‘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. T
he 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 –’
4
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.
5
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 …
6
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.’
Chapter Four
1
‘We want another man,’ said Mrs Vereker.
Her eyebrows, slightly enhanced by art, drew together in a straight line as she frowned.
‘It’s too annoying young Wetherill failing us,’ she added.
Nell nodded apathetically. She was sitting on the arm of a chair, not 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 defenceless.
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.
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