Giant's Bread (26 page)

‘Damn, I must go. Good night, Nell darling. You do love me, don't you?'

‘Yes, of course – of course I do.'

He kissed her once more, hurried off. She sat down again by the disordered dinner table. Sat there – lost in thought …

He got to Covent Garden late.
Peer Gynt
had begun. The scene was Ingrid's wedding and Vernon arrived just at the moment of the first brief meeting of Peer and Solveig. He wondered if Jane were nervous. She managed to look marvellously young with her fair plaits and her innocent calm bearing. She looked nineteen. The act ended with the carrying off of Ingrid by Peer.

Vernon found himself interested less in the music than in Jane. Tonight was Jane's ordeal. She had to make good or go under. Vernon knew how anxious she was, above everything else, to justify Radmaager's trust in her.

Presently he knew that all was well. Jane was the perfect Solveig. Her voice, clear and true – the crystal thread as Radmaager had called it – sang unfalteringly and her acting was wonderful. The calm steadfast personality of Solveig dominated the opera.

Vernon found himself for the first time interested in the story of the weak, storm-torn Peer, the coward who ran from reality at every opportunity. The music of Peer's conflict with the great Boyg stirred him, reminding him of his childish terror of The Beast. It was the same formless bogey fear of childhood. Unseen, Solveig's clear voice delivered him from it. The scene in the forest where Solveig comes to Peer was infinitely beautiful, ending with Peer bidding Solveig remain while he went out to take up his burden. Her reply, ‘If it is so heavy it is best two should share it.' And then Peer's departure, his final evasion, ‘Bring sorrow on her? No. Go roundabout, Peer, go roundabout.'

The Whitsuntide music was the most beautiful – but in atmosphere very Radmaagian, Vernon thought. It led up to and prepared for the effect of the final scene. The weary Peer asleep with his head on Solveig's lap, and Solveig, her hair silvered, a Madonna blue cloak round her in the middle of the stage, her head silhouetted against the rising sun, singing valiantly against the Buttons Moulder.

It was a wonderful duet – Chavaranov, the famous Russian bass, his voice deepening and deepening, and Jane, with her silver thread singing steadily upward and ever upward, higher and higher – till the last note was left to her – high and incredibly pure … And the sun rose …

Vernon, feeling boyishly important, went behind afterwards. The opera had been a terrific success. The applause had been long and enthusiastic. He found Radmaager holding Jane by the hand and kissing her with artistic fervour and thoroughness.

‘You are an angel – you are magnificent – yes, magnificent! You are an artist – Ah!' he burst into a torrent of words in his native language, then reverted to English. ‘I will reward you – yes, little one, I will reward you. I know very well how to do it. I will persuade the long Sebastian. Together we will –'

‘Hush,' said Jane.

Vernon came forward awkwardly, said shyly, ‘It was splendid!'

He squeezed Jane's hand, and she gave him a brief affectionate smile.

‘Where's Sebastian? Wasn't he here just now?'

Sebastian was no longer to be seen. Vernon volunteered to go in search of him and bring him along to supper. He said vaguely that he thought he knew where he was. Jane knew nothing of the news about Joe, and he didn't see how he could tell her at the moment.

He got a taxi and drove to Sebastian's house, but did not find him. Vernon wondered if perhaps Sebastian might be at his own rooms where he had left him earlier in the evening. He drove there straight away. He was feeling suddenly elated and triumphant. Even Joe did not seem to matter for the moment. He felt suddenly convinced that his own work was good – or rather that it would be some day. And somehow or other he also felt that things were coming right with Nell. She had clung to him differently tonight – more closely – more as though she could not bear to let him go … Yes, he was sure of it. Everything was coming right.

He ran up the stairs to his room. It was in darkness. Sebastian was not here then. He switched on the light – looked round. A note lay on the table, sent by hand. He picked it up. It was addressed to him in Nell's handwriting. He tore it open …

He stood there a long time. Then, carefully and methodically he drew up a chair to the table, setting it very exactly straight as though that were important, and sat down holding the note in his hand. He read it again for the tenth or eleventh time:

‘Dearest Vernon, – Forgive me – please forgive me. I am going to marry George Chetwynd. I don't love him like I love you, but I shall be safe with him. Again – do forgive me – please.

‘Your always loving

‘Nell.'

He said aloud: ‘
Safe with him
. What does she mean by that? She'd have been safe with me.
Safe with him
? That hurts …'

He sat there. Minutes passed … Hours passed … He sat there, motionless, almost unable to think … Once the thought rose dully in his brain, ‘Was this how Sebastian felt? I didn't understand …'

When he heard a rustle in the doorway he didn't look up. His first sight of Jane was when she came round the table, dropped on her knees beside him.

‘Vernon – my dear – what is it? I knew there was something when you didn't come to the supper. I came to see …'

Dully, mechanically, he held out the note to her. She took it and read it. She laid it down again on the table.

He said in a dull bewildered voice: ‘She needn't have said that – about not being safe with me. She would have been safe with me …'

‘Oh, Vernon – my dear …'

Her arms went round him. He clutched at her suddenly – a frightened clutch such as a child might give at its mother. A sob burst from his throat. He laid his face down on the gleaming white skin of her neck.

‘Oh! Jane … Jane …'

She held him closer. She stroked his hair. He murmured:

‘Stay with me … Stay with me … Don't leave me …'

She answered:

‘I won't leave you. It's all right …'

Her voice was tender – motherly. Something broke in him like the breaking of a dam. Ideas swirled and rushed through his head. His father kissing Winnie at Abbots Puissants … the statue in the South Kensington … Jane's body … her beautiful body.

He said hoarsely: ‘Stay with me …'

Her arms round him, her lips on his forehead, she murmured back:

‘I'll stay with you, dear.'

Like a mother to a child.

He wrenched himself suddenly free.

‘Not like that. Not like that. Like this.'

His lips fastened on hers – fiercely, hungrily, his hand clutched at the roundness of her breast. He'd always wanted her – always – he knew it now. It was her body he wanted, that beautiful gracious body that Boris Androv had known so well.

He said again:

‘Stay with me …'

There was a long pause – it seemed to him as though minutes, hours, years passed before she answered:

She said: ‘
I'll stay
 …'

On a day in July Sebastian Levinne walked along the Embankment in the direction of Jane's flat. It was a day more suggestive of early spring than of summer. A cold wind blew the dust in his face and made him blink.

There was a change visible in Sebastian. He had grown perceptibly older. There was very little of the boy about him now – there never had been much. He had always had that curious maturity of outlook which is the Semitic inheritance. As he walked along now, frowning to himself and pondering, he would easily have been taken for a man over thirty.

Jane herself opened the door of the flat to him. She spoke in a low, unusually husky voice.

‘Vernon's out. He couldn't wait for you. You said three, you know, and it's past four now.'

‘I was kept. Just as well, perhaps. I'm never quite sure of the best way of dealing with Vernon's nerves.'

‘Don't tell me any fresh crises have arisen? I couldn't bear it.'

‘Oh you'll get used to them. I've had to. What's the matter with your voice, Jane?'

‘A cold. A throat, rather. It's all right. I'm nursing it.'

‘My God! And the
Princess in the Tower
tomorrow night. Suppose you can't sing.'

‘Oh! I shall sing. Don't be afraid. Only don't mind my whispering. I want to save it every bit I can.'

‘Of course. You've seen someone, I suppose?'

‘My usual man in Harley Street.'

‘What did he say?'

‘The usual things.'

‘He didn't forbid you to sing tomorrow?'

‘Oh, no.'

‘You're an awfully good liar, aren't you, Jane?'

‘I thought it would save trouble. But I might have known it would be no good with you. I'll be honest. He warned me that I'd been persistently over-straining my voice for years. He said it was madness to sing tomorrow night. But I don't care.'

‘My dear Jane, I'm not going to risk your losing your voice.'

‘Mind your own business, Sebastian. My voice is my affair. I don't interfere in your concerns, don't interfere in mine.'

Sebastian grinned.

‘The tiger cat at home,' he remarked. ‘But you mustn't, Jane, all the same. Does Vernon know?'

‘Of course not. What do you think? And you're not to tell him, Sebastian.'

‘I don't interfere really,' said Sebastian. ‘I never have. But Jane dear, it will be ten thousand pities. The opera's not worth it. And Vernon's not worth it either. Be angry with me if you like for saying so.'

‘Why should I be angry with you? It's the truth, and I know it. All the same, I'm going through with it. Call me any kind of a conceited egoist you like, but the
Princess in the Tower
won't be a success without me. I've been a success as Isolde and a furore in Solveig. It's my moment. And it's going to be Vernon's moment too. I can at least do that for him.'

He heard the undercurrent of feeling – the unconscious betrayal of that ‘at least', but not by a muscle of his face did he show that he had realized its significance. He only said again very gently: ‘He's not worth it, Jane. Paddle your own canoe. It's the only way. You've arrived. Vernon hasn't, and never may.'

‘I know. I know. No one's what you call “worth it” – except perhaps one person.'

‘Who?'

‘
You
, Sebastian.
You're
worth it – and yet it's not for you I'm doing it!'

Sebastian was surprised and touched. A sudden mist came over his eyes. He stretched out his hand and took Jane's. They sat for a minute or two in silence.

‘That was nice of you, Jane,' he said at last.

‘Well, it's true. You're worth a dozen of Vernon. You've got brains, initiative, strength of character …'

Her husky voice died away. After another minute or two, he said very gently:

‘How are things? Much as usual?'

‘Yes, I think so. You know Mrs Deyre came to see me?'

‘No, I didn't. What did she want?'

‘She came to beg me to give up her boy. Pointed out how I was ruining his life. Only a really bad woman would do what I was doing. And so on. You can guess the kind of thing.'

‘And what did you say to her?' asked Sebastian curiously.

Jane shrugged her shoulders.

‘What could I say? That to Vernon one harlot was as good as another?'

‘Oh, my dear,' said Sebastian gently. ‘Is it as bad as that?'

Jane got up, lighted a cigarette and walked restlessly about the room. Sebastian noticed how haggard her face had become.

‘Is he – more or less all right?' he ventured.

‘He drinks too much,' said Jane curtly.

‘Can't you prevent it?'

‘No, I can't.'

‘It's queer. I should have thought you would always have great influence over Vernon.'

‘Well, I haven't. Not now.' She was silent for a moment and then said: ‘Nell's being married in the autumn, isn't she?'

‘Yes. Do you think things will be – better then?'

‘I haven't the least idea.'

‘I wish to God he'd pull up,' said Sebastian. ‘If you can't keep him straight, Jane, nobody can. Of course – it's in the blood.'

She came and sat down again.

‘Tell me – tell me everything you know. About his people – his father, his mother.'

Sebastian gave a succinct account of the Deyres. Jane listened.

‘His mother you've seen,' he concluded. ‘Queer, isn't it, that Vernon doesn't seem to have inherited one single thing from her? He's a Deyre through and through. They are all artistic – musical – weak-willed, self-indulgent and attractive to women. Heredity's an odd thing.'

‘I don't quite agree with you,' said Jane. ‘Vernon's not like his mother, but he
has
inherited something from her.'

‘What?'

‘Vitality. She's an extraordinarily fine animal – have you ever thought of her that way? Well, Vernon's inherited some of that. Without it he'd never have been a composer. If he was a Deyre pure and simple, he'd only have
dallied
with music. It's the Bent force that gives him the power to create. You say his grandfather built up their business single-handed. Well, there's the same thing in Vernon.'

‘I wonder if you're right.'

‘I'm sure I am.'

Sebastian considered silently for some minutes.

‘Is it only drink?' he said at last. ‘Or is it – well, I mean, are there – other people?'

‘Oh! there are others.'

‘And you don't mind?'

‘Mind? Mind? Of course I mind. What do you think I'm made of, Sebastian? I'm nearly killed with minding … But what can I do? Make scenes? Rant and rave and drive Vernon away from me altogether?'