Chapter VI: Book II: Nell (2)

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 esthetic 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 onto 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 down stream ... 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 spoiled 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 dreamlike. 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. Good-byes 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 was 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. 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."

"Hm," 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 reread his letter and added another sentence:

I will work like a nigger.

chapter 4

"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 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.