Two months after his father sailed for South Africa, Vernon went to school. It had been Walter Deyre’s wish and arrangement, and Myra, at the moment, was disposed to regard any wish of his as law. He was her soldier and her hero, and everything else was forgotten. She was thoroughly happy at this time. Knitting socks for the soldiers, urging on energetic campaigns of ‘white feather’, sympathizing and talking with other women whose husbands had also gone to fight the wicked, ungrateful Boers.
She felt exquisite pangs parting with Vernon. Her darling—her baby—to go so far away from her. What sacrifices mothers had to make! But it had been his father’s wish.
Poor darling, he was sure to be most terribly homesick! She couldn’t bear to think of it.
But Vernon was not homesick. He had no real passionate attachment to his mother. All his life he was to be fondest of her when away from her. His escape from her emotional atmosphere was felt by him as a relief.
He had a good temperament for school life. He had an aptitude for games, a quiet manner and an unusual amount of physical courage. After the dull monotony of life under the reign of Miss Robbins, school was a delightful novelty. Like all the Deyres, he had the knack of getting on with people. He made friends easily.
But the reticence of the child who so often answered ‘Nothing’ clung to him. Except with one or two people, that reticence was to go through life with him. His school friends were people with whom he shared ‘doing things’. His thoughts he was to keep to himself and share with only one person. That person came into his life very soon.
On his very first holidays, he found Josephine.
Vernon was welcomed by his mother with an outburst of demonstrative affection. Already rather self-conscious about such things, he bore it manfully. Myra’s first raptures over, she said:
‘There’s a lovely surprise for you, darling. Who do you think is here? Your cousin Josephine, Aunt Nina’s little girl. She has come to live with us. Now isn’t that nice?’
Vernon wasn’t quite sure. It needed thinking over. To gain time, he said:
‘Why has she come to live with us?’
‘Because her mother has died. It’s terribly sad for her and we must be very, very kind to her to make up.’
‘Is Aunt Nina dead?’
He was sorry Aunt Nina was dead. Pretty Aunt Nina with her curling cigarette smoke.
‘Yes. You can’t remember her, of course, darling.’
He didn’t say that he remembered her perfectly. Why should one say things?
‘She’s in the schoolroom, darling. Go and find her and make friends.’
Vernon went slowly. He didn’t know whether he was pleased or not. A girl! He was at the age to despise girls. Rather a nuisance having a girl about. On the other hand, it would be jolly having someone. It depended what the kid was like. One would have to be decent to her if she’d just lost her mother.
He opened the schoolroom door and went in. Josephine was sitting on the window-sill swinging her legs. She stared at him and Vernon’s attitude of kindly condescension fell from him.
She was a squarely built child of about his own age. She had dead black hair cut very straight across her forehead. Her jaw stuck out a little in a determined way. She had a very white skin and enormous eyelashes. Although she was two months younger than Vernon, she had the sophistication of twice his years—a kind of mixture of weariness and defiance.
‘Hallo,’ she said.
‘Hallo,’ said Vernon rather feebly.
They went on looking at each other, suspiciously, as is the manner of children and dogs.
‘I suppose you’re my cousin Josephine,’ said Vernon.
‘Yes, but you’d better call me Joe. Everyone does.’
‘All right—Joe.’
There was a pause. To bridge it, Vernon whistled.
‘Rather jolly, coming home,’ he observed at last.
‘It’s an awfully jolly place,’ said Joe.
‘Oh! do you like it?’ said Vernon, warming to her.
‘I like it awfully. Better than any of the places I’ve lived.’
‘Have you lived in a lot of places?’
‘Oh, yes. At Coombes first—when we were with Father. And then at Monte Carlo with Colonel Anstey. And then at Toulon with Arthur—and then a lot of Swiss places because of Arthur’s lungs. And then I went to a convent for a bit after Arthur died. Mother couldn’t be bothered with me just then. I didn’t like it much—the nuns were so silly. They made me have a bath in my chemise. And then after Mother died, Aunt Myra came and fetched me here.’
‘I’m awfully sorry—about your mother, I mean,’ said Vernon awkwardly.
‘Yes,’ said Joe, ‘it’s rotten in a way—though much the best thing for her.’
‘Oh!’ said Vernon, rather taken aback.
‘Don’t tell Aunt Myra,’ said Joe. ‘Because I think she’s rather easily shocked by things—rather like the nuns. You have to be careful what you say to her. Mother didn’t care for me an awful lot, you know. She was frightfully kind and all that—but she was always soppy about some man or other. I heard some people say so in the hotel, and it was quite true. She couldn’t help it, of course. But it’s a very bad plan. I shan’t have anything to do with men when I grow up.’
‘Oh!’ said Vernon. He was still feeling very young and awkward beside this amazing person.
‘I liked Colonel Anstey best,’ said Joe reminiscently. ‘But of course Mother only ran away with him to get away from Father. We stayed at much better hotels with Colonel Anstey, Arthur was very poor. If I ever do get soppy about a man when I grow up, I shall take care that he’s rich. It makes things so much easier.’
‘Wasn’t your father nice?’
‘Oh! Father was a devil—Mother said so. He hated us both.’
‘But why?’
Joe wrinkled her straight black brows in perplexity.
‘I don’t quite know. I think—I think it was something to do with me coming. I think he had to marry Mother because she was going to have me—something like that—and it made him angry.’
They looked at each other—solemn and perplexed.
‘Uncle Walter’s in South Africa, isn’t he?’ went on Joe.
‘Yes. I’ve had three letters from him at school. Awfully jolly letters.’
‘Uncle Walter’s a dear. I loved him. He came out to Monte Carlo, you know.’
Some memory stirred in Vernon. Of course, he remembered now. His father had wanted Joe to come to Abbots Puissants then.
‘He arranged for me to go to the convent,’ said Joe. ‘Reverend Mother thought he was lovely—a true type of high-born English gentleman—such a funny way of putting it.’
They both laughed a little.
‘Let’s go out in the garden. Shall we?’ said Vernon.
‘Yes, let’s. I say, I know where there are four different nests—but the birds have all flown away.’
They went out together amicably discussing birds’ eggs.
To Myra, Joe was a perplexing child. She had nice manners, answered promptly and politely when spoken