipes on it like Uncle Sydney's. She doesn't like Abbots Puissants--she
never has. But she needn't pretend it's all for me. That's not true.
She says things that aren't true. She always has...."
He sat there smouldering with indignation.
"Vernon--Vernon--I've been looking for you everywhere. I couldn't
think what had become of you. What's the matter?"
It was Joe. He told her. Here was someone who would understand and
sympathize. But Joe startled him.
"Well, why not? Why shouldn't Aunt Myra go and live in Birmingham if
she wants to? I think you're beastly. Why should she go on living here
just so that you should be here in the holidays? It's _her_ money.
Why shouldn't she spend it on doing as _she_ likes?"
"But Joe, Abbots Puissants----"
"Well, what's Abbots Puissants to Aunt Myra? In her heart of hearts
she feels about it just like you feel about Uncle Sydney's house in
Birmingham. Why should she pinch and scrape to live here if she doesn't
want to? If your father had made her happier here, perhaps she would
want to--but he didn't. Mother said so once. I don't like Aunt Myra
terribly--I know she's good and all that, but I don't love her--but
I _can_ be fair. It's _her_ money. You can't get away from
that!"
Vernon looked at her. They were antagonists. Both had their point of
view and neither could see the other's. They were both ablaze with
indignation.
"I think women have a rotten time," said Joe. "And I'm on Aunt Myra's
side."
"All right," said Vernon, "be on her side! I don't care."
Joe went away. He stayed there, sitting on the ruined wall of the old
Abbey.
For the first time he questioned life.... Things weren't _sure_.
How could you tell what was going to happen?
_When he was twenty-one...._
Yes, but you couldn't be _sure_! You couldn't be _safe_!
Look at the time when he was a baby. Nurse, God, Mr. Green! How
absolutely fixed they had seemed. And now they had all gone.
At least, God was still there, he supposed. But it wasn't the same
God--not the same God at all.
What would have happened to everything by the time he was twenty-one?
_What, strangest thought of all, would have happened to himself?_
He felt terribly alone. Father, Aunt Nina--both dead. Only Uncle
Sydney and Mummy--and they weren't--didn't--belong. He paused,
confused. There was Joe! Joe understood. But Joe was queer about some
things.
He clenched his hands. No everything would be all right.
_When he was twenty-one...._