yet dressed. Her golden hair hung in a stream over the pale pink kimono
she was wearing. She looked very lovely and very young and defenseless.
Mrs. Vereker, sitting at her inlaid desk, frowned still more and bit
the end of her penholder thoughtfully. The hardness that had always
been noticeable was now accentuated and, as it were, crystallized. This
was a woman who had battled steadily and unceasingly through life and
was now engaged in a supreme struggle. She lived in a house the rent
of which she could not afford to pay and she dressed her daughter in
clothes she could not afford to buy. She got things on credit--not,
like some others, by cajolery, but by sheer driving power. She never
appealed to her creditors, she browbeat them.
And the result was that Nell went everywhere and did everything that
other girls did and was better dressed while doing so.
"Mademoiselle is lovely," said the dressmakers, and their eyes would
meet Mrs. Vereker's in a glance of understanding.
A girl so beautiful, so well turned out, would marry probably in her
first season, certainly in her second--and then a rich harvest would be
reaped. They were used to taking risks of this kind--Mademoiselle was
lovely, Madame her mother was a woman of the world and a woman, they
could see, who was accustomed to success in her undertakings. She would
assuredly see to it that her daughter made a good match and did not
marry a nobody.
Nobody but Mrs. Vereker knew the difficulties, the setbacks, the
galling defeats of the campaign she had undertaken.
"There is young Earnescliff," she said thoughtfully. "But he is really
too much of an outsider--and not even money to recommend him."
Nell looked at her pink polished nails.
"What about Vernon Deyre?" she suggested. "He wrote he was coming up to
town this week-end."
"He would do," said Mrs. Vereker. She looked sharply at her daughter.
"Nell, you're not--you're not allowing yourself to become foolish about
that young man, are you? We seem to have seen a great deal of him
lately."
"He dances well," said Nell. "And he's frightfully useful."
"Yes," said Mrs. Vereker. "Yes. It's a pity."
"What's a pity?"
"That he hasn't got a few more of this world's goods. He'll have to
marry money if he's ever going to be able to keep up Abbots Puissants.
It's mortgaged, you know. I found that out. Of course, when his mother
dies.... But she's one of those large healthy women who go on living
till they're eighty or ninety. And besides, she may marry again. No,
Vernon Deyre is hopeless considered as a _parti_. He's very much
in love with you, too, poor boy."
"Do you think so?" said Nell in a low voice.
"Anyone can see it. It sticks out all over him--it always does with
boys of that age. Well, they've got to go through calf love, I suppose.
But no foolishness on your part, Nell."
"Oh! Mother, he's only a boy--a very nice boy, but a boy."
"He's a good-looking boy," said her mother dryly. "I'm only warning
you. Being in love is a painful process when you can't have the man you
want. And worse----"
She stopped. Nell knew well enough how her thoughts ran on. Captain
Vereker had once been a handsome blue-eyed impecunious young subaltern.
Her mother had been guilty of the folly of marrying him for love. She
had lived to rue the day bitterly. A weak man, a failure, a drunkard.
Disillusionment enough there in all conscience.
"Someone devoted is always useful," said Mrs. Vereker, reverting to
her utilitarian standpoint. "He mustn't, of course, spoil your chances
with other men. But you're too wise to let him monopolize you to that
extent. Yes, write and ask him to drive down to Ranelagh and dine with
us there on Sunday next."
Nell nodded. She got up and went to her own room, flung off the
trailing kimono and started dressing. With a stiff brush she brushed
out the long golden hair before coiling it round her small lovely head.
The window was open. A sooty London sparrow chirped and sang with the
arrogance of his kind.
Something caught at Nell's heart. Oh! why was everything so--so----
So what? She didn't know--couldn't put into words the feeling that
surged over her. Why couldn't things be nice instead of nasty? It would
be just as easy for God.
Nell never thought much about God, but she knew, of course, that he was
there. Perhaps, somehow or other, God would make everything come right
for her.
There was something childlike about Nell Vereker on that summer's
morning in London.
_2_
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 toward 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.
Anyway, 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. Gray 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 to-night. 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 as 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 onto 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
good-bye 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 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.
_3_
"I'm ashamed of you. What can you be thinking of?"
Mrs. Vereker was very angry. Nell stood before her, dumb and lovely.
Her mother uttered a few more virulent and incisive words, then turned
and left the room without saying good-night.
Ten minutes later, as Mrs. Vereker completed her preparations for the
night, she suddenly laughed to herself--a grim chuckle.
"I needn't have been so angry with the child. As a matter of fact, it
will do George Chetwynd good. Wake him up. He needed prodding."
She turned out her light and slept, satisfied.
Nell lay awake. Again and again she went over the evening, trying to
recapture each feeling, each word that had been spoken.
What had Vernon said? What had she answered? Queer that she couldn't
remember.
He had asked her whether she loved him. What had she said to that?
She couldn't tell. But in the darkness the scene rose up before her
eyes. She felt her hand in Vernon's, heard his voice, husky and ill
assured.... She shut her eyes, lost in a hazy delicious dream.
Life was so lovely--so lovely.
chapter 5
"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 for ever? That evening at
Ranelagh--and the night afterward 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. The couldn't penetrate that shining web of misty
dream.
She had wakened 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 had been 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 had watched for
the post, her heart giving little throbs whenever the postman knocked.
It had come the second day. She had hidden 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.
Yours ever,
Vernon.
She had read it again and again, put it under her pillow when she
slept, read it again the next morning. She had been so happy, so
dreadfully happy. It was not till the day after that she had written to
him. When the pen was in her hand she had felt stiff and awkward. She
hadn't known 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 had written back:
Dear Nell, I'd love to come on Friday. Thanks ever so much.
Yours, Vernon.
A little panic had 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 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 trap door, 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....
_2_
They woke from a happy dream. "Oh! Vernon, I believe we've been here
_ages_!"
Conscience-stricken, they hurried to the trap door. On the landing
below, Vernon surveyed Nell anxiously.
"I'm afraid you've been sitting on an awful lot of smuts, Nell."
"Oh! have I? How awful."
"It's my fault, darling. But oh! Nell, it was worth it, wasn't it?"
She smiled up at him, gently, happily.
"It was worth it," she said softly.
As they went down the stairs she said with a little laugh:
"What about all the things you wanted to say? Lots and lots of them."
They both laughed in perfect understanding. They reëntered the dancing
room rather sheepishly. They had missed six dances.
A lovely evening. Nell had gone to sleep and dreamed of more kisses.
And then, Saturday morning, Vernon had rung up.
"I want to talk to you. Can I come round?"
"Oh! Vernon dear, you can't. I'm going out now to meet people. I can't
get out of it."
"Why not?"
"I mean I wouldn't know what to say to Mother."
"You haven't told her anything?"
"Oh, _no_!"
The vehemence of that "Oh, _no_!" had checked Vernon. He thought:
"Poor little darling. Of course she hasn't." He said: "Hadn't I better
do that? I'll come round now."
"Oh! no, Vernon, not until we've talked."
"Well, when can we talk?"
"I don't know. I'm lunching with people and going to a matinée and to
the theatre again to-night. If you'd only told me you were going to be
up this week-end I'd have arranged something."
"What about to-morrow?"
"Well, there's church----"
"That'll do! Don't go to church. Say you've got a headache or
something. I'll come round. We can talk then, and when your mother
comes back from church I can have it out with her."
"Oh! Vernon, I don't think I can----"
"Yes, you can. I'm going to ring off now before you can make any more
excuses. At eleven to-morrow."
He rang off. He hadn't even told Nell where he was staying. She admired
him for this masculine decision even while it caused her anxiety. She
was afraid he was going to spoil everything.
And now here they were, in the middle of a heated discussion. Nell had
begged him to say nothing to her mother.
"It will spoil everything. We shan't be allowed to."
"Shan't be allowed to what?"
"See each other or anything."
"But Nell darling, I want to marry you. And you want to marry me, don't
you? I want to marry you awfully soon."
She had her first feeling of exasperation then. Couldn't he see things
as they were? He was talking like a mere boy.
"But, Vernon, we haven't any money."
"I know. But I'm going to work awfully hard. You won't mind being poor,
will you, Nell?"
She said No since it was expected of her, but she was conscious that
she did not say it whole heartedly. It was dreadful being poor. Vernon
didn't know how dreadful it was. She suddenly felt years and years
older and more experienced than he. He was talking like a romantic
boy--he didn't know what things were really like.
"Oh! Vernon, can't we just go on as we are? We're so happy now."
"Of course we're happy--but we could be happier still. I want to be
really engaged to you--I want everyone to know that you belong to me."
"I don't see that that makes any difference."
"I suppose it doesn't. But I want to have a right to see you, instead
of being miserable about you going round with chaps like that ass,
Dacre."
"Oh! Vernon, you're not jealous?"
"I know I oughtn't to be. But you don't really know how lovely you are,
Nell! Everyone must be in love with you. I believe even that solemn old
American fellow is."
Nell changed colour slightly.
"Well, I think you'll spoil everything," she murmured.
"You think your mother will be horrid to you about it? I'm awfully
sorry. I'll tell her it's all my fault. And after all, she's got to
know. I expect she'll be disappointed because she probably wanted you
to marry someone rich. That's quite natural. But it doesn't really make
you happy, being rich, does it?"
Nell said suddenly in a hard desperate little voice:
"You talk like that, but what do you know about being poor?"
Vernon was astonished.
"But I am poor."
"No, you're not. You've been to schools and universities and in the
holidays you've lived with your mother who's rich. You don't know
anything at all about it. You don't know----"
She stopped in despair. She wasn't clever with words. How could she
paint the picture she knew so well? The shifts, the struggles, the
evasions, the desperate fight to keep up appearances, the ease with
which friends dropped you if you "couldn't keep up with things," the
slights, the snubs--worse, the galling patronage! In Captain Vereker's
lifetime, and since his death, it had always been the same. You could,
of course, live in a cottage in the country and never see anyone, never
to go to dances like other girls, never have pretty clothes, live
within your income and rot away slowly! Either way was pretty beastly.
It was so unfair--one ought to have money. And always marriage lay
ahead of you clearly designated as the way of escape. No more striving
and snubs and subterfuges.
You didn't think of it as marrying for money. Nell, with the boundless
optimism of youth, had always pictured herself falling in love
with a nice rich man. And now she had fallen in love with Vernon
Deyre. Her thoughts hadn't gone as far as marriage. She was just
happy--wonderfully happy.
She almost hated Vernon for dragging her down from the clouds. And she
resented his easy taking for granted of her readiness to face poverty
for his sake. If he'd put it differently. If he'd said: "I oughtn't to
ask you--but do you think you _could_ for my sake?" Something like
that.
So that she could feel that her sacrifice was being appreciated.
For, after all, it _was_ a sacrifice! She didn't want to be
poor--she hated the idea of being poor. She was afraid of it. Vernon's
contemptuous unworldly attitude infuriated her. It was so easy not
to care about money when you'd never felt the lack of it. And Vernon
hadn't. He wasn't aware of the fact, but there it was. He'd lived
softly and comfortably and well.
He said now in an astonished kind of way: "Oh! Nell, surely you
wouldn't mind being poor?"
"I've been poor, I tell you. I know what it's like."
She felt years and years older than Vernon. He was a child--a baby!
What did he know of the difficulties of getting credit? Of the money
that she and her mother already owed? She felt suddenly terribly lonely
and miserable. What was the good of men? They said wonderful things to
you, they loved you, but did they ever try to understand? Vernon wasn't
trying now. He was just saying condemnatory things, showing her how she
had fallen in his estimation.
"If you say that you can't love me."
She replied helplessly: "You don't understand."
They gazed at each other hopelessly. What had happened? Why were things
like this between them?
"You don't love me," repeated Vernon angrily.
"Oh! Vernon, I do, I do...."
Suddenly, like an enchantment, their love swept over them again. They
clung together, kissing. They felt that age-long lovers' delusion that
everything _must_ come right because they loved. It was Vernon's
victory. He still insisted on telling Mrs. Vereker. Nell opposed him
no longer. His arms round her, his lips on hers ... she couldn't go on
arguing. Better to give oneself up to the joy of being loved, to say:
"Yes--yes darling, if you like ... anything you like."
Yet, almost unknown to herself, under her love was a faint resentment.
_3_
Mrs. Vereker was a clever woman. She was taken by surprise but she did
not show it, and she adopted a different line from any that Vernon had
pictured her taking. She was faintly derisively amused.
"So you children think you are in love with one another? Well, well!"
She listened to Vernon with such an expression of kindly irony that
despite himself his tongue flustered and tripped.
She gave a faint sigh as he subsided into silence.
"What it is to be young! I feel quite envious. Now, my dear boy,
just listen to me. I'm not going to forbid the banns or do anything
melodramatic. If Nell really wants to marry you she shall. I don't
say I won't be very disappointed if she does. She's my only child. I
naturally hope that she will marry someone who can give her the best
of everything, and surround her with every luxury and comfort. That, I
think, is only natural."
Vernon was forced to agree. Mrs. Vereker's reasonableness was extremely
disconcerting, being so unexpected.
"But, as I say, I'm not going to forbid the banns. What I do stipulate
is that Nell should be thoroughly sure that she really knows her own
mind. You agree to that, I'm sure?"
Vernon agreed to that with an uneasy feeling of being entangled in a
mesh from which he was presently not going to be able to escape.
"Nell is very young. This is her first season. I want her to have every
chance of being sure that she does like you better than any other man.
If you agree between yourselves that you are engaged, that is one
thing--a public announcement of your engagement is another. I could not
agree to that. Any understanding between yourselves must be kept quite
secret. I think you will see that that is only fair. Nell must be given
every chance to change her mind if she wants to."
"She doesn't want to!"
"Then there is certainly no reason for objecting. As a gentleman you
can hardly act otherwise. If you agree to these stipulations I will put
no obstacle in the way of your seeing Nell."
"But, Mrs. Vereker, I want to marry Nell quite soon."
"And what exactly do you propose to marry on?"
Vernon told her the salary he was getting from his uncle and explained
the position in regard to Abbots Puissants.
When he had finished she spoke. She gave a brief and succinct résumé of
house rent, servants' wages, the cost of clothes, alluded delicately
to possible perambulators, and then contrasted the picture with Nell's
present position.
Vernon was like the Queen of Sheba--no spirit was left in him. He was
beaten by the relentless logic of facts. A terrible woman, Nell's
mother--implacable. But he saw her point. He and Nell would have to
wait. He must, as Mrs. Vereker said, give her every chance of changing
her mind. Not that she would, bless her lovely heart!
He essayed one last venture.
"My uncle might increase my salary. He has spoken to me several times
on the advantages of early marriages. He seems very keen on the
subject."
"Oh!" Mrs. Vereker was thoughtful for a minute or two. "Has he any
daughters of his own?"
"Yes, five, and the two oldest are married already."
Mrs. Vereker smiled. A simple boy. He had quite misunderstood the point
of her question. Still, she had found out what she wanted to know.
"We'll leave it like that, then," she said.
A clever woman!
_4_
Vernon left the house in a restless mood. He wanted badly to talk to
someone sympathetic. He thought of Joe, then shook his head. He and Joe
had almost quarrelled about Nell. Joe despised Nell as what she called
a "regular empty-headed society girl." She was unfair and prejudiced.
As a passport to Joe's favour, you had to have short hair, wear art
smocks, and live in Chelsea.
Sebastian, on the whole, was the best person. Sebastian was always
willing to see your point of view, and he was occasionally unusually
useful with his matter-of-fact common-sense point of view. A very sound
fellow, Sebastian.
Rich, too. How queer things were! If only he had Sebastian's money
he could probably marry Nell to-morrow. Yet, with all that money,
Sebastian couldn't get hold of the girl he wanted. Rather a pity. He
wished Joe would marry Sebastian instead of some rotter or other who
called himself artistic.
Sebastian, alas, was not at home. Vernon was entertained by Mrs.
Levinne. Strangely enough, he found a kind of comfort in her bulky
presence. Funny fat old Mrs. Levinne with her jet and her diamonds and
her greasy black hair managed to be more understanding than his own
mother.
"You mustn't be unhappy, my dear," she said. "I can see you are. It's
some girl, I suppose? Ah, well, well, Sebastian is just the same about
Joe. I tell him he must be patient. Joe's just kicking up her heels at
present. She'll settle down soon and begin to find out what it is she
really does want."
"It would be awfully jolly if she married Sebastian. I wish she would.
It would keep us all together."
"Yes--I'm very fond of Joe myself. Not that I think she's really the
wife for Sebastian--they'd be too far away to understand each other.
I'm old-fashioned, my dear. I'd like my boy to marry one of our own
people. It always works out best. The same interests, and the same
instincts, and Jewish women are good mothers. Well, well, it may come;
if Joe is really in earnest about not marrying him. And the same thing
with you, Vernon. There are worse things than marrying a cousin."
"Me? Marry Joe?"
Vernon stared at her in utter astonishment. Mrs. Levinne laughed, a fat
good-natured chuckle that shook her various chins.
"Joe? No, indeed. It's your cousin Enid I'm talking about. That's the
idea at Birmingham, isn't it?"
"Oh! no--at least--I'm sure it isn't."
Mrs. Levinne laughed again.
"I can see that you, at any rate, have never thought of it till this
minute. But it would be a wise plan, you know--that is, if the other
girl won't have you. Keeps the money in the family."
Vernon went away with his brain tingling. All sorts of things fell into
line. Uncle Sydney's chaff and hints. The way Enid was always being
thrust at him. That, of course, was what Mrs. Vereker had been hinting
at. They wanted him to marry Enid! Enid!
Another memory came back to him. His mother and some old friend of
hers whispering together. Something about first cousins. A sudden idea
occurred to him. That was why Joe had been allowed to go to London. His
mother had thought that he and Joe might....
He gave a sudden shout of laughter. He and Joe! It showed how
little his mother had ever understood. He could never, under any
circumstances, imagine himself falling in love with Joe. They were
exactly like brother and sister and always would be. They had the same
sympathies, the same sharp divergences and differences of opinion. They
were cast in the same mould, devoid of any glamour and romance for each
other.
Enid! So this was what Uncle Sydney was after. Poor old Uncle Sydney,
doomed to disappointment--but he shouldn't have been such an ass.
Perhaps, though, he was jumping to conclusions. Perhaps it wasn't Uncle
Sydney--only his mother. Women were always marrying you to someone in
their minds. Anyway, Uncle Sydney would soon know the truth.
_5_
The interview between Vernon and his uncle wasn't very satisfactory.
Uncle Sydney was both annoyed and upset, though he tried to conceal the
fact from Vernon. He was uncertain at first which line to take and made
one or two vague sallies in different directions.
"Nonsense, all nonsense, much too young to marry. Packet of nonsense."
Vernon reminded his uncle of his own words.
"Pooh!--I didn't mean this kind of marriage. Society girl--I know what
they are."
Vernon broke out hotly.
"Sorry, my boy, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. But that kind of
girl wants to marry money. You'll be no use to her for many years to
come."
"I thought perhaps----"
Vernon paused. He felt ashamed, uncomfortable.
"That I'd set you up with a large income, hey? Is that what the young
lady suggested? Now, I put it to you, my boy, would that be business?
No, I see that you know it isn't."
"I don't feel that I'm even worth what you give me, Uncle Sydney."
"Pooh, pooh, I wasn't saying that. You're doing very well for a start.
I'm sorry about this affair--it will upset you. My advice to you is,
give the whole thing up. Much the best thing to do."
"I can't do that, Uncle Sydney."
"Well, it's not my business. By the way, have you talked it over with
your mother? No? Well, you have a good talk with her. See if she
doesn't say the same as I do. I bet she will. And remember the old
saying: a boy's best friend is his mother--hey?"
Why did Uncle Sydney say such idiotic things? He always had as far as
Vernon could remember back. And yet he was a shrewd and clever business
man.
Well, there was nothing for it. He must buckle to--and wait. The first
misty enchantment of love was wearing off. It could be hell as well as
heaven. He wanted Nell so badly--so badly.
He wrote to her:
Darling, there is nothing for it. We must be patient and wait. At
any rate we'll see each other often. Your mother was really very
decent about it--much more so than I thought she'd be. I do quite
see the force of all she said. It's only fair that you should be
free to see if you like anyone better than me. But you won't, will
you, darling? I know you won't. We're going to love each other for
ever and ever. And it won't matter how poor we are ... the tiniest
place with you....
chapter 6
Nell was relieved by her mother's attitude. She had feared
recriminations, reproaches. Insensibly she always shrank from harsh
words or any kind of scene. Sometimes she thought to herself bitterly:
"I'm a coward. I can't stand up to things."
She was definitely afraid of her mother. She had been dominated by her
always, from the first moment she could remember. Mrs. Vereker had
the hard imperious character which can rule most weaker natures with
whom it comes in contact. And Nell was the more easily subdued because
she understood well enough that her mother loved her and that it was
because of that love that she was so determined that Nell should have
the happiness out of life that she herself had failed to get.
So Nell was immeasurably relieved when her mother uttered no
reproaches, merely observed:
"If you're determined to be foolish, well, there it is. Most girls have
some little love affair or other which comes to nothing in the end. I
haven't much patience with this sentimental nonsense myself. The boy
can't possibly afford to marry for years to come and you'll only make
yourself very unhappy. But you must please yourself."
In spite of herself, Nell was influenced by this contemptuous attitude.
She hoped against hope that Vernon's uncle might perhaps do something.
Vernon's letter dashed her hopes.
They must wait--and perhaps wait a very long time.
_2_
In the meantime Mrs. Vereker had her own methods. One day she asked
Nell to go and see an old friend--a girl who had married some few years
ago. Amelie King had been a brilliant dashing creature whom Nell, as
a schoolgirl, had admired enviously. She might have made a very good
marriage, but to everyone's surprise she had married a struggling young
man and had disappeared from her own particular gay world.
"It seems unkind to drop old friends," said Mrs. Vereker. "I'm sure
Amelie would be pleased if you went to see her, and you're not doing
anything this afternoon."
So Nell went off obediently to call on Mrs. Horton at 35 Glenster
Gardens, Ealing.
It was a hot day. Nell took the District Railway and inquired her way
from Ealing Broadway Station when she got there.
Glenster Gardens proved to be about a mile from the station--a long
depressing road of little houses, all exactly alike. The door of No.
35 was opened by a frowsy-looking maid with a dirty apron and Nell was
shown into a small drawing room. There were one or two nice old pieces
of furniture in it and the cretonnes and curtains were of an attractive
pattern though very faded, but the place was very untidy and littered
with children's toys and odd bits of mending. A child's fretful wail
rose from somewhere in the house as the door opened and Amelie came in.
"Nell, why how nice of you! I haven't seen you for years."
Nell had quite a shock on seeing her. Could this be the well-turned-out
attractive Amelie? Her figure had got sloppy, her blouse was shapeless
and evidently homemade, and her face was tired and worried, with all
the old dash and sparkle gone out of it.
She sat down and they talked. Presently Nell was taken to see the two
children, a boy and a girl, the younger a baby in a cot.
"I ought to take them out now," said Amelie, "but really I'm too
tired this afternoon. You don't know how tired one can get pushing a
perambulator all the way up from the shops as I did this morning."
The boy was an attractive child, the baby girl looked sickly and
peevish.
"It's partly her teeth," said Amelie. "And then her digestion is weak,
the doctor says. I do wish she wouldn't cry so at night. It's annoying
for Jack, who needs his sleep after working all day."
"You don't have a nurse?"
"Can't afford it, my dear. We have the half-wit--that's what we call
the girl who opened the door to you. She's a complete idiot, but she
comes cheap and she really will set to and do some work, which is more
than most of them will do. A general servant hates coming anywhere
where there are children."
She called out: "Mary, bring some tea," and led the way back to the
drawing room.
"Oh! dear, Nell, do you know I almost wish you hadn't come to see me.
You look so smart and cool--you remind me of all the fun one used to
have in the old days. Tennis and dancing and golf and parties."
Nell said timidly: "But you're happy...."
"Oh! of course. I'm only enjoying a grumble. Jack's a dear, and then
there are the children, only sometimes--well, one is really too tired
to care for anyone or anything. I feel I'd sell my nearest and dearest
for a tiled bathroom and bath salts and a maid to brush my hair and
lovely silken garments to slip into. And then you hear some rich idiot
holding forth on how money doesn't bring happiness. Fools!"
She laughed.
"Tell me some news, Nell. I'm so out of things nowadays. You can't keep
up if you have no money. I never see any of the old crowd."
They gossiped a little. So and So was married, So and So had had a row
with her husband, So and So had got a new baby, and about So and So
there was the most terrible scandal.
Tea was brought, rather untidily, with smeary silver and thick bread
and butter. As they were finishing, the front door was opened with a
key and a man's voice sounded from the hall fretful and irritable.
"Amelie--I say, it is too bad. I only ask you to do one thing and you
go and forget it. This parcel has never been taken down to Jones's. You
said you would."
Amelie ran out to him in the hall. There was a quick interchange of
whispers. She brought him into the drawing room where he greeted Nell.
The child in the nursery began to wail again.
"I must go to her," said Amelie, and hurried away.
"What a life!" said Jack Horton. He was still very good-looking though
his clothes were distinctly shabby and there were bad-tempered lines
coming round his mouth. He laughed as though it were a great joke.
"You've found us at sixes and sevens, Miss Vereker. We always are.
Traveling to and fro in trains this weather is very trying--and no
peace in the home when you get there!"
He laughed again and Nell laughed too, politely. Amelie came back
holding the child in her arms. Nell rose to go. They came with her to
the door. Amelie sent messages to Mrs. Vereker and waved her hand.
At the gate Nell looked back and caught the expression on Amelie's
face. A hungry envious look.
In spite of herself Nell's heart sank. Was this the inevitable end? Did
poverty kill love?
She reached the main road and was walking along it in the direction of
the station when an unexpected voice made her start.
"Miss Nell, by all that's wonderful!"
A big Rolls-Royce had drawn up to the curb. George Chetwynd sat behind
the wheel smiling at her.
"If this isn't too good to be true! I thought I saw a girl who was
mighty like you--from the back view anyhow--so I slowed down to have
a look at her face, and it was your very self. Are you going back to
town? Because if so, step in."
Nell stepped in obediently and settled herself contentedly beside the
driver. The car glided forward smoothly, gathering power. A heavenly
sensation, Nell thought--effortless, delightful.
"And what are you doing in Ealing?"
"I've been to see some friends."
Moved by some obscure prompting, she described her visit. Chetwynd
listened sympathetically, nodding his head from side to side, all the
while driving the car with the perfection of a master.
"If that isn't too bad," he said sympathetically. "You know, I hate
to think of that poor girl. Women ought to be taken care of--to have
their lives made easy for them. They ought to be surrounded with
everything they want."
He looked at Nell and said kindly: "It's upset you, I can see. You must
have a very soft heart, Miss Nell."
Nell looked at him with a sudden warming of her heart. She did like
George Chetwynd. There was something so kind and reliable and strong
about him. She liked his rather wooden face, and the way his graying
hair grew back from his temples. She liked the square upright way he
sat and the firm precision of his hands on the wheel. He looked the
kind of man who could deal with any emergency, a man on whom you could
_depend_. The brunt of things would always be on his shoulders,
not on yours. Oh! yes, she liked George. He was a nice person to meet
when you were tired at the end of a bothering day.
"Is my tie crooked?" he asked suddenly without looking round.
Nell laughed.
"Was I staring? I'm afraid I was."
"I felt the glance. What were you doing--sizing me up?"
"I believe I was."
"And I suppose I've been found utterly wanting."
"No, very much the other way about."
"Don't say these nice things--which I'm sure you don't mean. You
excited me so much that I nearly collided with a tram then."
"I never say things I don't mean."
"Don't you? I wonder now." His voice altered, "There's something I've
wanted to say to you for a long time. This is a funny place to say it,
but I'm going to take the plunge here and now. Will you marry me, Nell?
I want you very badly."
"Oh!" Nell was startled. "Oh! no, I couldn't."
He shot a quick glance at her before returning to his task of steering
through the traffic. He slowed down a little.
"Do you mean that, I wonder? I know I'm too old for you----"
"No--you're not--I mean, it's not that."
A little smile twisted his mouth.
"I must be twenty years older than you, Nell, at least. It's a lot,
you know. But I do honestly believe that I could make you happy.
Queerly enough, I'm sure of it."
Nell didn't answer for a minute or two. Then she said rather weakly:
"Oh! but really, I couldn't."
"Splendid! You said it much less decidedly that time."
"But indeed----"
"I'm not going to bother you any more just now. We'll take it that
you've said No this time. But you aren't always going to say No, Nell.
I can afford to wait quite a long time for what I want to have. Some
day you'll find yourself saying Yes."
"No, I shan't."
"Yes, you will, dear. There's no one else, is there? Ah! but I know
there isn't."
Nell didn't answer. She told herself that she didn't know what to say.
She had tacitly promised her mother that nothing should be said about
her engagement.
And yet somewhere, deep down, she felt ashamed.
George Chetwynd began cheerfully to talk of various outside topics.
chapter 7
August was a difficult month for Vernon. Nell and her mother were in
Dinard. He wrote to her and she to him, but her letters told him little
or nothing of what he wanted to know. She was having a gay time, he
gathered, and enjoying herself though longing for Vernon to be there.
Vernon's work was of the purely routine order. It required little
intelligence. You needed to be careful and methodical, that was all.
His mind, free from other distractions, swung back to its secret love,
music.
He had formed the idea of writing an opera and had taken for his theme
the half-forgotten fairy story of his youth. It was now bound up in his
mind with Nell--the whole strength of his love for her flowed into
this new channel.
He worked feverishly. Nell's words about his living comfortably with
his mother had rankled, and he had insisted on having rooms of his own.
The ones he had found were very cheap, but they gave him an unexpected
sense of freedom. At Carey Lodge he would never have been able to
concentrate. His mother would have been, he knew, forever fussing after
him, urging him to come to bed. Here, in Arthur Street, he could, and
often did, sit up till five in the morning if he liked.
He got very thin and haggard-looking. Myra worried about his health and
urged patent restoratives upon him. He assured her curtly that he was
all right. He told her nothing of what he was doing. Sometimes he would
be full of despair over his work, at others a sudden sense of power
would rush over him as he knew that some small infinitesimal fragment
was good.
Occasionally he went to town and spent a week-end with Sebastian, and
on two occasions Sebastian came down to Birmingham. Sebastian was
Vernon's most valued stand-by at this time. His sympathy was real and
not assumed and it had a twofold character. He was interested as a
friend and also from his own professional standpoint. Vernon had an
enormous respect for Sebastian's judgment in all things artistic. He
would play excerpts on the piano he had hired, explaining as he did so
the proper orchestration. Sebastian listened, nodding very quietly,
speaking little. At the end he would say:
"It's going to be good, Vernon. Get on with it."
He never uttered a word of destructive criticism, for in his belief
such a word might be fatal. Vernon needed encouragement and nothing but
encouragement.
He said one day: "Is this what you meant to do at Cambridge?"
Vernon considered for a minute.
"No," he said at last. "At least, it's not what I meant originally.
After that concert, you know. It's gone again--the thing I saw then.
Perhaps it'll come back again sometime. This is, I suppose, the usual
sort of thing, conventional--and all that. But here and there I've got
what I mean into it."
"I see."
To Joe, Sebastian said plainly what he thought.
"Vernon calls this the 'usual sort of thing,' but as a matter of fact
it isn't. It's entirely unusual. The whole orchestration is conducted
on an unusual plan. What it is, though, is immature. Brilliant but
immature."
"Have you told him so?"
"Good Lord, no. One disparaging word and he'd shrivel up and consign
the whole thing to the waste-paper basket. I know these people. I'm
spoon feeding him with praise at present. We'll have the pruning knife
and the garden syringe later. I've mixed my metaphors, but you know
what I mean."
In early September Sebastian gave a party to meet Herr Radmaager, the
famous composer. Vernon and Joe were bidden to attend.
"Only about a dozen of us," said Sebastian. "Anita Quarll, whose
dancing I'm interested in--she's a rotten little devil, though.
Jane Harding--you'll like her. She's singing in this English Opera
business. Wrong vocation--she's an actress, not a singer. You and
Vernon--Radmaager--two or three others. Radmaager will be interested in
Vernon--he's well disposed toward the younger generation."
Both Joe and Vernon were elated.
"Do you think I'll ever do anything, Joe? Really do anything, I mean."
Vernon sounded dispirited.
"Why not?" said Joe valiantly.
"I don't know. Everything I've done just lately is rotten. I started
all right. But now I'm stale as stale. I'm tired before I start."
"I suppose that's because you work all day."
"I suppose it is."
He was silent for a minute or two and then said: "It'll be wonderful
meeting Radmaager. He's one of the few men who writes what I call
music. I wish I could talk to him about what I really think--but it
would be such awful cheek."
The party was of an informal character. Sebastian had a large studio,
empty save for a dais, a grand piano, and a large quantity of cushions
thrown down at random about the floor. At one end was a hastily put
trestle table and on this were piled viands of all descriptions.
You collected what you wanted and then pitched your cushion. When Joe
and Vernon arrived a girl was dancing--a small red-haired girl with a
lithe sinewy body. Her dancing was ugly but alluring.
She finished to loud applause and leaped down from the dais.
"Bravo, Anita," said Sebastian. "Now then, Vernon and Joe, have you got
what you want? That's right. You'd better sink down gracefully by Jane.
This is Jane."
They sank down as bidden. Jane was a tall creature with a beautiful
body and a mass of very dark brown hair coiled low on her neck. Her
face was too broad for beauty and her chin too sharp. Her eyes were
deep-set and green. She was about thirty, Vernon thought. He found her
disconcerting, but attractive.
Joe began to talk to her eagerly. Her enthusiasm for sculpture had been
waning of late. She had always had a high soprano voice and she was now
coquetting with the idea of becoming an opera singer.
Jane Harding listened sympathetically enough, emitting a faintly amused
monosyllable from time to time. Finally she said:
"If you like to come round to my flat, I'll try your voice, and I can
tell you in two minutes just what your voice is good for."
"Would you really? That's awfully kind of you."
"Oh! not at all. You can trust me. You can't trust someone who makes
their living by teaching to tell you the truth."
Sebastian came up and said: "What about it, Jane?"
She got up from the floor--rather a beautiful movement. Then, looking
round, she said in the curt voice of command one would use to a dog:
"Mr. Hill."
A small man, rather like a white worm, bustled forward with an
ingratiating twist of the body. He followed her up to the dais.
She sang a French song Vernon had never heard before.
"_J'ai perdu mon amie--elle est morte,
Tout s'en va cette fois à jamais,
A jamais, pour toujours elle emporte
Le dernier des amours que j'aimais._
"_Pauvre nous! Rien ne m'a crié l'heure
Où là-bas se nouait son linceul
On m'a dit, 'Elle est morte!' Et tout seul
Je répète, 'Elle est morte!' Et je pleure...._"
Like most people who heard Jane Harding sing, Vernon was quite unable
to criticize the voice. She created an emotional atmosphere--the voice
was only an instrument. The sense of overwhelming loss, of dazed grief,
the final relief of tears.
There was applause. Sebastian murmured: "Enormous emotional
power--that's it."
She sang again. This time it was a Norwegian song about falling snow.
There was no emotion in her voice whatsoever--it was like the white
flakes of the snow: monotonous, exquisitely clear, finally dying away
to silence on the last line.
In response to applause she sang yet a third song. Vernon sat up,
suddenly alert.
"_I saw a Fairy lady there
With long white hands and drowning hair
And oh! her face was wild and sweet,
Was sweet and wild and wild and strange and fair...._"
It was like a spell laid on the room--the sense of magic, of terrified
enchantment. Jane's face was thrust forward. Her eyes looked out, past
beyond--seeing--frightened yet fascinated.
There was a sigh as she finished. A stout burly man with white hair
_en brosse_ pushed his way to Sebastian.
"Ah! my good Sebastian, I have arrived. I will talk to that young
lady--at once, immediately."
Sebastian went with him across the room to Jane. Herr Radmaager took
her by both hands. He looked at her earnestly,
"Yes," he said at last. "Your physique is good. I should say that both
the digestion and the circulation were excellent. You will give me your
address and I will come and see you. Is it not so?"
Vernon thought: "These people are mad."
But he noticed that Jane Harding seemed to take it as a matter of
course. She wrote her address, talked to Radmaager for a few minutes
longer, then came and rejoined Joe and Vernon.
"Sebastian is a good friend," she remarked. "He knows that Herr
Radmaager is looking for a Solveig for his new opera, _Peer Gynt_.
That is why he asked me here to-night."
Joe got up and went to talk to Sebastian. Vernon and Jane Harding were
left alone.
"Tell me," said Vernon stammering a little. "That song you sang----"
"Frosted snow?"
"No, the last one. I--I heard it years ago--when I was a kid."
"How curious, I thought it was a family secret."
"A hospital nurse sang it to me when I broke my leg. I always loved it,
but never thought I should hear it again."
Jane Harding said thoughtfully: "I wonder now. Could that have been my
Aunt Frances?"
"Yes, that was her name. Nurse Frances. Was she your aunt? What's
happened to her?"
"She died a good many years ago. Diphtheria, caught from a patient."
"Oh! I'm sorry." He paused, hesitated, then blundered on, "I've always
remembered her. She was--she was a wonderful friend to me as a kid."
He caught Jane's green eyes looking at him, a steady kindly glance, and
he knew at once of whom she had reminded him the first moment he saw
her. She was like Nurse Frances.
She said quietly: "You write music, don't you? Sebastian told me about
you."
"Yes--at least, I try to."
He stopped, hesitated again. He thought: "She's terribly attractive. Do
I like her? Why am I afraid of her?"
He felt suddenly excited and exalted. He could do things--he
_knew_ he could do things....
"Vernon!"
Sebastian was calling him. He got up. Sebastian presented him to
Radmaager. The great man was kindly and sympathetic.
"I am interested," he said, "in what I hear about your work from my
young friend here." He laid his hand on Sebastian's shoulder. "He is
very astute, my young friend. In spite of his youth, he is seldom
wrong. We will arrange a meeting and you shall show me your work."
He moved on. Vernon was left quivering with excitement. Did he really
mean it? He went back to Jane. She was smiling. Vernon sat down by
her. A sudden wave of depression succeeded the exhilaration. What was
the good of it all? He was tied, hand and foot, to Uncle Sydney and
Birmingham. You couldn't write music unless you gave your whole time,
your whole thoughts, your whole soul to it.
He felt injured--miserable--yearning for sympathy. If only Nell were
here. Darling Nell who always understood.
He looked up and found Jane Harding watching him.
"What's the matter?" she said.
"I wish I were dead," said Vernon bitterly.
Jane raised her eyebrows slightly.
"Well," she said, "if you walk up to the top of this building and jump
off, you can be."
It was hardly the answer that Vernon had expected. He looked up
resentfully, but her cool kindly glance disarmed him.
"There's only one thing I care about in the whole world," he said
passionately. "I want to write music. I _could_ write music. And
instead of that I'm stuck in a beastly business that I hate. Grinding
away day after day! It's too sickening."
"Why do you do it if you don't like it?"
"Because I have to."
"I expect you want to really--otherwise you wouldn't," said Jane
indifferently.
"Haven't I told you that I want to write music more than anything else
in the world?"
"Then why don't you do it?"
"Because I can't, I tell you."
He felt exasperated with her. She didn't seem to understand at all. Her
view on life seemed to be that if you wanted to do anything, you just
went and did it.
He began pouring out things. Abbots Puissants, the concert, his uncle's
offer, and then--Nell.
When he had finished she said: "You do expect life to be rather a fairy
story, don't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. You want to be able to live in the house of your
forefathers, and to marry the girl you love, and to grow immensely
rich, and to be a great composer. I dare say you might manage to do one
of those four things if you give your whole mind to it. But it's not
likely that you'll have everything, you know. Life isn't like a penny
novelette."
He hated her for the moment. And yet, even while he hated, he was
attracted. He felt again the curious emotional atmosphere that she had
created when singing. He thought to himself: "A magnetic field, that's
what it is." And then again: "I don't like her. I'm afraid of her."
A long-haired young man came up and joined them. He was a Swede, but he
spoke excellent English.
"Sebastian tells me that you will write the music of the future," he
said to Vernon. "I have theories about the future. Time is only another
dimension of space. You can move to and fro in time as you can move
to and fro in space. Half your dreams are only confused memories of
the future. And as you can be separated from your dear ones in space,
so you can be separated from them in time, and that is the greatest
tragedy there is or can be."
Since he was clearly mad, Vernon paid no attention. He was not
interested in theories of space and time. But Jane Harding leaned
forward.
"To be separated in time," she said. "I never thought of that."
Encouraged, the Swede went on. He talked of time, and of ultimate
space, and of time one, and of time two. Whether Jane was interested or
not, Vernon did not know. She looked straight in front of her and did
not appear to be listening. The Swede went on to time three and Vernon
escaped.
He joined Joe and Sebastian. Joe was being enthusiastic on the subject
of Jane Harding.
"I think she's wonderful. Don't you, Vernon? She's asked me to go and
see her. I wish I could sing like that."
"She's an actress, not a singer," said Sebastian. "A good sort, Jane.
She's had rather a tragic life. For five years she lived with Boris
Androv, the sculptor."
Joe glanced over in Jane's direction with enhanced interest. Vernon
felt suddenly young and crude. He could still see those enigmatical
slightly mocking green eyes. He heard that amused ironical voice.
_You do expect life to be a fairy story, don't you?_ Hang it all,
that hurt!
And yet he had an immense desire to see her again.
Should he ask her if he might?
No, he couldn't.
Besides, he was so seldom in town.
He heard her voice behind him--a singer's voice, slightly husky.
"Good-night, Sebastian. Thank you."
She moved toward the door, looked over her shoulder at Vernon.
"Come and see me some time," she said carelessly. "Your cousin has got
my address."