‘Do you mind just going over that once more, Mr Flemming?’
‘Willingly.’
Precise, dry, even, word after word fell from the old lawyer’s lips. His meaning was clear and unmistakable! Too much so! It didn’t leave a loophole for doubt.
Vernon listened. His face was very white, his hands grasped the arms of the chair in which he was sitting.
It couldn’t be true – it couldn’t! And yet, after all, hadn’t Mr Flemming said very much the same, years ago? Yes, but then there had been the magic words ‘twenty-one’ to look forward to. ‘Twenty-one’ which by a blessed miracle was to make everything right. Instead of which:
‘Mind you, the position is infinitely improved from what it was at the time of your father’s death, but it is no good pretending we are out of the wood. The mortgage –’
Surely, surely, they had never mentioned a mortgage? Well, it wouldn’t have been much use, he supposed, to a boy of nine. No good trying to get round it. The plain truth was that he couldn’t afford to live at Abbots Puissants.
He waited till Mr Flemming had finished, and then said:
‘But if my Mother –’
‘Oh, of course. If Mrs Deyre were prepared to –’ He left the sentence unfinished, paused and then added: ‘But, if I may say so, every time that I have had the pleasure of seeing Mrs Deyre, she has seemed to me to be very settled – very settled indeed. I suppose you know that she bought the freehold of Carey Lodge two years ago?’
Vernon hadn’t known it. He saw plainly enough what it meant. Why hadn’t his mother told him? Hadn’t she had the courage? He had always taken it for granted that she would come back with him to Abbots Puissants, not so much because he longed for her presence there, as because it was – quite naturally – her home.
But it wasn’t her home. It never could be in the sense that Carey Lodge was her home.
He could appeal to her, of course. Beg her, for his sake, because he wanted it so much.
No, a thousand times no! You couldn’t beg favours from people you didn’t really love. And he didn’t really love his mother. He didn’t believe he ever really had. Queer and sad, and a little dreadful, but there it was.
If he never saw her again, would he mind? Not really. He would like to know that she was well and happy – cared for. But he wouldn’t miss her, would never feel a longing for her presence. Because, in a queer way, he didn’t really like her. He disliked the touch of her hands, always had to take a hold on himself before kissing her good night. He’d never been able to tell her anything – she never understood or knew what he was feeling. She had been a good loving mother – and he didn’t even like her! Rather horrible, he supposed, most people would say …
He said quietly to Mr Flemming:
‘You are quite right. I am sure my mother would not wish to leave Carey Lodge.’
‘Now, there are one or two alternatives open to you, Mr Deyre. Major Salmon, who, as you know, has rented it furnished all these years, is anxious to buy –’
‘No!’ The word burst from Vernon like a pistol shot.
Mr Flemming smiled.
‘I was sure you would say that. And I must confess I am glad. There have been – er – Deyres at Abbots Puissants for, let me see, nearly five hundred years. Nevertheless, I should be failing in my duty if I didn’t point out to you that the price offered is a good one, and that if, later, you should decide to sell, it may not be easy to find a suitable purchaser.’
‘It’s out of the question.’
‘Very good. Then the best thing, I think, is to try and let once more. Major Salmon definitely wants to buy a place, so it will mean finding a new tenant. But I dare say we shall have no great difficulty. The point is, how long do you want to let for? To let the place for another long term of years is, I should say, not very desirable. Life is very uncertain. Who knows, in a few years the state of affairs may have – er – changed very considerably, and you may be in a position to take up residence there yourself.’
‘So I shall, but not the way you think, you old dunderhead,’ thought Vernon. ‘It’ll be because I’ve made a name for myself in music – not because Mother is dead. I’m sure I hope she’ll live to be ninety.’
He exchanged a few more words with Mr Flemming, then rose to go.
‘I’m afraid this has been rather a shock to you,’ said the old lawyer as he shook hands.
‘Yes – just a bit. I’ve been building castles in the air, I suppose.’
‘You’re going down to spend your twenty-first birthday with your mother, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘You might talk things over with your uncle, Mr Bent. A very shrewd man of business. He has a daughter about your age, I think?’
‘Yes, Enid. The two eldest are married, and the two youngest are at school. Enid’s about a year younger than I am.’
‘Ah! very pleasant to have a cousin of one’s own age. I dare say you will see a good deal of her.’
‘Oh, I don’t suppose I shall,’ said Vernon vaguely.
Why should he be seeing a lot of Enid? She was a dull girl. But of course Mr Flemming didn’t know that.
Funny old chap. What on earth was there to put on such a sly, knowing expression about?
‘Well, Mother, I don’t seem to be exactly the young heir!’
‘Oh, well, dear, you mustn’t worry. Things arrange themselves, you know. You must have a good talk with your Uncle Sydney.’
Silly! What good could a talk with his Uncle Sydney do him?
Fortunately the matter was not referred to again. The extraordinary surprise was that Joe had been allowed to have her way. She was actually in London – somewhat dragoned and chaperoned, it is true – but still she had got her way.
His mother seemed always to be whispering mysteriously to friends. Vernon caught her at it one day.
‘Yes – quite inseparable, they were – so I thought it wiser – it would be such a pity –’
And what Vernon called the ‘other tabby’ said something about ‘First cousins – most unwise –’ And his mother with a suddenly heightened colour and raised voice had said:
‘Oh! I don’t think in every case.’
‘Who were first cousins?’ asked Vernon later. ‘What was all the mystery about?’
‘Mystery, darling? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Well, you shut up when I came in. I wondered what it was all about?’
‘Oh, nothing interesting. Some people you don’t know.’
She looked rather red and confused.
Vernon wasn’t curious. He asked no more.
He missed Joe most frightfully. Carey Lodge was pretty deadly without her. For one thing, he saw more of Enid than he had ever done before. She was always coming in to see Myra, and Vernon would find himself let in for taking her to roller skate at the new rink, or for some deadly party or other.
Myra told Vernon that it would be nice if he asked Enid up to Cambridge for May week. She was so persistent about it that Vernon gave in. After all, it didn’t matter. Sebastian would have Joe and he himself didn’t much care. Dancing was rather rot – everything was rot that interfered with music …
The evening before his departure Uncle Sydney came to Carey Lodge and Myra pushed Vernon into the study with him and said:
‘Your Uncle Sydney’s come to have a little talk with you, Vernon.’
Mr Bent hemmed and hawed for a minute or two and then, rather surprisingly, came straight to the point. Vernon had never liked his uncle as much. His facetious manner had been entirely laid aside.
‘I’m coming straight out with what I want to say, my boy – but I don’t want you interrupting till I’ve finished. See?’
‘Yes, Uncle Sydney.’
‘The long and short of it is just this. I want you to come into Bent’s. Now remember what I said – no interruptions! I know you’ve never thought of such a thing, and I dare say the idea isn’t very congenial to you now. I’m a plain man, and I can face facts as well as anyone. If you’d got a good income and could live at Abbots Puissants like a gentleman, there wouldn’t be any question of the thing. Well, I accept that. You’re like your father’s people. But for all that, you’ve got good Bent blood in your veins, my boy, and blood’s bound to tell.
‘I’ve got no son of my own. I’m willing – if you’re willing – to look upon you as a son. The girls are provided for, and handsomely provided for at that. And mind you, it won’t be a case of toiling for life. I’m not unreasonable – and I realize just as much as you do what that place of yours stands for. You’re a young fellow. You go into the business when you come down from Cambridge – mind you, you go into it from the bottom. You’ll start at a moderate salary and work up. If you want to retire before you’re forty – well, you can do so. Please yourself. You’ll be a rich man by then, and you’ll be able to run Abbots Puissants as it should be run.
‘You’ll marry young, I hope. Excellent thing, young marriages. Your eldest boy succeeds to the place, the younger sons find a first-class business to step into where they can show what they’re made of. I’m proud of Bent’s – as proud of Bent’s as you are of Abbots Puissants – that’s why I understand your feeling about the old place. I don’t want you to have to sell it. Let it go out of the family after all these years. That would be a shame. Well, there’s the offer.’
‘It’s most awfully good of you, Uncle Sydney –’ began Vernon.
His uncle threw up a large square hand and stopped him.
‘We’ll leave it at that, if you please. I don’t want an answer now. In fact I won’t have one. When you come down from Cambridge – that’s time enough.’
He rose.
‘Kind of you to ask Enid up for May week. Very excited about it, she is. If you knew what that girl thought of you, Vernon, you’d be quite conceited. Ah, well, girls will be girls.’
Laughing boisterously, he slammed the front door.
Vernon remained in the hall frowning. It was really jolly decent of Uncle Sydney – jolly decent. Not that he was going to accept. All the money in the world wouldn’t tear him from music …
And somehow, he would have Abbots Puissants as well.
May week!
Joe and Enid were at Cambridge. Vernon had been let in for Ethel, too, as chaperon. The world seemed largely composed of Bents just at present.
Joe had burst out at once with: ‘Why on earth did you ask Enid?’
He had answered: ‘Oh, Mother went on about it – it doesn’t really matter.’
Nothing mattered to Vernon just then except one thing. Joe talked privately to Sebastian about that.
‘Is Vernon really in earnest about this music business? Will he ever be any good? I suppose it’s just a passing craze?’
But Sebastian was unexpectedly serious.
‘It’s extraordinarily interesting, you know,’ he said. ‘As far as I can make out, what Vernon is aiming at is something entirely revolutionary. He’s mastering now what you might call the main facts, and mastering them at an extraordinary rate. Old Coddington admits that, though, of course, he snorts at Vernon’s ideas – or would if Vernon ever let out about them. The person who’s interested is old Jeffries – mathematics! He says Vernon’s ideas of music are fourth dimensional.
‘I don’t know if Vernon will ever pull it off – or whether he’ll be considered as a harmless lunatic. The border-line is very narrow, I imagine. Old Jeffries is very enthusiastic. But not in the least encouraging. He points out, quite rightly, that to attempt to discover something new and force it on the world is always a thankless task, and that in all probability the truths that Vernon is discovering won’t be accepted for at least another two hundred years. He’s a queer old codger. Sits about thinking of imaginary curves in space – that sort of thing.
‘But I see his point. Vernon isn’t creating something new. He’s discovering something that’s already there. Rather like a scientist. Jeffries says that Vernon’s dislike of music as a child is perfectly understandable – to his ear music’s incomplete – it’s like a picture out of drawing. The whole perspective is wrong. It sounds to Vernon like – I suppose – a primitive savage’s music would sound to us – mostly unendurable discord.
‘Jeffries is full of queer ideas. Start him off on squares and cubes, and geometrical figures and the speed of light, and he goes quite mad. He writes to a German fellow called Einstein. The queer thing is that he isn’t a bit musical, and yet he can see – or says he can – exactly what Vernon is driving at.’
Joe cogitated deeply.
‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I don’t understand a word of all this. But it looks as though Vernon might make a success of it all.’
Sebastian was discouraging.
‘I wouldn’t say that. Vernon may be a genius – and that’s quite a different thing. Nobody welcomes genius. On the other hand he may be just slightly mad. He sounds mad enough sometimes when he gets going – and yet, somehow, I’ve always got a kind of feeling that he’s right – that in some odd way, he knows what he’s talking about.’
‘You’ve heard about Uncle Sydney’s offer?’
‘Yes. Vernon seems to be turning it down very light-heartedly, and yet, you know, it’s a good thing.’
‘You wouldn’t have him accept it?’ flamed out Joe.
Sebastian remained provokingly cool.
‘I don’t know. It needs thinking about. Vernon may have wonderful theories about this music business – there’s nothing to show that he’s ever going to be able to put them into practice.’
‘You’re maddening,’ said Joe, turning away.
Sebastian annoyed her nowadays. All his cool analytical faculties seemed to be uppermost. If he had enthusiasms, he hid them carefully.
And to Joe, just now, enthusiasm seemed the most necessary thing in the world. She had a passion for lost causes, for minorities. She was a passionate champion of the weak and oppressed.
Sebastian, she felt, was only interested in successes. She accused him in her own mind of judging everyone and everything from a monetary standard. Most of the time they were together, they fought and bickered incessantly.
Vernon, too, seemed separated from her. Music was the only thing he wanted to talk about, and even then on lines that were not familiar to her.
His preoccupation was entirely with instruments – their scope and power, and the violin which Joe herself played seemed the instrument in which he was least interested. Joe was quite unfitted to talk about clarinets, trombones and bassoons. Vernon’s ambition in life seemed to be to form friendships with players of these instruments so as to be able to acquire some practical as opposed to theoretical knowledge.
‘Don’t you know any bassoon players?’
Joe said she didn’t.
Vernon said that she might as well make herself useful, and try to pick up some musical friends. ‘Even a French horn would do,’ he said kindly.
He drew an experimental finger round the edge of his finger-bowl. Joe shuddered and clapped both hands to her ears. The sound increased in volume. Vernon smiled dreamily and ecstatically.
‘One ought to be able to catch that and harness it. I wonder how it could be done. It’s a lovely round sound, isn’t it? Like a circle.’
Sebastian took the finger-bowl forcibly away from him, and he wandered round the room and rang various goblets experimentally.
‘Nice lot of glasses in this room,’ he said appreciatively.
‘You’re drowning sailors,’ said Joe.
‘Can’t you be satisfied with bells and a triangle?’ asked Sebastian. ‘And a little gong to beat –’
‘No,’ said Vernon. ‘I want glass … Let’s have the Venetian and the Waterford together … I’m glad you have these aesthetic tastes, Sebastian. Have you got a common glass that I can smash – all the tinkling fragments. Wonderful stuff – glass!’
‘Symphony of goblets,’ said Joe scathingly.
‘Well, why not? I suppose somebody once pulled a bit of catgut tight and found it made a squawky noise, and somebody once blew through a reed and liked it. I wonder when they first thought of making things of brass and metal – I dare say some book tells you –’
‘Columbus and the egg. You and Sebastian’s glass goblets. Why not a slate and a slate pencil.’
‘If you’ve got one –’
‘Isn’t he too funny?’ giggled Enid. And that stopped the conversation – for the time, at any rate.
Not that Vernon really minded her presence. He was far too wrapped up in his ideas to be sensitive about them. Enid and Ethel were welcome to laugh as much as they chose.
But he was slightly disturbed by the lack of harmony between Joe and Sebastian. The three of them had always been such a united trio.
‘I don’t think this “living your own life” stunt agrees with Joe,’ said Vernon to his friend. ‘She’s like an angry cat most of the time. I can’t think why Mother agreed. She was dead against it about six months ago. I can’t imagine what made her change her mind, can you?’
A smile creased Sebastian’s long yellow face.
‘I could make a guess,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I shan’t say. In the first place, I may be wrong, and in the second place I should hate to interfere with the (possibly) normal course of events.’
‘That’s your tortuous Russian mind.’
‘I dare say.’
Vernon didn’t insist. He was much too lazy to probe for reasons that weren’t given him.
Day succeeded day. They danced, breakfasted, drove at incredibly fast speeds through the countryside, sat and smoked and talked in Vernon’s rooms, danced again. It was a point of honour not to sleep. At five in the morning they went on the river.
Vernon’s right arm ached. Enid fell to his share and she was a heavy partner. Well, it didn’t matter. Uncle Sydney had seemed pleased, and he was a decent old boy. Jolly good of him to make that offer. What a pity it was that he – Vernon – was not more of a Bent and less of a Deyre.
A vague memory stirred in his mind – somebody saying, ‘The Deyres, Vernon, are neither happy nor successful. They can’t make good –’ Who was it who had said that? A woman’s voice, it had been, in a garden – and there had been curling cigarette smoke.
Sebastian’s voice said: ‘He’s going to sleep. Wake up, you blighter! Chuck a chocolate at him, Enid.’
A chocolate whizzed past his head. Enid’s voice said with a giggle:
‘I can’t throw straight for nuts.’
She giggled again as though she thought it very funny. Tiresome girl – always giggling. Besides, her teeth stuck out.
He heaved himself over on his side. Not usually very appreciative of the beauties of Nature, this morning he was struck by the beauty of the world. The pale gleaming river, here and there on the banks a flowering tree.
The boat drifted slowly downstream – a queer silent enchanted world. Because, he supposed, there were no human beings about. It was, when you came to think of it, an excess of human beings who spoilt the world. Always chattering and talking and giggling – and asking you what you were thinking of when all you wanted was to be let alone.
He always remembered feeling that as a kid. If they’d only let him alone. He smiled to himself as he remembered the ridiculous games he had been in the habit of inventing. Mr Green! He remembered Mr Green perfectly. And those three playmates – what were their names, now?
A funny child’s world – a world of dragons and princesses and strangely concrete realities mixed up with them. There had been a story someone had told him – a ragged prince with a little green hat and a princess in a tower whose hair when she combed it was so golden that it could be seen in four kingdoms.
He raised his head a little, looked along the river bank. There was a punt tied up under some trees. Four people in it – but Vernon only saw one.
A girl in a pink evening-frock with hair like spun gold standing under a tree laden with pink blossom.
He looked and he looked.
‘Vernon –’ Joe kicked him correctively. ‘You’re not asleep, because your eyes are open. You’ve been spoken to four times.’
‘Sorry. I was looking at that lot over there. That’s rather a pretty girl, don’t you think so?’
He tried to make his tone light – casual. Inside him a riotous voice was saying:
‘Pretty? She’s lovely. She’s the most lovely girl in the world. I’m going to get to know her. I’ve got to know her. I’m going to marry her –’
Joe heaved herself up on her elbows, looked, uttered an exclamation.
‘Why,’ she exclaimed, ‘I do believe – yes, I’m sure it is. It’s Nell Vereker –’
Impossible! It couldn’t be. Nell Vereker? Pale scraggy Nell, with her pink nose and her inappropriate starched dresses. Surely it couldn’t be. Was Time capable of that kind of practical joke? If so, one couldn’t be sure of anything. That long-ago Nell – and this Nell – they were two different people.
The whole world felt dream-like. Joe was saying:
‘If that’s Nell, I really must speak to her. Let’s go across.’
And then the greetings, exclamations, surprise.
‘Why, of course, Joe Waite. And Vernon! It’s years ago, isn’t it?’
Very soft her voice was. Her eyes smiled into his – a trifle shyly. Lovely – lovely – lovelier even than he had thought. Tongue-tied fool, why couldn’t he say anything? Something brilliant, witty, arresting. How blue her eyes were with their long soft golden-brown lashes. She was like the blossom above her head – untouched – Springlike.
A great wave of despondency swept over him. She would never marry him. Was it likely? A great clumsy tongue-tied creature such as he was. She was talking to him – Heavens, he must try and listen to what she said – answer intelligently.
‘We left very soon after you did. Father gave up his job.’
An echo came into his head of past gossip.
‘Vereker got the sack. Hopelessly incompetent – it was bound to come.’
Her voice went on – such a lovely voice. You wanted to listen to it instead of to the words.
‘We live in London now. Father died five years ago.’
He said, feeling idiotic, ‘Oh, I say, I’m sorry, awfully sorry!’
‘I’ll give you our address. You must come and see us.’
He blundered out hopes of meeting her that evening – what dance was she going to? She told him. No good there. The night after – thank goodness, they’d be at the same. He said hurriedly:
‘Look here. You’ve got to save me a dance or two – you must – we’ve not seen each other for years.’
‘Oh! but can I?’ Her voice was doubtful.
‘I’ll fix it somehow. Leave it to me.’
It was over all too soon. Goodbyes were said. They were going upstream again.
Joe said in an incredibly matter-of-fact tone:
‘Well, isn’t that strange? Who would ever have thought that Nell Vereker would have turned out so good-looking? I wonder if she’s as much of an ass as ever.’
Sacrilege! He felt oceans removed from Joe. Joe couldn’t see anything at all.
Would Nell ever marry him? Would she? Probably she’d never look at him. All sorts of fellows must be in love with her.
He felt terribly despondent. Black misery swept over him.
He was dancing with her. Never had he imagined that he could be so happy. She was like a feather, a rose leaf in his arms. She was wearing a pink dress again – a different one. It floated out all round her.
If life could only go on like this for ever – for ever.
But, of course, life never did. In what seemed to Vernon like one second the music stopped. They were sitting together on two chairs.
He wanted to say a thousand things to her – but he didn’t know how to begin. He heard himself saying foolish things about the floor and the music.
Fool – unutterable fool! In a few minutes another dance would begin. She would be swept away from him. He must make some plan – some arrangement to meet her again.
She was talking – desultory in-between-dance talk. London – the season. Horrible to think of – she was going to dances night after night – three dances a night sometimes. And here was he tied by the leg. She would marry someone – some rich, clever, amusing fellow would snap her up.
He mumbled something about being in town – she gave him their address. Mother would be so pleased to see him again. He wrote it down.
The music struck up. He said desperately:
‘Nell, I say, I do call you Nell, don’t I?’
‘Why, of course.’ She laughed. ‘Do you remember hauling me over the palings that day we thought the rhinoceros was after us?’
And he had thought her a nuisance, he remembered. Nell! A nuisance!
She went on: ‘I used to think you were wonderful then, Vernon.’
She had, had she? But she couldn’t think him wonderful now. His mood drooped to despondency once more.
‘I – I was an awful little rotter, I expect,’ he mumbled.
Why couldn’t he be intelligent and clever, and say witty things?
‘Oh, you were a dear. Sebastian hasn’t changed much, has he?’
Sebastian. She called him Sebastian. Well, after all, he supposed she would – since she called him Vernon. What a lucky thing it was that Sebastian cared for nobody but Joe. Sebastian with his money and his brains. Did Nell like Sebastian, he wondered?
‘One would know his ears anywhere!’ said Nell with a laugh.
Vernon felt comforted. He had forgotten Sebastian’s ears. No girl who had noticed Sebastian’s ears could go falling in love with him. Poor old Sebastian – rather rough luck to be handicapped with those ears.
He saw Nell’s partner arriving. He blurted out quickly and hurriedly:
‘I say, it’s wonderful to have seen you again, Nell. Don’t forget me, will you? I shall be turning up in town. It’s – it’s been awfully jolly seeing you again.’ (Oh! damn, I said that before!) ‘I mean – it’s been simply ripping. You don’t know. But you won’t forget, will you?’
She had gone from him. He saw her whirling round in Barnard’s arms. She couldn’t like Barnard surely, could she? Barnard was such an absolute ass.
Her eyes met his over Barnard’s shoulder. She smiled.
He was in heaven again. She liked him – he knew she liked him. She had smiled …
May week was over. Vernon was sitting at a table writing.
‘Dear Uncle Sydney, – I’ve thought over your offer, and I’d like to come into Bent’s if you still want me. I’m afraid I shall be rather useless, but I will try all I know how. I still think it’s most awfully good of you.’
He paused. Sebastian was walking up and down restlessly. His pacing disturbed Vernon.
‘For goodness’ sake, sit down,’ he said irritably. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing.’
Sebastian sat down with unusual mildness. He filled and lighted a pipe. From behind a sheltering haze of smoke, he spoke.
‘I say, Vernon. I asked Joe to marry me that last night. She turned me down.’
‘Oh! rough luck!’ said Vernon, trying to bring his mind back and be sympathetic. ‘Perhaps she’ll change her mind,’ he said vaguely. ‘They say girls do.’
‘It’s this damned money,’ said Sebastian angrily.
‘What damned money?’
‘Mine. Joe always said she would marry me when we were kids together. She likes me – I’m sure she does. And now – everything I say or do always seems to be wrong. If I were only persecuted, or looked down on, or socially undesirable, I believe she’d marry me like a shot. But she’s always got to be on the losing side. It’s a ripping quality in a way; but you can carry it to a pitch where it’s damned illogical. Joe is illogical.’
‘H’m,’ said Vernon vaguely.
He was selfishly intent on his own affairs. It seemed to him curious that Sebastian should be so keen on marrying Joe. There were lots of other girls who would suit him just as well. He re-read his letter and added another sentence.
‘I will work like a nigger.’