Mary Westmacott - Giant's Bread

‘Oh, Mother, he’s only a boy – a very nice boy, but a boy.’

‘He’s a good-looking boy,’ said her mother drily. ‘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 child-like about Nell Vereker on that summer’s morning in London.

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 towards 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. Anyhow, 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. Grey 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 tonight. 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 like 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.’