Despised and rejected

By R. Allatini

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Title: Despised and rejected

Author: A. T. Fitzroy


        
Release date: August 6, 2026 [eBook #79286]

Language: English

Original publication: London: GMP Publishers Ltd, 1918

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79286

Credits: Adam Buchbinder, Jens Sadowski, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DESPISED AND REJECTED ***




                               DESPISED &
                                REJECTED


                                   BY
                             A. T. FITZROY


                       LONDON: C. W. DANIEL, LTD.
                   Graham House, Tudor Street, E.C.4.


                                 TO YOU
                         WHO MADE ME UNDERSTAND




                                PART I.


                               CHAPTER I

“What I like about these small places,” remarked Mrs. Blackwood as she
seated herself at one of the tea-tables in the lounge of the Amberhurst
Private Hotel, “is that everybody gets to know everybody else quite
informally, and that is such a blessing for the young people.”

“Do you really think so?” queried Hester Cawthorn. It amused her to draw
the older woman out. Mrs. Blackwood herself did not interest Hester at
all; but Mrs. Blackwood as a type—the well-to-do, conventional,
provincial type—interested her very much indeed. She could picture Mrs.
Blackwood, queening it in her home-surroundings, the chatty little
country town of Eastwold; near enough to London to allow Mr. Blackwood
to travel up and down every day, and far enough removed from the
metropolis to form a world to itself; a small and very gregarious world,
no doubt, in which everybody certainly knew all about everybody else’s
business, and minded it in preference to their own.

Hester was not gregarious. In the dining-room, she sat alone at her
small table, politely but firmly declining the manageress’s good-natured
offer to “find some company for her.” Hester preferred her own company,
both during meals, and on her long walks into the surrounding country.
When all the hotel visitors, grouped according to their affinities, were
seated upon the lawn, Hester would sit alone, reading; or armed with a
masculine-looking walking-stick, and the brim of her felt hat turned
down to shade her thin sombre face, would stalk off in the direction of
the hills that formed a humped barrier upon the sky-line. At the end of
a fortnight’s stay, Mrs. Blackwood who, true to the traditions of
Eastwold, had discovered the leading features of interest in the lives
of everyone else in the hotel, was still no wiser about Hester.

She smiled now in answer to her question. “Why, yes, of course it’s a
blessing. I think the company one is in makes all the difference to
one’s enjoyment of a holiday—we always take ours in June, as Mr.
Blackwood’s partner has to have his in August.” Mrs. Blackwood was as
eager to impart information concerning herself and her family, as she
was to elicit it from others. “Are you making a long stay, Miss
Cawthorn?”

“Possibly; I don’t know.” Hester spoke with perfect courtesy, though her
tone implied that she was quite decided as to her future plans, but
wished to discourage enquiries regarding them.

“You’ve only been here a short while?”

“Comparatively speaking.”

Mrs. Blackwood abandoned the attack for the moment, and continued: “The
children love it here, and even Ottilie seems to be enjoying herself,
though of course it’s rather difficult for her.”

“Is that the little German girl who is staying with you?”

“Yes. It’s an exchange, you see. Herr Baumgartner is a
business-connection of my husband’s, and Ottilie has been with us for
nearly six months, learning English. Next year, Doreen is to go back
with her to Heidelberg to study German. She’s a dear child, but her
English isn’t very grand yet, though I’m glad to say that Mr. Griggs has
given her a part in the theatricals in spite of it.”

“He must be a very indulgent stage-manager.”

“Oh, he’s charming, I assure you. At home at Eastwold, he’s the life and
soul of the place, just as he is here; he always tries to join us, even
if it’s only for a week, when we’re on our summer holiday.”

At this juncture, the swing-doors leading into the recreation-room were
flung open, and the life and soul of Eastwold, wearing velvet
knee-breeches and a tricolor waistcoat, burst into the lounge.

“Mrs. Blackwood—Miss Cawthorn—what do you think has happened? Miss
Wright has suddenly been called away, and now there’s no one to play the
incidental music for us to-night. I wonder if either of you two
ladies——” tentatively Mr. Griggs glanced at Hester, of whom he was very
much in awe.

She shook her head, and Mrs. Blackwood replied: “Oh, you know I’m no
good at the piano, Mr. Griggs. Dennis has monopolised all the musical
talent there is in our family, and I’m afraid he won’t be here till too
late. Can’t you get on without the music?”

“Why, the music’s half the battle!” wailed Griggs, whose neat little
moustache, neat little features, pince-nez, and hair growing rather thin
on top, accorded strangely with his dashing costume. “It lends
atmosphere—dignity. We can’t have Marry Anto’nett guillotined without a
soft musical accompaniment. It makes all the difference, you know.”

“Most unfortunate, isn’t it?” Mrs. Blackwood invited Hester’s
commiseration, “of course Doreen strums the piano a little, but she’s in
the play. I do wonder if Dennis——”

“You can bet your boots that Dennis won’t!” A twelve-year-old schoolboy
suddenly thrust his head through the swing-doors, “and anyway if he did,
he’d play mouldy sort of stuff. He always does.”

“Oh, Reggie,” his mother reproved him, “you musn’t speak like that about
your brother’s music. You don’t understand it, that’s all.”

“Well, it _is_ mouldy,” insisted the boy, “there’s no tune in it,
however hard you listen for one.”

Mrs. Blackwood privately endorsed this statement, but for the sake of
discipline she resumed: “You’re a very rude little boy! And what are you
doing with that air-gun? Haven’t I told you not to use it in the house?”

“I’ve got to have it. I’m the Mob—in the French Revolution, you know,”
he added for Hester’s edification.

“Oh, darling,” exclaimed Mrs. Blackwood, “I thought you were to be the
little Dauphin.”

Reggie shook his head in silence.

“_Aren’t_ you going to be the Dauphin?” his mother persisted. “I thought
it would be such a nice part for you.”

“It was a mouldy part, so I chucked it.”

“Yes, but who’s going to play it, if you’re not?”

“Doreen. She’s got to be both the Queen’s children rolled into one. _I_
wasn’t going to have Miss Fayne blubbering all over me.... Much more
sport to be the Mob, and stick her head up on a pike.... We haven’t got
a pike, so the air-gun’s got to do.”

Griggs shook his finger archly. “Well, Master Reggie, shall we tell them
the truth about your defalcation—good word that, eh? You didn’t mind
being the Dauphin, as long as Miss de Courcy was playing Marry
Anto’nett, did you?”

Reggie grew pink about the ears and muttered: “She’s a sport, and anyway
_she_ chucked the Queen’s part, because she wanted to be Charlotte
Corday, and have the bathroom bit.”

“Ssh,” remonstrated Griggs, “you musn’t talk so much, or you’ll spoil
the effect of our performance to-night. I don’t know what we shall do
about the music, though. Don’t you think there’s any chance that Dennis
will be here in time?”

Dennis’s mother returned doubtfully: “You see, I don’t know exactly when
he’s arriving; he didn’t say in his wire, he’s rather absent-minded. I
suppose composers and people like that often are.”

Hester noted that there was an undertone of pride in her voice now, as
well as deprecation; a moment later, the pride was unconsciously echoed
by Reggie, hovering between the swing-doors. “Dennis has got other
things to think about than remembering to tell you if he’ll be home to
dinner to-morrow, or whom he’s going out with the day after! His head’s
always full of ideas, even if they do sound rotten when they come out.”
Then, perhaps fearing that he had said too much in praise of his elder
brother, Reggie added with seeming irrelevance: “Clive won the High Jump
at Westborough three years running, and the Long Jump twice; not bad—was
it?” Without waiting for an answer, he vanished through the door; and
Griggs, after vainly scouring the drawing-room and the lawn in search of
a pianist, returned to conduct the dress rehearsal.

Mrs. Blackwood sighed. “Reggie and Clive are great friends in spite of
the big difference in their ages. But Clive and Dennis don’t hit it off
at all, though there’s only a year between them.”

“Opposing temperaments?” suggested Hester.

“Yes, indeed. Even as little boys they were quite different. We could
never get Dennis to play with soldiers or steamers or any of the usual
toys. His father used to get quite angry. He always wanted his boys to
be _manly_ boys. Reggie is a great favourite of his, now. He loves to
take the child along whenever he goes golfing or swimming. Mr. Blackwood
has been such a keen sportsman all his life, and both Clive and Reggie
seem to have inherited it from him. I’m sure it adds to his enjoyment of
his holiday to have Reggie here, even though it’s only because they’ve
got measles at his preparatory school. Yes, he and Mr. Blackwood are
more like friends than father and son. But Dennis....” Again there was
in her tone that mingling of pride and concern. “Dennis has never cared
at all about sport.”

“More his mother’s son than his father’s, perhaps?”

There was a frown between Mrs. Blackwood’s eyes now. She appeared to be
looking straight at Hester, yet without seeing her; and a second later,
at the sunlit lawn and the first tee of the hotel golf links, yet
without seeing them either. Her concentrated gaze evidently beheld
something that had nothing whatever to do with Hester or the lawn or the
golf links. She said in a troubled voice: “Yes—yes, perhaps he is, I
don’t really know—of course as long as he’s happy—.” She broke off
abruptly and fell silent. Hester watched her. So she had reserves after
all, this provincial chatterbox, despite her readiness to discuss her
own and other people’s affairs. But whatever it was that Hester imagined
to have glimpsed, was hidden away again the next moment, beneath the
flow of light conversation that had broken out afresh. “He’s been
staying up in London with a friend, Mr. Burgess, for the Russian opera
season, they’re both so interested in it. Mr. Burgess is musical
too—plays the piano, but he doesn’t compose like Dennis does. Still,
it’s nice for them to have something in common, isn’t it? And now
they’re off on a walking tour through Devonshire, and as we’re on the
Great Western line here, Dennis promised that they would spend the
week-end with us on their way down.” She went on, “I wish they were
staying longer; I’m sure Dennis would like it here, though he always
says he hates hotels. But it’s the people who make the place, isn’t it?
And I do think they’re such a nice set of people here, don’t you, Miss
Cawthorn?”

Hester’s “Oh, yes, I daresay they are,” was utterly impersonal and
aloof, but not in the least discouraged, Mrs. Blackwood continued: “That
Miss de Courcy, now—Antoinette—don’t you think she’s charming?”

“I don’t think I’ve noticed her....” Hester was actuated by some demon
of cussedness to pour cold water on poor Mrs. Blackwood’s enthusiasm. It
was an untruth into the bargain: she had certainly noticed Antoinette de
Courcy; one could not very well help noticing the most vivid and
striking personality in the whole hotel.

Mrs. Blackwood began again: “I believe she comes of a very good old
French family; her people are very strict with her; I think she told
Doreen that this is the first time she has stayed away from
them—she’s here with the Faynes, you know; she and Rosabel were
school-friends—Doreen is simply devoted to Antoinette and so is Reggie.”

“What about Clive?” laughed Hester.

“Oh, Clive’s engaged, you see. They may have to wait two years till they
can marry—not that Mr. Blackwood wouldn’t be quite willing to help them
to set up house now, but Clive is determined that he’ll make a position
for himself before he marries. He’s always known his own mind; even as a
little chap he wanted to be an engineer, and he’s stuck to it ever
since; and he’s like that in his affections, too—absolutely settled,
though he’s so young—just twenty-four—but Lily knows he wouldn’t change
towards her, if she had to wait ten years for him; Reggie’s like Clive;
once he gets an idea into his head nothing will move him. They’re both
inclined to be obstinate, but then if one knows how to treat them!... I
can read those two like an open book.” She ended with a sigh, in which
satisfaction was blended with an indefinable regret. She was obviously
thinking again of that other son, the first-born, whose psychology did
not seem to present the facilities of the “open book.” It was curious
that whereas she spoke of all her menfolk—of her husband, of Clive and
Reggie—with affection, with admiration, with respect even, when she
spoke of Dennis or, as at the present moment, remained silent about him,
there was about her whole manner something which suggested that the love
she bore him was more poignant, and therefore more secret.

Presently, headed by Mr. Griggs, the other members of the theatrical
company came through into the lounge. They had resumed their ordinary
clothes, and flung themselves in various attitudes of weariness into the
deep armchairs.

Griggs’ repeated plea that they were not to spoil the effect of the play
by talking about it now, was laughed down by Antoinette de Courcy,
balancing her slender weight on the arm of a chair. “What does it
matter? There’s no one about now. Mrs. Blackwood is the mother of three
of the actors, so why shouldn’t she be in the know? And Miss Cawthorn
won’t let out any of our secrets.” She smiled brilliantly across at
Hester, who did not smile back, but answered shortly: “No, indeed not.”
Her assurance was quite superfluous, as it was impossible to imagine her
condescending to take sufficient interest in anyone’s secrets to lead
her to betray them.

Mrs. Blackwood laughed. “Well, I can only hope that the three actors for
whom I’m responsible haven’t given you too much trouble, Mr. Griggs.”

“Oh, how can you speak of ‘trouble,’ Mrs. Blackwood?” he expostulated,
“it has only been a pleasure to work with them.”

Mrs. Blackwood beamed upon him. “We all know you’ve got wonderful
patience, as you need to have, I’m sure, for getting up amateur
theatricals.”

Griggs smiled with modest pride. “But it’s well worth it, well worth it.
Nothing like theatricals for making people thoroughly at home with each
other. Whist-drives and picnics aren’t in it! There’s something about
theatricals, an _esprit de corps_, as you might say.”

Reggie was causing a diversion by noisily testing the spring of his
air-gun. By way of rebuke, his mother with less tact than could have
been desired, remarked: “I do hope all Reggie’s chopping and changing
didn’t put you out. I think he’s a naughty little boy not to have taken
the part that was given him.”

“Yes, and it means double work for me,” declared his seventeen-year-old
sister Doreen. “I’ve got to say all his lines as well as my own.”

“And jolly glad you are to get the chance!” retorted Reggie. Doreen
threw back her pretty fair head and commanded him to “shut up”; and
Antoinette checked the reprimand rising to Mrs. Blackwood’s lips with:
“You really musn’t blame Reggie, he was only following my bad example.”

Here Rosabel Fayne, author of the play, broke out: “Yes, Antoinette
darling, I do think it’s such a pity—though of course you know best, and
I’m sure you’re simply wonderful as Charlotte Corday—but I did write
Marie Antoinette part on purpose for you—so sweet that you’ve got the
same name, isn’t it? And I know I’m no good in the part....” She paused
for breath, eyes fixed adoringly on her friend’s face. Rosabel’s
appearance was a sore trial to herself. She yearned to be tall and
willowy and languorous; imperious of manner, and regal of bearing ...
instead of which she had an angular little figure, a pointed chin, and
eyes which, despite the wistfulness of their expression, were somehow
reminiscent of a robin’s. She was ready to lavish great floods of
adoration on her friends or on characters in history or fiction. At
present the said adoration was equally divided between Antoinette de
Courcy and the “Unhappy Queen.”

Antoinette laughed now. “You make an excellent Queen, Rosabel, and the
Charlotte Corday part was really too tempting....”

“It’s quite unhistorical,” remarked Clive Blackwood in a bored voice. He
was bored with the theatricals altogether; had only consented to play a
part, because he did not want to make himself conspicuous by refusing;
and because if you were staying in a place like this, it behoved you,
more or less, to do as the others did. So Clive was playing Louis XVI.
with a wooden stolidity and lack of conviction partly responsible for
Antoinette’s change of rôle.

“Yes, it is gorgeously unhistorical,” she agreed with Clive, “Rosabel
wasn’t even certain if it was Danton or Marat whom I had to murder in
the bath, but Ottilie managed to enlighten us, didn’t you, Ottilie?”

Ottilie, whose tartan blouse, fair basket plaits wound round her head,
and sentimental blue eyes proclaimed her unmistakably a member of the
Fatherland, exclaimed “_Augenblick!_” and removed her fingers from her
ears. She had stuffed them in to shut out sound, while she earnestly
pondered over the lines of her part.

“Ottilie, you ought to know your words by now,” protested Doreen.

“Och, I shall never know zem....” Ottilie’s voice was by nature loud,
deep and gloomy, and her present despair had added considerably to its
lugubrious quality.

“You knew them well enough just now,” Doreen strove to cheer her, but
Ottilie refused to be cheered.

“_Ausgeschlossen_ that I remember myself von vord vhen ze curtain
up-goes.... Only lately I exchanged ze vords. I said ‘ze’ when it is ‘a’
in ze text.”

“But little slips like that don’t matter, do they, Mr. Griggs?” Doreen
appealed to the stage-manager.

“Of course not, of course not,” he responded genially, “as long as you
give us an impression of the character, we’ll be lenient about the
words.”

“And everybody will make allowances for you, dear,” Mrs. Blackwood put
in, “knowing that you’re a foreigner.”

“I am Madame Roland, governess of ze children of ze Qveen, and for my
_Auffassung_ of ze char_ac_ter—how do you say ‘_Auffassung_’ in English,
Doreen?”

“‘Conception,’” translated Antoinette, who had travelled.

“For my conception, zen, it is _unbedingt_ necessary zat my vords shall
be exact.” Ottilie could not be induced to regard her part and
responsibilities in any but the most serious light; and resumed her
conscientious study of her lines. To Ottilie, brought up on her native
Schiller and Goethe and Kleist, there was something almost sacred about
the production of a historical drama, and she was grieved at the lack of
seriousness with which the others approached it. Ever since she could
remember, she had longed to play one of Schiller’s heroines, Maria
Stuart, or Joan of Arc, bidding farewell to her mountains—

“_Lebt wohl, Ihr Berge, Ihr geliebten Triften_—” or most of all
Elisabeth in “Don Carlos”.... Yes, how she had longed to act that great
scene with young Carlos, her step-son, manfully repressing his passion
for her, going to his death.... It would have been rapturous to hear
Heidmann, the romantic actor for whom she had a “_Schwärmerei_,” say to
her:

“_... Elisabeth, ich halte dich in meinen Armen und wanke nicht...._”

But instead of all these imaginary glories, Ottilie was only playing a
French governess with a German accent in an English play—a play in which
historical facts had been shamelessly juggled with, and no one even
cared if she did say “the” when it should be “a”....

As the afternoon wore on, the other hotel visitors returned from their
various outings, and began to fill up the lounge. Griggs scanned them
with an eagle eye, in the hope of finding amongst them a pianist capable
of supplying the “atmospheric” music.

“Mrs. Greene—now I wonder if you would—no? Miss Harris—of course _you_
play—no good denying it, you know, I can see it in your eyes, light of
genius and all that! What? Cut your finger...? Isn’t that bad luck now!”
Griggs mopped his forehead. “Dear, dear, whatever shall we do? All
my—ah—blandishments seem to be of no avail.”

Rosabel suggested dubiously: “Of course, darling Mother would play for
us with pleasure—she’s always so sweet—but she hasn’t such an
exquisitely _soulful_ touch as Miss Wright had—we’re spoilt, aren’t we?
In fact, dance-music is really Mother’s strong point.”

Antoinette gave a joyous laugh. “Well, why not, why not? By all means
let us have the ‘Merry Widow’ waltz, while Marie Antoinette is being
beheaded.”

“Oh, Miss Antoinette!” exclaimed Griggs in an injured voice, “you’re
making fun of us. This is a most serious matter.”

Half amused and half impatient, Antoinette again glanced across at
Hester who, this time, gave her in response a slow smile that made her
pale, haggard face look strangely attractive. Antoinette flushed, shook
back the short blonde _cendré_ curls that clustered about the nape of
her neck, and looked away again.

“Here’s Dad!” cried Reggie, and held the door open while his father and
Mr. Fayne, returning from their round of golf, passed through into the
lounge. In his youth, Mr. Blackwood had been extremely handsome; with
his thick iron-grey hair and ruddy complexion, he was still striking in
appearance, but his features had become coarse, and he played golf
nowadays for the sake of his figure as well as for the sake of the game.

“Well, you youngsters, getting ready for to-night?” Jovially Mr.
Blackwood addressed the company in general. “No one’s offered _me_ a
part, of course.... But if any of you had been out on the links this
afternoon, you’d have seen a performance that would have rivalled your
show, I can tell you.” He paused, then continued impressively: “I did
the eleventh hole in three—one drive clean over the lake, one iron shot
on to the green, and one putt. What do you say to that, my son?”

“Pretty good,” said Reggie, glowing with pleasure, despite the studied
indifference of his tones. “I don’t think much of the way they’ve
cleaned your clubs, Dad, here—let me” ... he seized the bag, and
retiring towards one of the windows, extracted the mashie and began
vigorously polishing it with emery-paper.

“That boy of mine’s all right, you know....” Mr. Blackwood was nearly
bursting with paternal pride; then, having slapped Clive on the back,
and pulled Doreen’s plait, he turned to his wife.

“Dennis not here yet? When’s he coming?”

Mrs. Blackwood became apologetic. “I don’t quite know; he didn’t say
definitely. I expect he’ll be here by dinner-time, though.”

“The least he can do,” commented her husband in a manner suddenly devoid
of joviality. “I’ve no doubt he’ll contrive to be late, and put
everybody out as usual, inconsiderate young beggar.”

A painful flush mounted to Mrs. Blackwood’s cheeks, and Antoinette
wished that she were not witnessing this little scene.

“He doesn’t mean to be inconsiderate, Daddy dear,” said Dennis’s mother
gently, “it’s just—that he doesn’t think.”

“Too much else to think about, eh, with his theatre-going and his operas
and what-not.... Well, if he misses the fun to-night, he’ll only have
himself to blame.” Mr. Blackwood’s joviality was quite restored: “_I_
wouldn’t miss it for a mint o’ money; I know when I’m in for a good
thing!” He glanced approvingly at Antoinette, and she felt by instinct
that had he been better acquainted with her, he would have winked, or
dug her in the ribs. He was that sort of elderly gentleman....

Reggie, from the window, suddenly cried: “Here they are!” and let the
golf-clubs slide to the ground.

“Oh, is it really...?” Doreen rushed towards the door. Antoinette
reflected that the eldest son had indeed timed his entrance effectively;
and she wondered if Hester also was aware of the dramatic possibilities
of the situation. Antoinette herself was always keenly aware of dramatic
possibilities; in fact she lived for the apprehension of them, and for
the coping with them.

As the door swung open to admit Dennis Blackwood and Crispin Burgess,
Mrs. Blackwood made as if to rise from her chair, and then thought
better of it. Her eyes, very bright in her flushed face, were fixed upon
her son’s tall figure.

“Hallo, Mother!” He came straight across the lounge to her and kissed
her. The next minute, Doreen was affectionately hanging round his neck;
and Mr. Griggs was exclaiming in transports of delight: “Splendid
fellows to have come in time! And now they’re here, let’s rope ’em in,
rope ’em both in—everybody’s got to do something—nothing like all
working together—rope ’em in, I say.”

Dennis laughed in good-humoured bewilderment, and put his arm round his
little sister’s shoulders; but his companion, a lanky, sallow-faced
youth of a gloomy and taciturn disposition, stammered: “N-noise....
What’s all the n-noise about?” He always managed to enunciate the first
consonant of a word, and then had to blow hard through his front teeth,
after which the remainder of the word followed with comparative ease.
Doubtless this impediment in his speech accounted both for its
infrequency and its terseness.

Griggs, rubbing his hands together, was still surrounding the newcomers
with ecstatic pæans. “What’s all the noise about, indeed? We’ll soon
show you. Everybody’s going to help in our little entertainment
to-night. _Oh_, yes.... _You_, Mr. Burgess,” shaking a finger at the
bemused Crispin, “are going to play the piano for us, Ah-ha!”

Griggs gave a triumphant chuckle, and with arms folded, stood back to
view the effects of his speech.

After a prolonged interval for blowing, Crispin announced: “I d-don’t
d-dream of it!” and looked reproachfully at Dennis, who only laughed,
and turned to exchange solemn greetings with Reggie, still
ostentatiously polishing the golf-clubs.

Rosabel burst out: “Oh, Mr. Burgess, _won’t_ you...? We’ve heard so much
about your playing, and what we want you to do is quite easy, really....
Oh, dear, that sounds like an insult, doesn’t it? But I didn’t mean it
like that. Of course I know you can play difficult things, but what I
meant to say was that you needn’t bother to play difficult ones for us.
Just any sort of accompaniment will do, as long as there’s _feeling_ in
it.... Puccini, or—or anything of that kind.”

There were sounds from Crispin that might have proceeded from one in the
last stages of suffocation. He was nearly purple before
he managed to get out: “P-puccini—I hate P-puccini—he’s
obvious—ch-cheap—sugarandwater—G-r-r-r.” Crispin shook himself, “no one
like B-bach or B-beethoven.”

Ottilie brightened at the mention of the two familiar names. “Zey are ze
biggest componistors zat ze world has!”

The flexible Rosabel hastened to agree: “Yes, Beethoven is simply
lovely, isn’t he? Well, you play just whatever you feel in the mood for,
Mr. Burgess.”

Mr. Burgess shook his head. “I’m not going to p-play,” then he added
gloomily to Dennis: “If I’d known it was g-going to be like this, I
w-wouldn’t have c-come ...” and in an attitude of profound dejection,
sat down upon his suit-case.

“Oh, be a sport, sir, be a sport! How can you refuse anything to such a
fair petitioner?” Griggs strove to goad Crispin’s _amour propre_. But
Crispin remained entirely unmoved.

“Well, then, we shall have to ask our celebrated composer here to oblige
us. No use hiding away there in the corner, Dennis, _I_ see you”—for
Dennis, seeing that the general attention was centred round Crispin, had
profited by the occasion to efface himself—“of course we all know you’re
a shining light, but we hope you’re not too proud to shed a little of
its radiance in our midst!” Griggs beamed, delighted with his own flow
of language.

Doreen whispered: “Oh, _do_, Denny, please ...” and Dennis, who all
along had anticipated this onslaught upon himself, felt extremely
awkward. “I’m no good to you, Griggs. Don’t think me a surly brute, it
isn’t that I’m proud, or anything of that sort, but—” he broke off. It
was really very difficult to refuse; all the more so in view of
Crispin’s behaviour. He felt his mother’s eyes upon him; Doreen’s....
But he could not play for all these people; not just now; he could not
give them what they wanted, and they would not want what he had to give
them.

“You’ll play us some of your own compositions, I hope,” Griggs went on,
disregarding his refusal. Dennis shook his head. This was exactly what
he would not do. He was in the throes of composing an opera, his first
opera. He loved it, this half-formed work of his, with a love that was
at once passionate and tender, and intensely protective. He felt that he
wanted to protect it now.... “I’m very sorry, Griggs, but I honestly
don’t know anything suitable to the occasion.”

His mother said tentatively: “But you know so many pieces, darling;
can’t you think of any?”

“I’m afraid not, Mother dear....” The thing that he was creating, for
the moment obsessed him entirely; it swamped all thought of other
people’s music; he could only think of his own; dream of it; live in
it....

Griggs, in an agitated aside, whispered to Mrs. Blackwood: “Do you think
he’s offended because I asked Mr. Burgess before him?”

Dennis said again: “I’m sorry.”

Antoinette suddenly slid down from the arm of the chair on which she had
been balancing. “Your mother is just coming up the drive, Rosabel: I’m
going to ask her to play for us!”

And before Dennis Blackwood’s look of gratitude could reach her,
Antoinette had swung through the door to waylay Mrs. Fayne.


                               CHAPTER II

During dinner, both Dennis and Crispin were given to understand that
they were “in disgrace.” Mr. Blackwood made frequent remarks to the
effect that he was sorry he had ever allowed Dennis to take up such a
nonsensical profession, if he couldn’t even make himself pleasant and
turn his strumming to some account when the occasion arose. He supposed
it was partly due to the influence of Dennis’s friends, “these
new-fangled London young men,” who weren’t sporting enough to take part
in anything that seemed beneath their dignity. And so on, _ad lib._ with
variations....

Dennis said nothing, and set his lips tightly, as was his way when Mr.
Blackwood jarred upon his nerves more exquisitely than usual. He
disliked his father, disliked the whole coarse overbearing masculinity
of the man. There was between them an antagonism that was fundamental,
and quite apart from the present source of grievance.

It was an uncomfortable meal. Clive and Reggie were openly ranged upon
their father’s side; but occasionally Doreen sent Dennis a look of
unmistakable partisanship out of her soft dark eyes. Poor Mrs. Blackwood
was torn between her conviction that her husband was in the right, and
her fear that he was being rude to a guest. But she need not have
worried on Crispin’s behalf. Crispin was quite used to Mr. Blackwood’s
outbursts against the musical profession, having once spent a week with
the family at Eastwold. He also possessed the faculty of making himself
apparently deaf to sounds which displeased him. The sound of Mr.
Blackwood’s voice displeased him, so he took no notice of it, and
devoted himself exclusively to his dinner.

The pervading gloom was only relieved by Ottilie trying half-aloud to
memorise her part, and by Reggie and Doreen quarrelling over points in
the forthcoming play. But the quarrelling and Mr. Blackwood’s grumbling
were alike carried on in undertones, so that they might not be audible
to the occupants of the other tables. Whatever the internal state of
affairs might be, however strained the relations between one member and
another, outwardly the semblance of a cheerful and united family-party
must be preserved. To Dennis, the pink-shaded lamp on each table seemed
to hold within its circle of light a whole complex world of subtle
affinities, subtler strains and antagonisms; and each world seemed to be
irrevocably cut off from the rest. He began to wish that he had not
come. He was overwhelmed by the longing that always assailed him in a
large gathering of strangers, namely to run away and hide ... a longing
that was absurd and incongruous in conjunction with his broad shoulders
and length of limb. Perhaps his mouth alone, curved and sensitive above
the firm chin, betrayed a nature in which such a longing, and others
equally freakish, might hold their sway.

Dinner was over at last. Pleasantly conscious of their own importance,
Doreen, Ottilie and Reggie had left the table before the dessert was
served; Clive had reluctantly followed them; and now Dennis and Crispin,
with Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood, were seated in the front row of chairs in
the recreation-room.

Mrs. Blackwood was saying to Dennis what a pity it was that Reggie
wouldn’t play the Dauphin, and wouldn’t it have been nice if they’d had
the whole thing in French—Doreen’s accent had so wonderfully
improved.... Someone said “Ssh,” as the curtain rose.

Rosabel’s drama should have been entitled “Charlotte Corday” rather than
“Marie Antoinette.” Charlotte Corday alone did not appear to be
suffering from nervousness, nor from the usual tendency of amateurs to
get behind each other, and cluster together as if for shelter in one
corner of the stage. She moved about with a total lack of
self-consciousness, making the others seem awkward and lifeless by
comparison. The impetus that carried her through the play must spring
entirely from within herself, Dennis decided; for she got little enough
support from the coy and timid Marie Antoinette, or from Marat, as
played by Griggs rather staccato and apologetically with an intermittent
French accent. She seemed to be giving out passion and vitality and
emotion, just because she could not restrain them, and had to find vent
for them somehow.

“Who’s the girl, Mother?” Dennis in the entr’acte questioned Mrs.
Blackwood, who launched into voluble descriptions of Antoinette’s
psychology and parentage.

“Don’t you think she’s remarkable, Denny?”

“She’s inclined to over-act,” Dennis returned shortly. He was always on
the defensive, even with his mother. Perhaps with his mother most of
all, because he felt that she was most akin to him, and might at any
moment come to touch the fringe of that secret world of his ... world
that must remain secret even from the mother who loved him as perhaps no
other woman on earth would ever love him.

Tremendous applause greeted the end of the performance. And now the
actors, mingling with the audience, were being congratulated on all
sides, and assured that they were “born actors” who would make their
fortunes on any stage.... Even Ottilie came in for her meed of praise,
and was told by an amiable old gentleman who evidently had no objection
to perjuring his soul, that he would never have guessed that she was not
English.

“_Och, was Sie nicht sagen_ ...” Ottilie, for sheer joy, relapsed into
her native tongue.

But the heartiest applause and the loudest congratulations were for
Antoinette. She stood in the midst of the group that surrounded her, a
slim, straight figure in her short striped petticoat and fichu, laughing
with childish pleasure at the compliments that were being showered upon
her. She had doffed her lace cap and was shaking her thick mop of fair
curls back from her flushed face. Dennis made up his mind to speak to
her. He owed her a debt of gratitude for having come to his assistance
with her suggestion that Mrs. Fayne should play the piano. But for the
present it was impossible to get anywhere within speaking distance of
Antoinette. Griggs was at her side now, sharing the compliments and
honours.

“A wonderful stage-manager, Mr. Griggs, if I may say so, a _born_
stage-manager....”

“You should have been an actor, sir, you’re quite a loss to the
profession....”

Griggs laid his hand upon his tricolor waistcoat, and smilingly assured
the audience in general that they were too kind, that he was nothing but
a humble amateur, an amateur with just a little talent, perhaps.... Yes,
sometimes he certainly did feel that he had missed his vocation; still,
even stockbrokers had their uses, he supposed....

And to Antoinette: “You and I must have a special glass of lemonade
together, Miss Antoinette, just to show there’s no ill-feeling, after
I’ve been murdered by you every day for the past week ... and very
enjoyable too, very enjoyable indeed!”

This was greeted with shouts of laughter, but Dennis saw that
Antoinette’s smile was abstracted, and that her eyes were restlessly
searching the crowded room. Then, quite suddenly, he saw the light go
from them, and her whole figure relax its air of tense vitality, as if
the motive-power that had kept her strung-up, had ceased to operate.
Simultaneously he noticed that the dark woman with the sullen face and
ungracious manner had sauntered out of the room.

But a minute later, Antoinette had quite recovered herself. Someone
suggested that they should end the evening with a dance, and already she
was helping Reggie and another small boy to push the chairs back against
the walls. Mrs. Fayne briskly made for the piano, but Crispin was there
before her. Now that everyone had forgotten about Crispin and his
talent, and no one had the least desire to listen to heavy music, he sat
down and played a Bach fugue right through. And when he had finished it,
he played another and another ... and he played very, very wonderfully,
but what was the use of Bach fugues to young people longing to waltz and
one-step? Oblivious of any such longing, Crispin played on and on, and
out of deference to the great artistic value of his performance, no one
dared suggest that he should terminate it.

“Perhaps if we leave him alone, he’ll stop ...” sighed Reggie; so one by
one the visitors trouped out of the recreation-room, trusting that the
absence of an audience might bring Crispin to his senses. It did not....
Crispin merely grunted with relief, and played on.

“Of course I knew this would happen,” Dennis remarked to Antoinette in
the lounge, “it’s a physical impossibility to keep Crispin and a piano
apart for any length of time.”

She laughed, grey eyes sparkling under a thick fringe of black lashes.
“And you?” she said, “you evidently do not mind being kept apart from
your piano!”

“On the contrary, I want to be kept from it—to-night. I should like to
say that I’m very grateful to you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” she laughed again, and turned from him to
Doreen, who was clamouring to be shown how to take the grease-paint off
her face.

“I don’t _really_ want to get it off, because it’s so _awfully_
thrilling to have it on, but I s’pose I can’t come down to breakfast
like this ...” the flapper cried excitedly.

Antoinette went upstairs with her.

Meanwhile a solitary figure crept back into the empty recreation-room,
sat motionless with hands clasped and lips parted—Ottilie, rapturously
listening to Bach and Beethoven and Brahms ... revelling in the
sentimental ecstasy of “_Heimweh_” with which the music filled her. This
was as it should be: at last in this frivolous and superficial England,
she had found one who understood the deep solid works of her countrymen.
Inspired by her presence, and by her sympathy, no doubt, he played on
and on.... When, eventually, he paused to light a cigarette, she
addressed him in her careful English: “I sank you heartiest, Herr
Crispin, zat you for me so vonderful have played.”

Crispin looked round at her and blew hard. “I d-didn’t even know you
were here....”

But Ottilie was not disheartened. She knew quite well that his
brusqueness of manner was only a cloak for his true feelings. She must
be patient with him, until he should have gained courage to throw off
the disguise. Ottilie was in romantic mood.... There was no doubt that
Herr Crispin did not fit into his English surroundings. But at home in
her dear Heidelberg—and perhaps if Herr Crispin could be persuaded to
grow a beard—Ottilie went to bed very happy that night.

Antoinette, having superintended the removal of the grease-paint from
Doreen’s face, and kissed her good-night, was making her way towards her
own room on the second floor. Half-way down the corridor, she came face
to face with Hester Cawthorn. They both stopped.

Hester’s smile was half ironic, half bitter. “Tired?”

Antoinette shook her head. She was feeling violently alive again now;
strung up; ready for anything.

“I’ve never seen anything like the vitality of you,” said Hester; and
passed on.

So Antoinette, also, went to bed happy....

And while Ottilie was dreaming of a much-Germanised Crispin; and Doreen
was deciding that she “simply must” go on the stage; and Clive was
writing a not very inspired love-letter to his Lily—“not much time
to-night, darling, because of the rotten theatricals”—Dennis Blackwood
sat at the open window of his room, and gazed out at the dark country
and wondered if he had at last found the answer to a riddle....

But long after all the others were asleep, Mrs. Blackwood lay awake. In
her mind, she was still turning over the jumbled happenings of the day,
her thoughts darting restlessly from one point to another, without
coherence or concentration. She still regretted that Reggie had been so
obstinate over playing the Dauphin’s part; wondered if she were not
strict enough with him; remembered having noticed that he was at least
half an inch taller than Mrs. Greene’s little boy, who was three months
older; wondered if Mrs. Thompsett would have thought that Doreen was too
much made-up; wondered if Dennis would make friends with that nice
little French girl ... wondered what it was that made him so different
from the other boys, and that baffled all her attempts to fathom it.
Dennis—Dennis—Dennis....

Was he happy, and if not—why not? Why didn’t he tell her? But as far
back as she could remember, he had clung to her and loved her, and never
told her anything. Why...? Perhaps he had nothing to tell. Perhaps she
only imagined that he wasn’t happy. Artists were sometimes peculiar—she
clutched at that—and her boy was an artist: perhaps that accounted for
it. Her reason, working in a peculiarly narrow circle, round and round,
round and round, accepted this as the solution, and was at peace. But
her instinct, less narrow, more subtle, blindly groping, refused to be
thus pacified. There must be—something. But what? What...?

The snoring of her husband at her side was not conducive to the
elucidation of psychological mysteries.


                              CHAPTER III

“Come for a walk with me—do!” The tone was half pleading, half
commanding. Hester Cawthorn very slowly closed her book, and from the
depths of her chair on the lawn, looked up at Antoinette’s eager face.
She shook her head, and Antoinette repeated under her breath “Do....”

Hester’s sullen mouth curved into a smile. “Why should I?”

“Because I—I want you to.”

“You seem to consider that an adequate reason!”

“Well—isn’t it?”

The hotel visitors, grouped upon the lawn to laze away the hot
after-lunch hour, were surprised at seeing Miss Cawthorn and Antoinette
de Courcy stroll down the drive together. It was the first time that
Miss Cawthorn had been known to set out in company.

“That child has such a way with her, she gets round everybody,” murmured
Mrs. Blackwood, hoping that Dennis would take notice.

Hester and Antoinette walked in silence down the length of the shady
drive. Antoinette was not so sure of herself now; wondered what would be
the result of her daring. It had certainly needed daring to ask Hester
to come out with her. There was about Hester a nimbus of
unapproachability that was recognised by everyone in the hotel, and that
had aroused, firstly, curiosity and secondly, interest in Antoinette.
Also, she was strangely attracted by this woman with the sombre hooded
eyes and down-curved mouth that seemed to speak of much bitterness and
disillusion. During her stay at Amberhurst, Antoinette had become
amazingly intimate with all the hotel visitors; most of them, at one
time or another, had been moved to tell her “the story of my life”; for
she was a good listener, and waited with rapt eagerness for the
picturesque or the dramatic note that should stamp each story with
individuality. Everybody confided in her, petted her, spoilt her. Hester
alone had held aloof from her, as she had held aloof from the others.
But Antoinette was resolved to make herself the exception to Hester’s
rule.

“And now—what do you want?” Hester’s question, breaking the silence, was
abrupt but not discourteous.

Antoinette laughed. “To tell the truth, I don’t know. ‘_Je ne sais pas
ce que je veux, mais je le veux absolument._’”

“Well, then, believe me, you won’t get it.”

“How can you say that, when you don’t know—when I don’t even know—what
it is I want?”

“I can only warn you that it’s useless to expect anything from me—I’ve
nothing to give.” Hester’s voice was low and beautiful, despite its
occasional harshness. Antoinette thrilled at the sound of it, and at the
warning that had just been flung at her. Nothing to give—why, she must
have worlds to give to one who knew how to claim her gifts. Or perhaps
once already she had bestowed them, bestowed them royally upon one
unworthy ... and was cautious now, distrustful of anyone attempting to
approach the fortress-gates behind which was locked—herself. Antoinette
would lay siege to the fortress with every weapon in her power, with
daring and gentleness and subtlety, until the gates were opened to her.
She felt confident of success, buoyantly happy as she strode along at
Hester’s side, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her jersey, the
noon-day sun beating down upon her bare head.

“You’ll catch sun-stroke, child.”

“Not I!”

“Haven’t you anything to put on your head?”

“I believe so, somewhere in my pocket,” Antoinette drew out a crumpled
red silk cap and swung it in her hand.

“Put it on,” commanded Hester curtly. Antoinette obeyed, enjoying the
sensation of being ordered about by Hester.

“Even if you do happen to be possessed of extraordinary vitality,” the
latter continued, “there’s no need to squander it.”

“Am I squandering it?” Antoinette asked innocently. She was not
introspective, but she was always interested when people told her things
about herself.

“Are you squandering it, indeed...? Rushing along a dusty road at the
rate of eight miles an hour, at the hottest time of the day——”

“I’m so sorry! Is it too hot for you? Shall we go back?”

“No, I’ve no objection to it. But then I’ve not been wearing myself out
with emotional acting every night this week.”

“Oh, the acting ... it was such fun! Absolute rot, of course, poor dear
Rosabel hasn’t the faintest notion how to write a play, but she’s
written half a dozen different ones about Marie Antoinette. In fact,
whenever I meet her, she seems to be in the thick of writing one, and
she falls upon my neck with: ‘Antoinette darling, I’m writing a tragedy
about _her_—it’s to be something exquisite ... six acts and nineteen
scenes ... no, don’t ask me anything about it ... the first scene is in
a sort of inn and people come in and talk ... no, I can’t tell you any
more, you’d think me so stupid.... Another time, perhaps....’”

Hester was laughing outright by now; and thus encouraged, Antoinette
went on: “We had an awful business with this particular masterpiece.
Rosabel had left all the parts, except the Queen’s, quite sketchy; so we
had to invent them at rehearsals, and make them fit together as well as
we could. Rosabel is never quite successful with anything she attempts.
There’s a certain blighted perkiness about her, that makes her rather
like an early bird that hasn’t caught the worm—or perhaps she’s the
early worm that always gets the bird....”

“You’re too brilliant, my young friend.”

“Am I? Why?”

Hester smiled inscrutably and was silent.

“Why am I too brilliant?” Antoinette was suddenly overwhelmed by the
fear of disapproval. “I—I wasn’t trying to be.”

“No, I daresay you weren’t. I was only thinking of that old proverb that
was dinned into one’s ears in the nursery: ‘Sing before breakfast—cry
before night!’”

“Oh, do you mean that I shall—‘cry before night’?”

Hester looked down at the eager laughing face, the boyish curls
surmounted carelessly by the red cap. “You won’t, at all events, cry
before—to-night.”

“But you think I shall eventually? Can you tell the future, then?”

“Most people’s futures are written on their faces, aren’t they?”

“For those who are able to read them.... So that’s how you read mine!
Well, I don’t care....” Antoinette flung her cap into the air and caught
it again. “I assure you that if I do have to ‘cry before night,’ I shall
‘sing before breakfast’ quite a lot _en attendant_.”

“I’ve no doubt you will,” said Hester.

“I’m doing it now—simply having the time of my life.”

“And in what,” Hester’s tone was ironical, “in what, exactly, does the
‘time of your life’ consist?” Then before Antoinette could answer, she
covered up the question with: “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to—I’ve
no wish to force confidence.”

Antoinette smiled involuntarily at the notion that Hester should assume
in her a reticence equal to her own. If she had told the truth, she
would have answered: “I’m happy because there’s so much love in the
world, and because so much of it comes to me, and mostly because I’m
walking beside you now....”

But she only said, “It’s not that I’m really doing anything
extraordinary, but this is the first time I’ve ever stayed away from my
people—would you believe it, and I’m nearly twenty-two—but Grand’mère
has quite obsolete ideas as to what a _jeune fille_ should do and
shouldn’t do, even though she’s lived over here for twenty-five years.”

“Were you born in England, then?”

“Yes. And I feel quite English. The others—Grand’mère and Mother and
Father are terribly French, though....” Antoinette gave a sigh, and then
laughed again. “Being away is such fun, I love sitting down to breakfast
in the morning with a different set of faces, don’t you?”

“I never sit down with a ‘set of faces’ at all.”

“Don’t you? Not ever? Not even at home?”

Hester was silent. Antoinette tried to imagine the family-circle from
which she might have sprung, and gave it up as hopeless: she could not
picture Hester in relation to a mother or father, sisters or brothers.
She could only see her as an individual, detached from her surroundings,
lonely and alone. Her whole heart went out in sympathy to this strange
woman with the fierce reserve, and the sensitiveness that lay behind her
brutally direct manner; in sympathy, and something that was more than
sympathy.

After a while, Hester said with quiet bitterness: “I have no home....”

Impulsively Antoinette put out her hand to touch her arm. “I’m sorry—so
dreadfully sorry—you must be lonely.”

Hester made no movement in response, but replied coldly, “You make a
mistake: I am not lonely.”

Antoinette, baffled, dropped her hand and was silent. She had been
tactless and deserved her rebuff; nevertheless it had hurt—rather. The
conquest of Hester, impregnably immured in her fortress, was proving
even more difficult than she had anticipated, and therefore ten times
more desirable. Antoinette was accustomed to easy victories, victories
so easy as scarcely to merit the name, and she was tired of them; but
the prospect of difficulties only stimulated the fighting-instinct in
her.

Hester, with an air of detached amusement, was watching her absorbed
face. “I warned you, didn’t I...?”

Antoinette flashed out: “If you think I’m frightened of your
prickliness——”

“Oh, you hot-headed little fool.... What’s all this for? If you think
I’m going to make a friend or a confidante of you, you’re mistaken. Real
friendship is, in my experience, a treasure impossible to find, and I’ve
no use for people who want to know my family-history, and whence I came
and whither I’m going.... What concern of theirs can it be? No, I have
no friends and I want none. You’re only wasting your time with me.”

“I’m not—it isn’t waste!” cried Antoinette, “you’re so wonderful, and
ever since I’ve been here I’ve wanted to talk to you, only I never quite
dared till to-day, and then I simply couldn’t stop myself.... I noticed
you the first evening I came—how could I help it? All the other people
move about in lumps, three or four staying together, three or four at a
table in the dining-room, three or four going out together—and only you
were alone. That was remarkable to begin with.”

“I shall always be alone,” said Hester.

“Yes—and I know why!” Inspiration seemed suddenly to come to Antoinette.
“Whereas the others want company, want to be together at any price, you
only want what is really good enough for you. It’s—it’s as if it had to
pass through fire before it could get to you.”

“You’re fantastic,” Hester smiled, but not unkindly, and then, without
interrupting her, she let Antoinette have her say.

“I can understand your keeping the others out and hating them to ask
questions—you know they’re only inquisitive, and not asking because it
means a great deal to them. It means a great deal to me, I can’t tell
you why, but it just does. Please won’t you let me come a little bit
closer? You see, I’m not frightened of the prickles or the fire....”
Quite unconsciously she was pleading as a very young boy might plead
with his lady-love.

Hester shook her head. “Even if you do ‘come closer,’ as you say, you’ll
only be disappointed. Go and fall in love with that nice Blackwood boy:
it will be much more profitable than this sort of thing.”

“This sort of thing...?” Antoinette repeated with a puzzled frown.

Hester looked at her sharply for a moment, then gave a curt laugh.
“Never mind.... Do as I say. Stick to young Blackwood.”

“To Clive?” Antoinette exclaimed contemptuously. “Why, he’s engaged,
Doreen says, to a girl who studies economics and won’t powder her nose.”

“I didn’t mean Clive, I meant the one who arrived yesterday—Dennis. At
any rate, I’m certain that he’s going to fall in love with you.”

Antoinette was not interested. Hester continued: “He’s quite a
character-study. I should like to hear how the affair progresses.”

“Would you...?” cried Antoinette, overjoyed at the idea that anything
connected with herself could be of interest to Hester. “I’d better
cultivate him, then.”

“I’ll leave you my address,” said Hester.

“Your address? But you’re not going away yet, surely?”

“Going this very evening.”

Antoinette stood stock-still in the middle of the road, and gasped.
“Not—really?” In the case of anyone but Hester, her plans would have
been known by the whole hotel for days in advance. It was but another
proof of Hester’s aloofness, that the time of her departure came to
Antoinette as an absolute shock.

“Don’t look so bewildered: it can’t possibly matter to you.”

“But it does—more than anything else in the world—more than ever now.
When I started out with you this afternoon, I was only enormously
interested in you, and I admired you—your brains, and the gorgeous way
you have of choking off people you don’t want. I’ve watched you do
it—Oh, often—but you’re not going to choke me off like that, because
now, I—I love you....” She had not intended to say those words; a few
moments ago they would not have entered her mind; now she had not only
said them: she meant them.

Hester looked at her gravely, without curiosity and without
astonishment. “If that’s the case, I’ve no right to choke you off. But
understand once and for all that you’re on a wild-goose chase. You’ll
find none of the hidden depths in me that you seem to expect to find.”

“Whether that’s true or not, I’ll never expect any confidence or
anything that you don’t give me of your own free will. But there’s
nothing on earth that I wouldn’t do for you, if I thought it would make
you happy.”

Hester said with that curious dignity that was hers: “Thank you....”

They walked back then. After some time, Antoinette ventured to ask,
“Where is it you’re going to-night?”

The answer was: “To Bristol—if the gods are good to me!” and Antoinette
saw that Hester’s dark eyes were illuminated by a gleam of light, and
fixed straight ahead of her, as if in pursuance of some vision whence
the light had come. Antoinette longed to know what was portended by that
phrase: “If the gods are good to me ...” wondered what was drawing her
to Bristol; if she lived there; if she ever came to London; why she had
been staying at Amberhurst. But all these questions remained unasked.
She would prove herself worthy of Hester by showing no curiosity, by
accepting as a matter of course anything that she might do.

Her offer to help Hester with her packing was declined; but she obtained
permission to see her to the station.

“I may be late for dinner,” Antoinette flung over her shoulder to
Rosabel, as, for the second time that day, she left the hotel in
Hester’s company. Rosabel stared open-mouthed.... Hester laughed. “You
see, even your friend is struck by the incongruity of seeing us
together!”

“It isn’t incongruous really. At least I don’t think it is. I’m sure I
should find much more in common with you, than with Rosabel.” Antoinette
flushed, fearing that she had said too much; but Hester did not appear
to think that she had been guilty of impertinence.

“Perhaps I’m only letting you imagine that you could....” Antoinette
pondered on this; then: “No, if you were only acting, just to give me
that impression, you’d be so clever that I’d have to adore you all the
same. It’s no earthly good trying to put me off by pretending you aren’t
what I know you are.”

“I don’t know that I am trying to put you off now.... I’m only trying to
be honest and sincere with you, and to keep you from disappointment.”

“Honest and sincere—I should just think you are! I’d follow your lead
blindly through anything, and feel that I could trust you.”

“Oh, child, child, don’t put all that trust in me. No one but a god
could be worthy of so much. It’s too great a responsibility for a mere
human being.”

“No trust and no faith could be too great for me to give you—and—and
I’ll never let you feel the responsibility of me as a drag. I can look
out for myself. I want to walk level with you, not hanging on.”

“You shall do as you wish,” said Hester.

In silence they paced the platform of the little country station.
Antoinette’s exaltation was shadowed now with the dread of parting from
Hester. But she allowed no word of regret to pass her lips. She would be
true to her assertion that she would not “hang on” to Hester. Hester’s
happiness, apparently, lay in going; so, with all her heart, Antoinette
tried to want her to go, even though Amberhurst would seem a deserted
wilderness without her. She regretted the wasted days that had gone
before she had made up her mind to speak to her; the last few hours of
joy had passed so swiftly; and now—and now——

Antoinette hastily shook back her curls and smiled, as the train came
in. The door of the compartment was slammed between them.

“Well, good-bye,” said Antoinette lightly, enjoying the self-imposed
necessity of acting up to Hester, “good luck to you.”

Hester leant out of the window, and, just as the train started, bent
down and kissed her.

... In a very agitated frame of mind, Antoinette wandered back to the
hotel. What had been the most wonderful adventure of her life was at an
end—no, she would not believe that it was at an end, even though she had
received no promise that Hester would write to her, and had no idea when
or if she would ever see her again. The adventure had only just begun;
there must be an equally wonderful continuation to it—some time. And in
the meantime, she would rest secure in the memory of that last second
before the train started.... She could have shouted aloud with the joy
of being alive, and in love: if Hester would only allow herself to be
loved, she would try to make up to her for all the bitterness and
disappointment that might have been in her life. Antoinette was young
enough and mad enough at the moment to believe that anything was
possible.

The Faynes were half-way through dinner when she joined them at their
table.

Mrs. Fayne said, “Why, you’ve been out with that Miss Cawthorn nearly
all day? So morose and unsociable, I always think her.”

“She looks as if she had a secret sorrow,” Rosabel murmured soulfully,
“did she tell you about it, Antoinette?”

Antoinette smiled. “No, she didn’t tell me about it....”

“Then whatever did you talk about, such a long time?”

“Oh—books ...” Antoinette replied at random.

Dinner was over, and most of the visitors were drinking coffee out on
the lawn, glad of the breeze after the sweltering heat of the day. In
couples or in groups they sauntered up and down the grounds, light
dresses showing up against the sombre foliage of the trees; glowing
cigarette-ends making pin-points of fire in the darkness. Antoinette
looked at the couples and at the groups and thought of one who would
have walked alone amongst them. There was certainly no pathos in
Hester’s solitude, none of the pathos of the lonely woman of uncertain
age, drifting from one hotel to another. Pathos would scarcely have
appealed to Antoinette as did the compelling and magnetic dignity of
Hester’s voluntary isolation.

“Won’t you come for a stroll?” Dennis Blackwood was beside her now,
looking down upon her from his superior height.

“If you like....” She accepted the cigarette he offered her, and was
ironically conscious of being quite in the picture now: two and two,
smoking cigarettes, just like the others.

They walked to the end of the hotel-grounds, across some adjoining
fields, and stood on a bridge that spanned a branch-line of the railway.
The ridge of the hills was dim as a shadow; here and there showed the
dull orange squares of cottage-windows, and on either side of the
bridge, the railway-tracks stretched away into the greyness.

Antoinette did not speak. She waited with a certain curiosity for Dennis
to do so. It was he who had borne her off much as she had borne Hester
off that afternoon. Decidedly, it was for him to begin.... She wondered,
still ironically, how his methods of attack would compare with her own.
In all probability, he would try to kiss her. It “belonged” to the whole
scene and setting that he should do so, but it would be a nuisance. She
hoped he would be a trifle more original, so that she could give Hester
an interesting description of the proceedings....

The complex scale passages of the Waldstein Sonata drifted out to them
on the breeze.

Dennis laughed. “That’s Crispin. He’s purloined the key of the
recreation-room, locked himself in, and is now playing to rows of empty
chairs. I bet it’s the first time he’s feeling happy since we arrived.”

“Oh,” said Antoinette, “is he so very unhappy here, then?”

Dennis shrugged his shoulders. “Well, not exactly unhappy. Just out of
place. A square peg in a round hole—like so many of us ...” he mused.

“So you, too, are a square peg?”

He looked at her intently with his clear brown eyes, that were large and
curiously soft under their jutting brows. “Yes.” Then, at a venture:
“Like yourself ...” and still his eyes held hers, as if seeking some
response, some sign by which he might know that she knew the answer to
his riddle.

She shook her head. “Oh, I’m not a square peg, I just fit in anywhere.
It’s fun, trying to fit into different sorts of places; it must be
beastly if you can’t. I’m sorry for your friend.”

“He’ll be all right to-morrow. We’re off, you know, to Devon.”

“Don’t I wish I were going too!” she breathed fervently.

“Do you—do you really?” he cried. “I wish you were. You’d enjoy our long
tramps, and the quaint little inn-places where we have to put up. Do you
know that part of the country?”

Her answer was not to the point. “I was thinking for the moment that
Bristol was in Devon—my geography is shockingly hazy.”

He knew better than to comment upon her irrelevant remark. She stood
with her hands on the stone parapet of the bridge, and looked out at the
railway-tracks that gleamed faintly for a short distance, and then lost
themselves in the mist. He had the sudden desire to stroke her head,
just on top where the hair was quite smooth before it broke into the
mass of short curls bunched over her ears and around the nape of her
neck. He wanted gently to turn her face towards him, and to look again
into her clear grey eyes, and share the dreams that must lurk in their
depths. He felt by instinct that they were strange dreams, which for
him, however, would hold no strangeness. Even though she had evaded his
first attempt to prove the existence of a common meeting-ground, that
very evasiveness showed his instinct to be correct.

She spoke then, rousing herself from her abstraction. “It seems so odd
that we’ve never heard you play. Your mother has told me such a lot
about your music—I’m really not trying to talk like Mr. Griggs—but it
_is_ odd, knowing that you’re probably longing to play.”

“Yes, of course I am; but I can’t here.”

“Because of the people?”

“Yes. I can’t bear showing off; making an exhibition of myself.”

“Then why not do as your friend has done: lock the door?”

Dennis laughed. “Oh, Crispin is a real child of nature. If he wants to
do a thing, he just does it, regardless. I’m afraid I lack that happy
faculty.”

“You’ve got others instead, though. How I envy anyone who can
compose—create—find an outlet for everything that’s bubbling and
frothing inside their brain.”

“Your acting last night—that was a sort of safety-valve, wasn’t it?”

She gave him a quick, vivid smile in acknowledgment of his
understanding. “Yes, but what’s the good of acting? Even if I did it
properly, which I don’t. There’s nothing left of it to-day. You can’t
compare it with being able to create something really lasting....” If
only she could have borrowed Dennis’s creative powers to-night, just for
to-night, Hester should have had some wondrous tribute to their few
hours together!

He said: “You needn’t envy me. I haven’t even started to compose
properly yet. I’m still inarticulate. All that I really want to say,
seems to lie beyond my reach, beyond mere terms of music; impossible to
express, and impossible to set free.”

“Those songs of yours, and the pieces you’ve published—what about them?”

“Well, they were written, as you might say, with the top layer of my
brain. But how did you know of them?”

“Your mother showed them to me. She’s got them with her.”

He smiled tenderly. “Poor darling ... fancy travelling my stuff around
with her like that, and she doesn’t even know one note from another.”

“She just adores you, doesn’t she?”

“Yes. I could almost wish she didn’t.”

“Oh—but why...?”

He was silent for a moment. A train thundered under the bridge, sent up
a shower of glowing red sparks, tore through the sleeping country, and,
with a long-drawn shriek, vanished into a tunnel in the hills. Then the
signals creaked and jerked into their places with a rattling sound; and
all was still again.

“I’m so afraid of hurting her,” he mused, “you see, from her point of
view, I’m not very satisfactory.”

“I don’t see that at all,” cried Antoinette, “she’s awfully proud of
you, and quite convinced that you’re going to be famous.”

“And do you imagine that it’ll satisfy her even if I _am_ famous—just
famous? She wants something more for me than fame.”

“And that is——?”

“Happiness....”

“Well, and why shouldn’t you have happiness too? I’m not foolish enough
to imagine that it comes _through_ fame, but can’t you have it as well
as fame?”

He looked at her again. She seemed unsubstantial, wraith-like in the dim
light; eyes very big in her white face; the breeze softly stirring her
dull fair curls. He said, very low: “That depends....”

Another train flew past, enveloping them for a moment in flame-lit
billows of smoke; its tail-light was a slowly-diminishing point of red,
till at last, like some animal seeking its burrow in the ground, it
vanished into the tunnel. The earth seemed to quiver a little after its
noisy passage; the wailing shriek of the engine was muted, by the
distance, to a sound of unbearable yearning and beauty. Somewhere a
church-clock struck ten. And somewhere in the world, there was—Hester. A
sudden wave of feeling came over Antoinette; love so intense as to be
almost pain....

“Impossible to express and impossible to set free——” In her thoughts she
was unconsciously echoing Dennis’s words. Then, half-aloud: “Perhaps
some day it will be set free!”

In the darkness she heard Dennis catch his breath, but already she had
moved away from the bridge, was walking back towards the hotel. He
followed in silence; drew level with her; and noticed, as her sleeve
brushed against his, that the dew had soaked through the thin silk of
her jersey. He would not risk destroying by the clumsy medium of speech,
the fine web of affinity that was spun between them, and of the
existence of which he was no longer in doubt.

Antoinette reflected that the conversation had been more interesting
than she had anticipated; and after all, he had not attempted to kiss
her: she scarcely knew whether she was relieved or disappointed....

The lawn was deserted now; they went straight into the lounge, and stood
blinking in the sudden light.

Mrs. Blackwood looked up eagerly at their entrance, held out her hand to
Antoinette, and telling Reggie to bring a chair for her, drew her into
the family-circle. Dennis announced his intention of climbing through
the window of the recreation-room to rout out Crispin; and Mrs.
Blackwood said to Antoinette, “You’ve made quite a conquest of Dennis,
my dear. He’s not a bit a lady’s man, really. I suppose he’s always
thinking of his work, and so he enjoys a chat with someone who
_thoroughly understands_ music. You must come and stay with us at
Eastwold, when he comes back from Devonshire, and then you’ll be able to
have some nice long talks together.”

“Thanks awfully, Mrs. Blackwood, I should love to come,” Antoinette
replied with genuine enthusiasm. She was always thrilled by the prospect
of new surroundings. Besides, Hester would doubtless be amused....

Doreen squeezed Antoinette’s arm affectionately, and Reggie exclaimed:
“Good egg! If you practise your iron-shots, and remember to keep your
head down, you’ll be able to play with Dad whenever I can’t. He often
likes a game when he comes back from the City.”

Antoinette said hastily, “I’m afraid my golf will never be good enough
for that, Reggie....”

But Reggie responded with mingled impatience and gallantry, “You don’t
expect a fellow to swallow such tosh, do you?”


                               CHAPTER IV

A few days later, Antoinette returned to London; and old Madame de
Courcy, her grandmother, was interrogating her on the subject of her
stay with the Faynes.... Had she met many amiable young men? Had they
admired her? Had she told them to come and visit her grandmother and her
parents? And her friend, la petite Fayne, had she also been admired?

Antoinette answered all these questions with a comprehensive “Oui,
Grand’mère....” Conversation with Madame de Courcy was always difficult,
firstly because she was very deaf and secondly because she was of an
inquisitiveness and a lack of tact and discretion, that ruled out for
Antoinette all possibility of confidence or affection. She could only
see her grandmother as a comic figure; sometimes as a most irritating
one; never by any chance as one to be loved or reverenced. Grand’mère
frequently indulged in fits of hysteria, in which at the top of her
voice, she would set forth the failings and shortcomings of three
generations of the family, with a special notice for the particular
offence of which each individual, whether dead or alive, had been guilty
towards herself. The performance would usually be started by some quite
irrelevant trifle—some slight breach of etiquette or imagined lack of
consideration for her years and dignity. Part I would be purely personal
and insulting; but Part II, transcending the limits of the personal,
would be wider in range, epic and panoramic; while Part III was crudely
effective through sheer noise and smashing of furniture, or whatever
chanced to be most handy. But Madame de Courcy possessed the remarkable
faculty of being able, without the slightest transition or modulation,
to switch off her hysterics, if a change of front seemed desirable. Thus
at one moment, with tears streaming down her face, she could rave
_fortissimo_ because Antoinette had omitted to say good morning to her,
or because her son-in-law René of Grenoble had once passed out of the
dining-room in front of her ... and then when she had succeeded in
working up everyone else to a similar pitch of excitement, she could on
the instant turn round and smile, in dulcet tones demand of Antoinette
the assurance that she “_aimait bien sa petite grand’mère_,” and resume
the conversation where it had previously been abandoned. The audience—if
audience there happened to be, and there usually did—was invariably
staggered no less by the suddenness of the change than by the actual
recital of the Family Saga.

She was a marvellous old lady, despite her seventy years; and her fierce
dark eyebrows met above her patrician nose, and the hairs upon her upper
lip were many. She had a wonderful memory—for grievances. And she needed
to have, as her family was very extensive and scattered about in all
portions of the globe; and only by reciting the tale of their manifold
iniquities could she draw them together in her mind’s eye.... At least,
so thought Antoinette, who from childhood upwards had listened to
Grand’mère’s outbursts, first in fear and trembling, and later on in
pure artistic appreciation of a spectacular performance.

Grand’mère’s chief hobbies and interests in life were births, deaths,
marriages and operations; but especially marriages, the arrangement,
furtherance and consequences of same. She combined the notion that a
young girl should be brought up in darkest ignorance of the facts of
life, with a fondness for discussing them publicly in intimate detail,
and with a Rabelaisian virility of language. She had married off her six
daughters, with more or less success, to gentlemen in suitable positions
residing in France, Italy and Spain. But when Anatole, her darling only
son, had come to England for business-reasons, she had accompanied him
and his young wife, and lived with them ever since. Anatole de Courcy
was a wholesale dealer in coffee, and a fairly astute man of business.
In appearance he was lean, dark, rather yellow in the face, with
projecting front teeth and a ragged moustache that he was in the habit
of gnawing. He was the only one of her children whom Madame de Courcy
had spoilt, and still manifested all the most objectionable
characteristics of the nursery favourite. He was both obstinate and
petty, and prone to outbursts of temper, not unlike his mother’s.
Sometimes, indeed, mother and son would scream at each other for hours
together, the duet only terminating when one of the vocalists fell dumb
through exhaustion.

On these occasions, Henriette de Courcy, who had long ago learnt the
futility of interfering between her husband and her mother-in-law, would
with a sweeping gesture of her beautiful hand, beckon Antoinette out of
the room. “Come, my child, we are not needed here ...” which was
obvious: Anatole and his mother, both weeping tears of rage, and hurling
the bitterest taunts and recriminations at each other, were supremely
happy.... But Henriette could never let the slightest occasion for
theatricality pass unnoticed. In her youth she had studied elocution,
and had even had dreams of going on the stage, dreams which she had been
obliged to relinquish when her parents married her to Anatole de Courcy.
Anatole was rich; Henriette was poor, and one of a great many
sisters.... But she never allowed either herself or her environment to
forget that but for her marriage, she might have become one of the
leading _tragédiennes_ of France. Her whole bearing, her gestures, the
flowing draperies she affected, were all reminiscent of the great
actress who, in her own opinion, had been sacrificed to matrimony with a
coffee-dealer. Perhaps the constant habit of the theatrical pose
accounted for the fact that Antoinette never felt any real warmth of
affection existing between herself and her mother. There was always at
the back of her mind the suspicion that Henriette’s magnificent
gestures, and deep thrilling inflections expressive of maternal passion,
were really no more than gestures and inflections, practised, perfectly
finished, but with nothing genuine behind them. Henriette was
perpetually voicing lofty sentiments upon the true development of the
soul, and had even been known, in the presence of her family, to extol
free love and the beauties thereof. Needless to say Anatole and old
Madame de Courcy did their best to counteract her evil influence upon
her daughter. But Antoinette felt that they need not have troubled: here
again she could not rid herself of the conviction that her mother was
not sincere, and that her vaunted broad-mindedness would turn into the
righteous indignation of the conventional _bourgeoise_, if ever it were
put to the test.

The house in Cadogan Gardens was hideously furnished; the rooms,
spacious and gloomy, were crammed with dreadful ornaments and pictures
that were either family heirlooms or had been Anatole’s wedding presents
from his numerous sisters. Many small tables in the drawing-room were
laden with photographs of the six sisters with their respective husbands
and offspring; a most alarming exhibition, thought Antoinette, as
neither her aunts nor her cousins were remarkable for their beauty. On
the contrary. However, the plain young cousins made up in virtue what
they so manifestly lacked in looks; witness the embroidered mats and
doyleys and cushion-covers that had been worked as birthday or Xmas
presents for Madame de Courcy, and testified to many hours of patient
toil on the part of her grandchildren. Antoinette’s handiwork alone was
not represented in this orgy of cross-stitch and crochet. Antoinette
could do neither cross-stitch nor crochet, wherefore her grandmother
argued that there must be something radically wrong with her.

As long as she had been too young and helpless to protest against the
outrage, she had always been made to recite on Madame de Courcy’s
birthday. On one occasion she had been heavily coached by her mother in
a long speech from “Athalie,” and Madame de Courcy, who was not
interested in the classics, and too deaf to understand much anyway,
began to chatter in the middle of the recitation. Antoinette stopped
dead. Her mother signed to her to continue. Grand’mère went on
chatting.... Antoinette fumed, shifting from one leg on to the other.
“Go on, _chérie_,” whispered Henriette. “I’ll go on when that horrid old
woman stops talking!” cried Antoinette, loud enough to be heard by the
deafest of grandmothers.

... In the course of the scene which ensued, Grand’mère hurled a book at
her young grand-daughter’s head. It missed its mark and fell to the
ground; Antoinette, obeying the histrionic instinct inherited from her
mother, picked it up and with icy politeness handed it back: “I think
you have dropped something....”

Since that day, Madame de Courcy had realised that Antoinette was
somehow different from her other grandchildren, and that she had “a
difficult little character.” “_Tant pis_,” she was wont to reflect, “we
will have to marry her young....” But so far Antoinette had refused to
accept her grandmother’s sovereign cure for an unusual temperament.
Grand’mère could not understand it. Why, she herself had manœuvred
several meetings with suitable people, and the girl went out in that
disgraceful free-and-easy English way with quite a lot of young men—by
dint of some picturesque perversion of the truth, Antoinette had
succeeded in obtaining a certain amount of liberty—but hitherto nothing
had come either of Grand’mère’s efforts or of Antoinette’s gadding
about. And it was not that Grand’mère was not vigilant, or that she
failed in her duty towards her Anatole’s only child: no man could take
Antoinette out to tea, or write or telephone to her, without Madame de
Courcy enquiring into his financial position, and, after the second or
third meeting had taken place: “_Eh bien, ma petite_, he has not yet
spoken to you of marriage?”

When Antoinette, after many discussions, had finally been allowed to go
to Amberhurst, Grand’mère had propounded the theory that she had been
invited because the Faynes knew of some rich young man who would be
staying there at the same time, and that they were doubtless trying to
bring about a match between him and Antoinette. Henriette languidly
reminded her mother-in-law that the Faynes had a daughter of their own;
but Madame de Courcy, who was wonderfully imaginative where her
favourite topic of matrimony was concerned, argued that even if Miss
Fayne _did_ get engaged to the “_parti_,” the “_parti_” might be struck
by the charms of Miss Fayne’s friend, and remember that he also
possessed a friend, rich and suitable like himself, who would wish to be
introduced to the friend of his friend’s _fiancée_....

Hence Grand’mère’s flood of questions on Antoinette’s return.

As the family sat down to dinner that night, the old lady greeted her
son as usual with: “_Eh bien, mon fils, comment vont les affaires?_” And
he, also as usual, replied impatiently: “_Mal, mal_ ...” for he was a
confirmed pessimist. This short duologue took place between mother and
son every evening. Having performed the ritual, Grand’mère continued to
question Antoinette with an air of false benignity that was intended to
put her at her ease, and draw forth her artless confidence.

“Tell me the names of the young men you have met. Do they live in
London? Was there not one amongst them who pleased you more than the
others?”

Very demurely, with dark lashes sweeping her white cheeks, Antoinette
launched forth into descriptions of Mr. Griggs and Clive Blackwood. She
drew a particularly beautiful imaginary portrait of Griggs, and
Grand’mère pricked up her ears.

“He lives in the country, that one? He has estates? He has asked you to
visit his family?”

Antoinette immediately robbed Mr. Griggs of his vast country estates, by
saying that alas, owing to the innate nobility of his character, he had
renounced them in favour of a consumptive younger brother.... Grand’mère
lost interest, until it struck her that the consumptive brother might
die, and Griggs thus recover possession of the estates. Antoinette did
not think it likely: the brother wasn’t as consumptive as all that....

“You waste your time with the wrong people,” her father declared
irritably, “people who can be of no use to you.”

“She lacks the commercial instinct,” Henriette spoke very slowly and
beautifully, and putting up her lorgnon, surveyed Antoinette through it.
“_C’est bien ma fille...._”

Anatole banged his fist upon the table. “It is the nonsense you put into
her head, that makes her so difficult.”

Henriette smiled her best smile of martyrdom and patient endurance.

... And Antoinette was glad that this wasn’t all: that this hideous
house and this family-party with its bickerings and discussions, did not
represent the sum-total of her universe; glad that she had given a more
or less fictitious account of her stay, and that she could keep to
herself everything that had really mattered. This sense of having a
secret which the others could not guess, made her feel wonderfully
secure, invulnerable, almost: as if no irritation or annoyance could
touch her, while she wrapped herself around with her memories of Hester.

On the plea of fatigue after her journey, she soon escaped upstairs to
her room; smiled at the tablecloth that had been embroidered by her
cousin Marguerite from Lyons, and that Grand’mère had placed in
Antoinette’s room, hoping it might exercise a beneficent influence upon
her character. Antoinette laughed happily; went to bed, and was soon
fast asleep, dreaming of Hester.

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was a long time since she had been as happy and as excited as she was
now. Her schooldays had held occasional periods of a similar excitement,
but the three years since she had left boarding-school, had been
conspicuously barren, compared with what had gone before. When she was
thirteen, there had been the melancholy-eyed young teacher of literature
whom she had adored; a dreamy unpopular woman, who had been made to
suffer horribly in the innumerable little ways in which schoolgirls can
torment their victims. Antoinette had been seized with a kind of holy
wrath, and desire to avenge and protect; she had flamed out against the
whole class, almost wishing that they would turn and rend her, so that
she might have the pleasure of sacrificing herself for her idol.... The
idol very soon learnt to return the adoration of the fervent and
hot-tempered worshipper; and simultaneously Antoinette began to lose
interest. She had only enjoyed her rôle, as long as Miss Prescot had
taken no notice of her: had been apparently unaware of the flutter and
throb of excitement caused by her mere presence in the class-room, or
her casual good-night kiss at bed-time. When Miss Prescot had come to
single her out from the other girls and to linger fondly over that
good-night kiss, Antoinette had had quite a fit of repulsion. She only
enjoyed an up-hill battle; even at that age, the easy conquest had bored
her. Also, she hated being touched, except in cases where her own
feelings were aroused. She shook off the girls who sought to walk with
their arms through hers, or to stroke her funny boyish head of hair; she
would run away from them, revelling in the fun of the chase, yet
dreading capture ... the fear in her eyes contradicted by the laughing
curves of her mouth; the eyes of a nun, indeed, and the mouth of a
voluptuary.

And then, some time later, there was the Russian girl, Natasha.

This time, Antoinette’s passion was not killed by easy reciprocity, but
kept alive by a thousand subtle tortures, rekindled by a single look or
gesture, whenever Natasha imagined that it showed signs of waning. Her
beauty was her strongest weapon, and at seventeen she used it with a
refinement of cruelty that would have done credit to a woman twice her
years. Antoinette was fascinated by her long sleepy eyes, that were
green as jade, and as hard; by the heavy black hair growing low down
upon her forehead; by her indolent graceful body, and the coldly
indifferent manner that seemed to express the disdain in which she held
her schoolfellows and her teachers alike. She had many slaves and
admirers in the school, but none so ardent, so abandoned in her
devotion, as Antoinette. Therefore, seeing that this was the case,
Natasha ignored her completely; avoided her on purpose when she knew
that the younger girl was hovering about the stairs on the chance of
being allowed to say good-night to her; ridiculed her adoration in front
of the others; paraded ostentatiously with her favourites before
Antoinette’s jealous eyes. And then, as she did not wish to forfeit
altogether the entertaining spectacle of Antoinette’s passion, she would
suddenly and unexpectedly be nice to her, making amends in five minutes
for all the ill-treatment of the previous weeks. Antoinette forgave her
gladly and generously, but the moment she imagined that her troubles
were at an end, Natasha would with equal suddenness withdraw her favour,
and treat her as badly as ever....

Antoinette suffered greatly at the time, but when her passion had worn
itself out, she began to look forward with new zest to being grown up.
If already this world of women and girls, narrow though it was, could
contain for her such a wealth of thrills and excitement, how much more
wonderful must be that other world, the world beyond school, the world
of men. So far, she was inclined to feel contemptuous of the world of
men, as represented by the elderly masters who took some of the classes
at the fashionable boarding-school, and by the coarse-looking schoolboys
who grinned at the girls when they passed each other on their daily
walks. But she knew that when she was grown-up, everything would be
different. Antoinette, counting the months, the years—fifteen, sixteen,
seventeen—indulging in occasional passing flickers of feeling for this
girl or that mistress; Antoinette, young, eager and glowing with an
exuberant vitality, could scarcely await her eighteenth birthday, and
the meeting with the lover who, she knew, awaited her ... a lover to
whom she could give all the passion of her soul, and whose touch would
thrill her even more potently than had the touch of those women she had
adored.

But when at last she was released from school, the grown-up world of men
proved singularly disappointing; totally devoid of that stimulus for
which she craved. The wonderful lover of her imagination had certainly
not yet appeared upon the scene. In the meantime, various supers tried
to play the part, but with no success as far as she was concerned. She
let them kiss her, because she hoped that thus she might find what she
sought; but those that did not arouse active repulsion in her, merely
bored her, left her with a sense of staleness and dissatisfaction. She
began to fear that she would never be capable of feeling anything for
anybody again. And now Hester had proved her fears to be groundless....
Gladly, gratefully Antoinette welcomed her advent, and the rush of
emotion which she had called forth; turned with relief from her
fruitless search in the world of masculinity, to give herself up to
whole-hearted worship of this proud silent woman, who had had the power
to arouse her from her temporary lethargy. And in so doing, Antoinette
was free from the least taint of morbidity; unaware that there was aught
of unusual about her attitude—Hester herself had perceived this—she
merely felt that she was coming into her own again, and was
healthy-minded and joyous in her unquestioning obedience to the dictates
of her inmost nature.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Hester wrote, giving her address at Bristol; nothing more. Antoinette
turned the scrawled half-sheet over and over in the hope of finding some
other message, but in vain. She had to rest content with having the
address, and hence, obviously, the permission to write to Hester.... She
wrote by return a very long letter that was amusing as well as ardent,
for she remembered that she had on occasions been able to arouse
Hester’s caustic sense of humour. And fervently she hoped that by-and-by
Hester would come to reveal herself in writing more intimately than she
was ever likely to do in speech.

The strain of waiting for Hester’s answer was almost unbearable; at last
it came: a brief acknowledgment of the receipt of Antoinette’s letter,
and the date of her departure from Bristol....

Hereupon Antoinette wrote despairingly: “Won’t you for once write me a
_real_ letter?” And Hester wrote back: “I never write what you call
_real_ letters....”

After the first disappointment, Antoinette was conscious of renewed
stimulation. Hester was unlike anyone she had ever met. What must be the
life-history, every clue to which was guarded from the merest chance of
revelation by pen and paper? Antoinette determined that one day she
would break through Hester’s reserve. In the meantime she continued to
batter it with letters into which she put all the warmth and passion
that were in her.

About the time she received Hester’s second note, a letter came from
Dennis Blackwood in Devonshire. Without a formal mode of address, it
started straight away with a request for permission to write to her, and
then rambled on for many pages in a particularly charming style, giving
vivid bits of description of the places where he and Crispin were
staying, and telling her little humorous incidents of the day’s tramp.
Antoinette said that certainly he might write to her, if he pleased; but
she did not write to him at any length, because her one-sided
correspondence with Hester was absorbing all her spare time and
interest. But apparently her letter was cordial enough to call forth an
answer by return.

Soon Dennis was writing to her every other day, then every day, then
twice a day.... Regretfully she compared his long and truly delightful
letters with Hester’s curt scrappy communications. It seemed such a
waste not to be in love with Dennis. His veritable avalanche of letters
undoubtedly pleased and flattered her, but did not cause one fraction of
the palpitating excitement that she felt at the mere sight of Hester’s
writing on an envelope.

But her grandmother’s agitation alone would have made it worth
Antoinette’s while to keep up the correspondence. Grand’mère had
naturally demanded full details concerning the young man who wrote to
her grand-daughter with such improper frequency. And Antoinette, more
demure and “jeune fille” than ever, had modestly said that he was a
great artist....

“_Hein, hein_, an artist? That does not please me at all. He has
doubtless not a farthing, and you know very well that _la vie de bohème_
is nothing for you,” with a warning glance at Henriette, from whom
Antoinette was assumed to have inherited all her immoral tendencies.

Antoinette continued gleefully to foster in her grandmother’s mind the
vision of Dennis as an impecunious artist with short nails and long
hair, who would encourage her to dance upon tables, drink champagne for
breakfast, associate with people who posed for “_L’ensemble_”—even if
she did not actually pose for “_L’ensemble_” herself—and generally
behave in a manner incompatible with Cadogan Gardens and the dignity of
the de Courcys.


                               CHAPTER V

                                                      June 29th, 1914.

“... We’re putting up to-night in rooms above a pastry-cook’s shop ...
wonderful rooms. I know you’d love them. I’ve been taking for your
benefit an inventory of the sitting-room furniture. There are yellow
faded family-photographs on the walls, and wedding-groups with
bridesmaids wearing hats with quills all pointing the same way. There’s
a dusty wooden shelf with mugs that are all Presents from the Seaside,
or else symbols of the Jubilee, the Coronation or other events of
national unimportance. There’s a red plush anchor with shells round it;
there’s a cardboard model of a ship under a glass bell; there’s a
slippery horse-hair sofa, upon which Crispin is now reclining, fast
asleep. And chiefly, there is a piano with a green silk front and a
yellow keyboard so short that I find myself clawing the air if I venture
too far away from the central C. There’s such a funny foreign look about
the way the houses here grow in a square round the market-place. They
are painted all different colours, too; there’s a bright blue one just
opposite, with a tiny salmon pink one, half its height, leaning
confidingly up against it; ours is a modest saffron yellow, with red
bars under the window-ledges. There’s a pump in the middle of the
market-square, and around it the most delightful mixed assorted
collection of dogs doze in the sun. I’m going to fetch one of them in to
talk to me when I’ve finished this letter. We don’t quite know if he’s
meant to be a bull-dog or a spaniel, but he’s long and slobbery and
brindled and adorable, and he’s going to lie across my lap, while I
whisper absurdities into his long soft ears.

I can’t get rid of the impression that this is a little foreign town.
Between the houses are narrow passages that are spanned by tiny stone
archways, dazzling white against an Italian blue sky; and from each
archway flutter boldly the coloured banners of somebody’s washing. And
the hotel, painted brownish pink and built round a triangular court
planted with shrubbery, is just such as you might find in a small place
in Switzerland.

No, I think I’ve got it now: it’s not a foreign place, in fact it isn’t
a real place at all.... It’s just a toy village that you’re allowed to
take out of the nursery cupboard and play with, when you’ve been good.

Please won’t you come and play with my toy village with me? I’ll be
awfully nice about it, and even let you work the pump and hang up the
washing when I’m tired of doing it myself.

No, it isn’t a toy village either: it’s just a dream-place. I knew that,
the instant we came in sight of it this afternoon. We’d been walking
over the moors to the accompaniment of a tearing wind that swept
magnificently up and down the scale, as it drove great lumpy golden
clouds over the edge of the horizon, and roared in our ears and muttered
in the hedgerows. And then suddenly the white road began to dip down and
down into a hollow in which lay this handful of coloured roofs. And the
sound of the wind became softer and softer, as if whoever was conducting
the orchestra, had hushed all the brass-instruments. And by the time we
reached the village-street, after a last faint murmur there was no sound
at all, only the most wonderful thick sunny silence you’ve ever listened
to. And I want you here in my dream-place. You belong in it. I may tell
you that, mayn’t I? Besides, you know. Of course you know ... don’t
you?”

                                                             July 5th.

“... You want my village for keeps? I’m afraid you can’t have it,
because if I packed it in my suit-case to bring home to you, the water
from the pump might get loose and make my collars damp. I’m sorry! I’m
sending you a nice fat tin of cream instead, which will no doubt upset
your grandmother—morally, of course. She must be a delightful old lady,
according to your descriptions, and I look forward to making her
acquaintance on my return.... We’re staying in quite a different sort of
village this time; it has an old-world triangular village-green, planted
with giant oak-trees, and enclosed on two sides by dear little thatched
cottages with trim little gardens; and it has an ivy-clad church and the
usual combination of Post Office and all-sorts shop, in which you may
revel in the complex odour of boots, cheese, liquorice, soap, sawdust,
biscuits, Fry’s chocolate and warm humanity. And best of all, this
village of ours boasts an absolutely authentic Idiot, Vicar, Oldest
Inhabitant, Lady of the Manor and Village Belle—I expect she’ll lose
some of our socks, as she happens to be the laundress in private
life—and they all come on and speak in character when the strings are
pulled. Unfortunately, the Wicked Squire is lacking from the set; he
must have been mislaid. But I hear they’ve got a Squire of sorts some
miles away, and for the sake of tradition let us hope that his morals
are infamous and his jowl unshaven and blue.

We had a long tramp to get here from Chagford, and at every farm we
encountered on the way, we halted so that Crispin might still his
insatiable appetite for bread and cheese and beer. And while he sat and
gorged in state in the parlour with the best antimacassars and the
coloured prints of the Royal Family, I prowled round the farm-buildings,
and had much speech with velvet-eyed calves, and watch-dogs straining at
their chains, and sleepy kittens, and ducks sailing proudly on the pond
in the orchard. I loved all their quacking and purring and barking and
lowing, and the excited flutter in the poultry-yard and the rich deep
sounds from the pig-sty. And oh, the farm-smell of earth and damp straw
and clover and animals and hay....

The fields are brown and red and green, and brown again; and scattered
in the hollows, or perched on the hillsides are villages—mere clusters
of whitewashed and pinkwashed cottages—gleaming in the sun. But even the
tiniest cluster has its battered grey church-spire. The smoke from the
gorse-fires floats in heavy blue clouds above the Tors, and I do so
badly want someone to share it all with me...! Crispin? Yes, he’s a dear
good sort and I like being with him. He’s so restful because he takes me
so for granted; doesn’t ask questions; and there’s never the least
strain between us. I believe Crispin is really wedded, heart and soul,
to his Bechstein grand at home. Whilst I—Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps some
day I’ll be able to tell you....

I’m afraid we shall have to push on very quickly from this perfect spot,
as Crispin has succeeded in getting us into trouble. We’ve got no piano
here, and he was told on enquiring that the only one in the
neighbourhood is up at the Manor. I had to restrain him forcibly from
marching straight in and taking possession of the instrument. I put it
to him that it couldn’t be done—no, not even if he pretended to be the
piano-tuner.... So very morosely, he gave way, and consoled himself by
borrowing the key of the church from the vicar, and playing the organ.
That was all very nice, of course, but Crispin, from force of habit,
locked himself in; and that afternoon there was to be a christening ...
and he didn’t take the slightest notice when they came and hammered on
the church-door; merely thundered away, louder than ever, on his wheezy
old organ. The christening procession had to wait outside, with the baby
catching cold, till Crispin got hungry, and came out to have his tea....
Of course they might have entered by another door, but that spoils my
story....

I’m writing you such a lot of nonsense; you don’t mind, do you? If you
only realised how difficult it is to stop writing to you! I want to go
on and on and on, and tell you things—but they are just the things you
know already.... You seem very near to me to-night. Perhaps you were
thinking about me just a little, and have come here in a dream. I
believe you’re beside me now, only if I turn to look you’ll vanish....”

                                                             July 7th.

“... It’s nice of you to ask about my opera. I haven’t worked at it much
lately. I’ve been so lazy and happy, just walking and dreaming and
eating and sleeping, and writing to you. But as regards the opera—do you
remember Andersen’s fairy-tale, ‘Karen and the Red Shoes’? A friend of
mine, Neil Barnaby, has turned it into a three-act play, and I’m writing
the music for it. It’s the first time I’ve attempted anything quite so
big. We want to have it put on with an entirely modern impressionistic
setting—perhaps next opera-season at Covent Garden. Perhaps.... To-night
I can almost believe that it will be so, and that the work that is
nearest and dearest to my heart will actually be played before hundreds
and hundreds of people. Perhaps they’ll acclaim it, go mad over it, as
I’ve seen them go mad, and gone mad myself over the Russian Opera. And I
know I shall have a ridiculous desire to cry, and there won’t be an
ounce of conceit in me, because after all it’s just my child they’ll be
making the fuss about—not me. And I’m glad that it should be like that,
for I hate being taken notice of, and always want to run away and hide.
But the child is different. The child, I think, is going to be strong.
And I love it so.... And all the pleasure that my music may bring to the
people who listen to it, won’t nearly equal some of the top-moments of
joy I’ve had in creating it. Yes, to-night I can believe that the opera
will be a success; to-night I can believe even more than that; to-night
I can believe—anything, Antoinette.

When I was at school, I was terrified of my musical gift; I hated it,
and did my utmost to suppress it, because I thought it was that which
made me different from the other boys. I loathed being ‘different’; it
made me feel so alone, so I played hard games with the others, and tried
to make friends with the others, and tried to forget that there was
something inside my brain that turned everything I felt and experienced
into music, which clamoured to be released, and which I refused to
release, because I knew that if I did so, it would widen still more the
gulf between me and the others. I built barrier upon barrier to shut in
the fragments of music that sang in my ears all day and all night; I was
powerless to keep them from entering, but at least I would give them no
chance to escape. I wouldn’t take music-lessons at school; that would
have been too dangerous; old Harper, the piano-master, was a pretty
shrewd person, and might have spotted me. I resented having this thing
to hide, and envied my brother Clive and the other boys, for not having
to wage this perpetual war against part of their own selves. There were
times when I did long so badly just to give in.... And if I did that, I
could never again keep up the pretence of being like the others.
Somehow, that pretence seemed the all-important thing: there was safety
in it.

When I was sixteen, a Jewish boy called Eric Rubenstein came to
Westborough. He was clever as they’re made, but ugly and undersized, and
appallingly sensitive; he had a rotten time of it. Everything about him
seemed to lay him open to being ragged—his looks, his name (they called
him Little-by-Little ‘for short’) and the way his people kissed him
before the whole school, and brought him pineapples and grapes when they
came down to see him. He used, for some unfathomable reason, to follow
me around with his great intelligent eyes, that were like the eyes of a
dog that expects to be kicked; but I didn’t even try to befriend him.
You see, I realised that young Eric was likely to be dangerous too: he
played the violin, and he played it like an artist....

He fagged for a great loutish Sixth Form chap called Burnley, who did
his best to make Eric’s life a misery. I was in Burnley’s study one
Saturday afternoon, and he and some of his pals were banging away on the
piano. Someone suggested that the Jew-boy, who was toasting muffins by
the fire, should play his violin.... The Jew-boy refused, and I was glad
that he had refused to play to them. Then I saw that Burnley was looking
at him with a very evil gleam in his heavy eyes. The next instant the
storm broke. ‘What—you won’t? Is there any law in your benighted
religion to prevent you playing the fiddle on Saturdays?’

Eric blazed out: ‘My religion’s as good as yours!’ and then relapsed
into his usual attitude of defence.

‘Oh, no, it isn’t, Ikey,’ Burnley grinned, ‘don’t make any mistake about
that; you’re a Jew, that’s what you are, a dirty Jew ... ugh!’

They went on badgering him about his religion and about his father, who
was supposed to have kept a fried-fish shop before he got rich. And they
threatened him with lickings, and with red-hot pokers down his back if
he wouldn’t play.... I daresay most of it was bluff, but he must have
had memories of previous tortures, for he turned absolutely white, and
tried to hide his funk under a rather sickening smile.

He kept on looking to me for help, but I just sat there, with the palms
of my hands getting hot and sticky, and didn’t move. They forced him
finally by threat of sheer physical violence, and I felt that it was
indecent that he should play before those boys who didn’t really want to
hear his music, and only wanted to make a mock of him; and indecent that
I should be listening. But I had to stop and listen. I hadn’t interfered
to protect him, but I couldn’t leave him quite alone while he played....
And then I realised that Eric wasn’t really giving himself in his music;
he seemed to be withholding himself from expression. I was terribly
afraid that as he went on he’d overstep the borders of his reserve, but
he didn’t. His playing was correct and polished; and absolutely
soulless.

When he had finished, I was unthinkingly whistling the Russian song he’d
played; and he looked up and came across to me, seeing that the others
were all busy round the piano. ‘Yes, of course that’s how it ought to
have been played, but I couldn’t do it like that—could I—for them.’ I
had to take care not to let him guess how heartily I agreed with him, so
I said off-handedly: ‘I don’t see why not!’

‘Oh, yes, you do,’ he persisted, ‘you _know_.... You must have a
wonderful ear to be able to whistle it straight off like that. Don’t you
love Wieniawski? I do....’ He was no longer the cringeing little Fourth
Form fag addressing a senior boy; he was speaking as man to man, or as
one artist to another. But I had to shut him up; told him I didn’t
‘know,’ and hadn’t any ear at all, and hated Wieniawski and all other
kinds of music, and advised him to stow his cheek.... Oh, I could talk
the vernacular right enough! He just gave me one look, half reproachful
and half apologetic; then he blurted out, under cover of the song that
the others were bawling in chorus: ‘I—I suppose you thought me an utter
worm just now—I know I am, but it makes me sick—pain does—even the idea
of it—and being helpless and knowing that it isn’t going to stop—and it
comes over you in waves each a bit more ghastly than the last. It isn’t
what they do, though that’s bad enough sometimes.... It’s what they
might do ... and you know exactly what it would feel like, and you lie
awake at night and think about it, and wait——’

It was all too horrible for words. I longed to shut him up again, but I
saw that he’d reached the limits of his endurance, and simply had to
talk.... He went on to tell me about his people at home. ‘My father
thinks I’m ever so happy here, and popular, and good at games and all
that—he’s so absurdly proud of me, you see—so in the holidays I have to
keep it up—fib about cricket matches I’m supposed to have played in, and
invent stories of practical jokes in which I figure as the hero instead
of the victim ... and he drinks it all in, and loves it, and I can’t
bear to let him know.’

He said that, when I suggested that he should get his parents to take
him away from Westborough. Plucky, wasn’t it? And heartbreaking. He was
such a kid.... I had an insane desire to be nice to him, to make up for
what the others were doing to him. But after that one outburst, I
avoided him more than ever. With his subtle Jewish instinct he’d
discovered well enough that I _was_ different from the others; but he
never again attempted to speak to me about music, although he must have
known all along. I was grateful to him for that; the barriers I had
built were getting weaker and weaker; and I had the almost superstitious
conviction that they would only stand firm as long as I didn’t tell
anybody about myself, or let them give me the sympathy and understanding
I craved for. I dared not let myself get fond of Eric, or I might
have been swept away to heaven knows what headlong flights
of—‘differentness.’ So the desire to be nice to him had to be fought
down as well....

And then one day—it was the half-term holiday, and pouring with rain. I
went up to the practice-room at the top of the house to fetch something
I’d been sent for—and the piano was open—and no one was about—and I
thought I’d just see if I could remember one of the absurd pieces Clive
and I had been taught by our nursery-governess.

I don’t know how it happened: I had started by picking out ‘The Merry
Peasant,’ but a while after, without realising what I was doing, I was
finding chords that began to release, bit by bit, some of the music that
was imprisoned inside my head, and that seemed to be spurring me on,
impatient of my clumsy fingers that groped so slowly for the magic
formula that would set it free....

Later on, I was out on the Downs, running away from what I knew I should
never be able to escape, now that I had let _it_ escape me ... given the
thing that was in my mind a separate existence, by putting it outside
myself. It was just that—putting it outside myself—that had swept me
right over my own barriers. I knew then that come what might, I’d got to
be a musician, even if it did mean being different and being lonely. I
knew I’d got to suffer, and by suffering—create. I determined that the
one person who should share that knowledge with me, should be Eric. I
looked forward to being able to be decent to him at last....

I wandered about for hours in the wind and rain, and when I got back,
there was a little knot of boys whispering in the hall. ‘I say, have you
heard?’ ‘No, what?’ ‘About the Jew-boy—appendicitis—awful agony, the
Matron says, quickest case she’s ever heard of—_scream_—you should have
heard him, fair blood-curdling, I can tell you.’ ‘It’s awfully quiet
now; his people have come.... Will they take him—take _it_—away...?’

That was the end of Eric, who dreaded the idea of pain.

... After that, I didn’t make any attempt to crawl back behind my
barriers; they weren’t strong enough anyway to stand against the
flood-tide that had broken out. Everything that I felt about Eric would
set itself to weird horrible music that drummed unceasingly in my ears,
and demanded expression, and I was dead tired of choking it back. So I
had to let myself become a musician. But I put up an awfully hard fight
against it. It’s queer to think of it now....

I don’t know how it is that I can talk to you like this. I’ve never told
anyone else about Eric, and I know I couldn’t do it so easily if you
were really here. But being miles away from you, there’s nothing to
frighten me into shutting myself up, nothing to destroy my conviction
that you _do_ understand.

Good-night, dear. I’ve enjoyed talking to you....”

                                                            July 12th.

“We’re zig-zagging about the country in the most amazing style. And I
wish I could collect all the things I’ve loved most, and bring them back
to you. There’s the early-morning smell—such a foreign smell, too—of
pines, and fresh-cut grass, and stone walls and burning wood. And there
are the evenings when the scent of the earth and the trees after the
day’s heat is so strong and sweet and poignant that it hurts you; and
there’s a glamour over the whole world; and the lights begin to show in
the cottage-windows; and a great golden moon swims up over the hard
black edge of the moor.... Yesterday we found a river, gleaming silver
in the depths of a forest—such a river.... It rushed onward at a tearing
rate, hurling itself down over great moss-grown boulders, working itself
into a white frenzy of foam as it fretted its way between them, and
swirled around the outstanding tree-roots. And, oh, the colours of the
water—crystal and gold where the sun touched it, clear amber and brown
and green where it was flecked by the shadow of the branches. You’ve
never heard such a wonderful orchestra of bird-voices: the low clear
note of the blackbird as soloist, and all the warbling, trilling,
chirping and whistling that went to make a harmonious accompaniment,
together with the soothing monotone of the bees, and the hurry, hurry,
hurry of the river—but what’s the good of trying to tell you about it in
words? Perhaps I’ll put it into music for you some day. There’s such a
lot to be done ‘some day,’ isn’t there? When I get back, you must come
to Covent Garden with me. And there’ll be concerts, too. It’s a regular
feast of good music in London this season. We’re taking the train to
Exeter to-morrow, and I may be coming straight home from there, unless
Crispin lures me on into Cornwall. I’m too sleepy and drunk with the air
to make up my mind definitely to-night. But I’ll let you know to-morrow.

Good-night....”


                               CHAPTER VI

Antoinette smiled tenderly over those letters; he must be a queer
person, Dennis Blackwood, to write to her like that, after having only
spoken to her once. She liked his letters from an artistic point of
view, and the bulk of them gave her a feeling of warmth and contentment;
but once read, she put them aside; did not pore over them as she pored
over Hester’s, striving to read between the lines, and to put into the
words meanings which did not exist. Hester at a distance was most
unsatisfactory, so much so, that it sometimes cost Antoinette a real
effort to conjure up the image of her personality. She ventured to
express the hope that she might soon be allowed to see Hester again; and
to her infinite surprise, Hester replied that she was at Birmingham now,
and that if Antoinette thought it worth while, she might come and spend
a day with her there.

Antoinette trembled with joy on receiving that letter. It lay beside the
one in which Dennis had told her about Eric Rubenstein, and Grand’mère
peered inquisitively over the silver coffee-pot. But Antoinette cared
naught for Grand’mère that morning: she was going to see Hester, and
Dennis was evidently in love with her, and the world was altogether an
excellent place; gratefully Antoinette accepted the gifts that fate was
showering upon her—gratefully as a flower opens its petals to the sun.

Some days later, by dint of a series of lies and precautions, she set
out for Birmingham. She could not tell the family where she was going.
They knew nothing about Hester, and had they done so, would doubtless
have deemed the two hours’ journey to see her, crazy and an unnecessary
expense. She had stated that she was spending the day at Rosabel’s in
Hampstead; and Rosabel, good soul, had been sworn to secrecy.

What would the day give her? Antoinette wondered, as the train bore her
northwards, her excitement growing and growing with every beat of the
wheels. In what circumstances and in what state of mind would she find
Hester? She was entirely in the dark, her imagination free to illuminate
it with the most fantastic of pictures. It was fantastic enough in
itself that she should be tearing across England just to spend a day
with Hester. Just one day—that was the joy of it! One magic day standing
out in high relief from the monotonous flat background of days all
alike; one day to look back upon, robbed from the calendar.... Would
Hester be as unapproachable as ever, or would she at last overcome her
fierce reserve, and of her own free will admit Antoinette to her
confidence? Antoinette’s heart beat faster, as she pictured this
eventuality. She stood up in the corridor, too restless to sit down,
feverish with anticipation....

Then the train swung into the station, and Antoinette saw Hester on the
platform; and suddenly all the fever and excitement that had been worked
up to such a pitch died down, so that it required no special effort to
greet Hester with nonchalant calm. It was as if her pulses had become
tired of beating and hammering merely in anticipation, and had ceased to
do so, now that anticipation was about to merge into realisation.

“It was nice of you to come,” smiled Hester.

“It was nice of you to let me,” responded Antoinette.

They made their way through the crowd and out into the street.

“You’ll lunch with me at my lodgings, won’t you?” said Hester.

“Thanks very much.”

After that they walked in silence. Obviously Hester waited for her to
open conversation, but their unsatisfactory correspondence had
established no link of intimacy between them, and Antoinette was at a
loss, not knowing where or how to begin. Hester stopped in front of a
boarding-house in a rather dingy side-street, and Antoinette followed
her in through a dark and stuffy hall that smelt of roast mutton, and
thence into a drawing-room with cheap lace curtains and bamboo tables
ornamented with dusty ferns.

“We can stop here for the present,” said Hester; “everybody seems to be
out.”

Antoinette glanced at the pretentious knick-knacks on the mantelpiece,
the dirty crinkled paper round the flower-pots, the gaudily-framed
pictures ... a third-rate boarding-house was about the last place in the
world, in which she would have expected to find Hester. Her sense of the
fitness of things was outraged.

“Do you—do you live here?” she began at last tentatively.

“For the moment, yes.”

“But ... do you like it?”

Hester shrugged her shoulders. “If you can’t be where you want to be,
this place is as good as any other. And I’m not a millionaire, you
know.”

All the same, Antoinette reflected, millionaire or not, surely it was
possible to live in surroundings less actively repellent than these!
Apparently Hester carried her habitual detachment even to the lengths of
being quite oblivious of their sordidness.

She hunted in her mind for a suitable topic of conversation. “What was
Bristol like?” But almost before the words were out of her mouth, she
realised that she had infringed that unwritten law which decreed that
she should display no curiosity with regard to Hester’s private affairs.

She was prepared for the inevitable cold and evasive reply, when Hester
said: “Bristol? Oh, good enough while it lasted. But what are two weeks
in a year, compared with the fifty bad ones?”

“Are they always bad—the odd fifty?”

“More or less. He’s married, you see. His wife’s in an asylum; and
things are difficult on account of his position; he’s a schoolmaster....
The good times just have to be snatched.”

Antoinette felt stunned—and then disappointed. Hester had revealed to
her the secret of her life, but she had expected so much more drama from
the actual moment of revelation. And the secret itself struck her as
very commonplace; it seemed as if Hester, by taking Antoinette into her
confidence, had forfeited some of her mysterious charm.... Antoinette
tried in vain to fathom the reason why her burning love for Hester
should be thus transformed into a feeling of faint repulsion—repulsion,
no, that was absurd. What she felt was jealousy, perhaps; jealousy of
the man to whom Hester gave all there was to be given, so that she had
nothing left over for Antoinette.... It was not that, either. She had
always dimly suspected the existence of such a man, and assuming that
Hester’s happiness lay with him, she had been generous enough not to be
jealous. And now that his existence was no longer a hypothesis but a
certainty, she was less inclined than ever to be jealous—but she knew it
was from indifference rather than from generosity.

Hester was saying: “As you know, I never discuss my life with anyone,
but I thought I had better tell you just the bare facts, as you’ve been
foolish enough to honour me with a certain amount of your affection.”
Her great eyes gazed straight into Antoinette’s with the old look, which
only three weeks ago had stirred in her such depths of feeling. But now
she could only flush and avert her eyes from Hester’s, so that Hester
might not see that all the affection she had ever had for her was dead.
Also, she had a shrinking fear that Hester would come to elaborate the
“bare facts.” It struck Antoinette as indecent that Hester should do so
now, when she lacked the tenderness with which she would once have
received such confidence.... So she talked feverishly and brilliantly,
and was all the while full of a pitiful amazement, because Hester’s
appreciative laugh, that could so wonderfully transform her sullen face
was powerless to rekindle the dead emotion. Antoinette was relieved when
they sat down to lunch with the other inhabitants of the boarding-house
at the one long table in the dining-room. She was getting tired of the
strain.... And by the end of the day she was more tired of it still,
tired of pretending to Hester, pretending to herself. And evidently she
had not pretended so very well after all, because Hester said as she
walked with her to the station: “You’re disappointed—but remember, I
warned you....”

“Oh, I’m _not_!” cried Antoinette, in a last attempt to delude herself
even more than Hester.

But Hester only smiled and shook her head. “It’s no use, my child, I
know you are, as I knew you would be. People who pour out such great
floods of feeling as you do are bound to suffer from disillusionment.
Especially if they come up against people like me.”

“How d’you mean—people like you?” stammered Antoinette.

Hester laughed harshly. “I suppose I’m deceptive. Oh, you’re not the
first person I’ve deceived—involuntarily, of course, because I’ve always
warned them as I warned you. Imaginative people of your type are drawn
to me because, apparently, I give the impression of having more in me
than I have. That’s all. It’s not a tragedy. But I don’t think we’ll see
each other again, you and I.”

“Not...?”

“Better not. And by the time you get home you’ll realise if you haven’t
done so already, that you don’t want to either.”

... The world would be a terribly dreary place, now that there was no
one left in it to love. Even if Hester had been cruel to her, it would
have been easier to bear, than just discovering that she no longer cared
for Hester. The greatest cruelty on her part could not have killed the
love that Antoinette had had for her only three weeks ago, only
yesterday.... But Hester had been kind; kinder than ever before; and it
was not her kindness that was to blame. Nor was it the mere fact of
having found her in the wrong setting. Again, only yesterday,
Antoinette’s adoration would have been proof against such
trivialities—would have deepened at the thought of Hester in that
depressing environment.

It was not Hester’s fault. Antoinette knew that; Hester was unchanged.
It was only she who had lost the power of endowing her with a charm that
she had never possessed. The queer impetus that had made her love Hester
had suddenly become paralysed, just as her pulses had ceased to hammer,
the moment she arrived at the station.

But if the whole of that brief magical passion had been but a fever of
Antoinette’s own imagination, a temporary madness, and if her present
state of mind heralded her return to sanity, then with all her soul she
longed to become mad again, so that she might go on loving....

Her wonderful day was over, and it had not held one single moment upon
which it would be good to look back. She was returning empty-handed. And
she would have to rouse herself into giving the family a chatty and
fictitious description of how she had spent the day with Rosabel.

In the midst of her desolation, it gave her a little comfort to remember
that Dennis’s promised letter from Exeter would be awaiting her at home.
She hoped it would be one of his specially nice ones. She was in a mood
to appreciate it to-night....

But that night there was no letter from Dennis; neither the next night;
nor the one after.


                              CHAPTER VII

“And what now?” queried Dennis Blackwood, as they got out of the train,
and stood upon the dripping wet platform at Crannack.

“P-put up here for the night, and p-push on to-morrow,” Crispin
responded. Dennis agreed that it was the only thing to be done.

They had left Exeter that afternoon, Dennis having agreed to Crispin’s
suggestion that they might sample the Cornish coast. Dennis was in no
hurry to return to London. There was a dream-like quality about all his
days just now, days shared with his dream-companion, Antoinette. And
perhaps at the back of his mind lurked an indefinable fear of the moment
when he must exchange dreams for reality. If he went on to Cornwall,
there would be more days, and more, of hard walking and healthy sleep,
and all the haphazard fun of eccentric stoppages at eccentric places—and
above all, the dream-companionship would be prolonged....

From Exeter, they had intended taking the train down to Penzance, and
thence starting to explore the Land’s End district; but it had got late
while they visited the Cathedral at Exeter, and on arriving at the
station they found that they had missed the Cornish express, and had to
be content with a very slow train that stopped at all stations, and
finally stopped altogether at Crannack, the centre of the
mining-district. They were informed that they could get no connection to
Penzance the same night.

“Dismal-looking hole, isn’t it?” remarked Dennis, as they trudged up the
High Street, through the rain, in search of lodgings. Crispin grunted
assent, and turned up his coat-collar. He detested the wet. They took
rooms at the first Commercial Hotel they reached; and had a belated
supper in a dingy and badly-lighted dining-room. When they had finished,
Dennis declared: “I’m going out for some air, rain or no rain,” but
Crispin preferred to remain in the stuffy little smoking-room with a
book and a pipe.

Dennis resolved that before settling down to write to Antoinette, he
would have a look round the place. It seemed unprepossessing enough,
especially when contrasted with the clean cheerful Devonshire villages
which they had just left. Crannack was neither clean nor cheerful; yet
for Dennis there was a certain fascination about the way its little
twisted streets ran steeply upwards from the docks, as if trying to
scramble away from the perpetual harbour-noises; the rasping of chains,
hooting of steam-sirens, rattling of coal-trucks. But the few
upward-winding streets which Dennis explored attained to nothing more
romantic or beautiful than a tin-roofed Methodist Chapel or Temperance
Hotel. And as if in mockery of, or in opposition to, these hideous
symbols of virtue, a great multitude of public-houses and
drinking-saloons clustered about the centre of the town and straggled
all along the wharf. From behind the blurred windows came the sound of
drunken laughter and voices raised in discussion; voices raucous and yet
mournful, that reminded Dennis of the screeching of sea-gulls. He
strolled across the market-place, where the gas-flares over the stalls
spluttered and wavered in the rain-laden wind, and cast fantastic lights
and shadows—evil lights and shadows—upon the grimy faces of the men who
hung about in groups, seemingly aimless, as if waiting to take their
turn in the overcrowded drinking-saloons. Whenever any of the
swing-doors were pushed open, giving a glimpse of sanded floor and
iridescent bottles, and some figure reeled out, or was pushed out into
the night air, his place was immediately filled by one of the waiting
crowd. Dennis moved away from the noise and glare, and up a quiet
side-street. The wet soft wind was in his face, bringing with it a faint
tang of the sea. He walked on, while behind him the lights of the town
became dimmer and more dim, and the sounds more and more muffled; and at
last the monotonous outlines of the houses on either side of the narrow
street merged into irregular humped shadows, that represented tumbledown
barns and deserted cottages, and then fell away altogether. The wind
blew harder now, and Dennis guessed that he must be in open country. The
darkness was thick and moist; tangible almost. But further up the road,
a red glow of light beckoned, that was neither the light of a
public-house, nor yet the flare above a market-stall. It was the
unmistakable glow of a blacksmith’s forge, that was luring him on
through the darkness; and Dennis pressed forward, for there was
something subtly attractive to him in these sudden alternations of
blackest shadows and glaring light.

The door of the smithy stood wide open. Dennis, rather dazzled, sat down
upon a ramshackle fence on the opposite side of the road. Two
swarthy-faced men stood facing the forge, and a third, a
muscular-looking giant was holding by the bridle a great cart-horse,
that impatiently pawed the ground and shook back its mane.

A youth was at work at the anvil. He was stripped to the waist, and in
the leaping light of the flames, his body seemed white and slender.
Dennis reflected that it was a most effective picture: in the midst of
the clammy surrounding darkness, this great square of blazing heat and
light; crimson glow illuminating the men’s dark faces, the glossy coat
of the horse, and the boy’s black head; and showing every ripple of the
muscles under the fine skin, as he raised his arms to hammer the red-hot
iron into shape. The three men watched him attentively, talking in their
Cornish dialect that was almost incomprehensible to Dennis across the
road.

He caught snatches. “Coomin’ on fine, that be.”

“What d’ I tell ee, la-ad? Slowly does ut—slowly.”

“Ee doan’t want fur tu use all that strength—thur, I knew it’d ’appen
...” as the boy brought down the hammer with a smashing blow upon the
horseshoe, and a piece of the red-hot iron flew off and, before he had
time to avoid it, landed upon his foot. He dropped the hammer and broke
into a picturesque flow of bad language; but to Dennis’s surprise, his
speech bore no trace of Cornish dialect, but every trace of the accent
that is manufactured at Oxford....

“All right, you needn’t crow over me, Tremayne! I tell you, that shoe
would have been every bit as good as one of yours, if I hadn’t smashed
it. Holy saints and martyrs, the touch of red-hot iron on the flesh is
damnable, simply damnable. I wish my mother were here to ‘kiss the place
and make it well’....”

There was a burst of gruff laughter from the blacksmith and the man
holding the horse, but the third, a round-shouldered little man with
weak, kindly eyes, spoke with some concern. “And what’ll yer fa-ather be
sayin’, Mr. Alan, if us let ee go knockin’ yerself tu bits like this?”

“My father, Jenkins, would send down another army of chaperons and
guardians to look after me, or would censure you most heartily for
allowing me to play with the nasty fire.... Have any of you got a spare
handkerchief? I want to tie up my foot and hobble home.”

Several more or less grimy rags were produced simultaneously, and Dennis
came forward across the road. “Here, take mine. Are you badly hurt?”

“Oh, dear me, no, I’m not badly hurt. It’s fun, dropping pieces of
red-hot metal upon portions of one’s anatomy. Especially if one isn’t
accustomed to it.”

“A fresh emotion, at any rate,” Dennis smiled.

Alan looked up at him quickly from where he sat on the ground, nursing
his foot. “I say, where do you come from? What are you? We don’t get any
tourists here. You’re not another new inspector, sent down by my
benighted parent, are you?”

“Inspector?” Dennis repeated blankly, “inspector of what?”

“Of coal-mines, of course. In this God-forsaken place we think of
nothing but coal. We live in it, count in it, breathe it—lots of them
die of it. Jenkins here has nearly lost his sight through it.... No one
comes to Crannack who isn’t somehow or other connected with coal.”

“I assure you solemnly, then, that I haven’t the least connection with
it, and that I know nothing whatever about coal, barring the strictly
domestic variety that appears in the family grate.”

“Thank God at least for that! Well, if it isn’t coal that has brought
you here, what is it?”

“A train that refused to carry us on to Penzance, as we desired, and
apparently preferred to deposit us here. We’re staying over night and
going on to-morrow morning.”

“I thought as much. It was too good to be true. No one stops at Crannack
longer than they can help. Where are you putting up?”

Dennis told him, and he replied: “That’s not far from my digs. Are you
going back there now? If so, we may as well walk together, and you can
support my fainting footsteps if necessary. I say—will you?”

There was so much boyish eagerness in the tone, that Dennis laughed. “Of
course I will. Come along.”

Alan put on his coat, bade good-night to the three men, and he and
Dennis set off together down the dark road. At the bottom of the hill,
the clustered lights of the town twinkled sleepily.

“It doesn’t look so bad at night,” remarked Alan, “but in the
daytime—Lord, the ugliness and the filth of it! And the ugliness and the
filth of the people, too. Not that it’s their fault, poor devils. The
material is good enough in itself—it’s the use that’s being made of it.”

“But,” said Dennis, “whatever are _you_ doing here, in this place that
you hate, and among these people to whom you don’t belong?”

Impatiently Alan replied: “My father sent me here to study
mining-engineering after I left Oxford. He owns several more or less
prosperous coal-mines up in Lancashire, and he’s having this one
developed as a speculation. He wants me to take over the management of
it. So I’m supposed to be learning the ropes—seeing how the thing’s
done—or how the maximum of profit can be ground out of the minimum of
expenditure; financial expenditure of course; not expenditure of human
life.”

“But I thought that everything in mortal power had been done to reduce
the liability of accidents in mines; is the expenditure of life really
so great?”

“Greater than it need be. Oh, we have sanitary inspectors nosing around,
and plastering up the Government regulations, and finding everything to
their satisfaction—but all the same, every lump of coal that is burnt is
soaked in blood, human blood....” The boy was talking with a curious
vehemence and excitement—vehemence and excitement that seemed to have
been long pent-up. “Sometimes we have quicksand, and sometimes we have
floods, and sometimes we have fire-damp and explosions, and sometimes we
have all the lot.... You can see the results: you’ve only to look at the
blind and the cripples and the consumptive wrecks in the streets. It’s
in the pits that they’ve lost their sight and their limbs and their
health, grubbing in the dark, in the foul air, so that capitalists like
my father may grow sleek.”

“That’s socialist-talk, isn’t it?”

“Not only talk; I’m going to _do_....”

“What can you do—what is there to be done about it?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out; and the only way to find out is to
do what I’m doing now.”

“Well...?” Dennis looked at the boy limping along at his side; saw his
face, white and dim, in the darkness, the clean line of the jaw and
throat. It might have been the face of a young knight, Dennis thought; a
young knight ardent and fearless, setting out to combat evils as old as
the world....

Alan replied: “I’m living with the people and among them and beside
them. My father thinks I’m safely wrapped in cotton-wool, and that
sometimes the head-engineer takes me round the mine in state, with very
clean hands, while the miners touch their caps to me and say ‘Yes, sir,’
when out of my graciousness I put the asinine questions that show I’m
taking an intelligent interest in my father’s property.... But I’ve
worked in the mine day by day myself, I tell you, and come out as grimy
and ready for drink as the rest. It’s no use standing at the top of the
shaft and wondering—I must get at things from the inside—discover
exactly where these Labour conditions of ours are wrong, and how to
improve them.”

“You’ve got your work cut out! Forgive me for saying so, but you seem so
young to be attempting so much.”

Alan grinned and swung his arms a little. “I’ll give all the youth and
nerves and strength that are in me, if by giving them I can achieve my
ends.”

“I think you will achieve them,” murmured Dennis. He was suddenly lost
in admiration of the earnestness, the virility and the steadfastness of
purpose on the part of one who still seemed—he could not help coming
back to it—such a child.

“Don’t you ever let yourself play?” he asked.

Alan laughed. “Oh, Lord, yes. I go down to the harbour and mess about
with the old boats, old iron and rusty cranes. And I watch the kids
digging up winkles out of the mud at low tide. And I sit on barrels and
let the seamen tell me their yarns, specially concocted on the spur of
the moment for landlubbers like myself. That was play-time just now, up
at the smithy.... Well, you saw how that ended!”

He was limping badly now. Dennis put an arm through his as they crossed
the glaring market-place, and once again found themselves in the
darkness of a side-street, rising steeply from the wharf-side. Alan led
the way into one of the houses, lit a candle-end which he found on a
shelf in the hall and painfully climbed the wooden stairs to his room.
Dennis followed. The light from the guttering candle wavered and
flickered in the draught from under the front door, and cast grotesque,
elongated shadows of the two men upon the opposite wall. Dennis had time
to reflect that here indeed he had stumbled into a strange adventure,
but he was in no mind to withdraw from it. Alan lit the candles in his
room. It was small and bare, but the walls were covered with pen-and-ink
sketches and caricatures nailed up with drawing-pins.

“Are those yours?” asked Dennis, and Alan replied: “Yes; that’s how I
keep myself from going crazy with depression.”

“They’re good, by Jove,” said Dennis; the drawings, indeed, some of them
only half-finished, were exceptionally strong. “Living in the wilds
doesn’t seem to have spoilt your technique.”

Alan looked pleased. “Greatest effect in the fewest possible
lines—that’s what I tried to get.”

“And that’s what you have got, no doubt of it. I must look at the
drawings closer later on, but let me see to your foot first. One puts
oil on a burn, doesn’t one? Have you got any?”

The landlord eventually produced a doubtful-looking compound in a
bottle; and Dennis removed his handkerchief from Alan’s foot, and began
to bandage it afresh. As he did so, a quick spasm of pain passed across
the boy’s face, and Dennis thought again with an odd pang of tenderness,
how absurdly young he looked, and how his mother must love to stroke
back the dark hair from his forehead. There was a photograph of her on
the mantelpiece—a tired-looking woman with dull eyes and long slender
hands. The father, from his portrait, was evidently thick-set, with
side-whiskers and a self-assertive expression. A queer couple, they
seemed, to have bred this finely-strung creature with the tanned face,
sensitive level brows, and great black eyes that burned with a
smouldering fire.

“Thanks awfully,” said Alan, as Dennis finished his task; “you’ve been a
god-send to me to-night. I was getting pretty near the end of my
tether—I do sometimes, you know. It’s the loneliness, and being so
completely cut off from everything down here. It’s been refreshing to
talk to an absolute stranger who doesn’t understand any of the
technicalities appertaining to this beastly mining-village.”

Dennis smiled. “You’re right. I know nothing whatever about mining, and
not much about any trade or profession outside my own. You make me feel
fearfully narrow and selfish.”

“Rot! What is your line?”

“Music.”

“Music? Oh, good.... I’ve not heard any music for over six months.
Sometimes I’m positively hungry for it—any sort of music—even a
barrel-organ.... If anyone played one of those tango-tunes that were all
the rage in London before I came down here, I believe I’d weep!”

“Poor kid,” said Dennis.

Alan went on: “Do you come from London?”

“Near enough to be there as often as I want to.”

“Oh, lucky beggar! To think of being in London
now—theatres—dancing—art-shows. They’ve got the Russian Ballet on too,
haven’t they?”

“Yes, and the opera. Chaliapine is just beyond all powers of
description. I heard him in ‘Boris’ before I left.”

Alan groaned. “We’re buried alive here. Not the humblest and shoddiest
of touring-companies comes to alleviate our boredom—we haven’t as much
as a picture-palace. The only diversions our people get are drink and
women, women and drink. If it were ‘Woman, wine and song,’ it wouldn’t
be so bad; but there’s no ‘song’ about the people’s lives in Crannack,
and in all the other places like it, that are dead to all beauty, and
are mere sores on the face of the earth.... And you come from London—I
look at you positively with awe—and you’re going back there, when is it?
To-morrow?”

“We’re going to Penzance to-morrow.”

“Oh, what’ll you do at Penzance?” Alan exclaimed impatiently, “it’s an
awful hole, not much better than this—and without even me in it, as a
redeeming feature....”

“I am going to be shown the beauties of the Cornish coast, not to hunt
for social reformers tossing red-hot horse-shoes in blacksmiths’ shops!
And anyway,” Dennis added in a lower voice, “I shouldn’t find one like
you. I shouldn’t find anything half as good....”

Alan glanced up with a quick flush of pleasure. “You’ve liked meeting
me, then.... Ah, but you can’t have liked it half as much as I’ve liked
meeting you. Think of it—after all this time and among these people,
suddenly to come across another human being from the world I’ve almost
forgotten!”

Dennis said half-aloud: “Consider the even greater wonder of meeting
someone from a world that one didn’t know really existed—that one had
scarcely dared to dream into existence.”

Alan cried eagerly: “Then you’ll stop on here for a bit, won’t you? Give
a poor starving wretch a chance! I want to hear you talk about London
with the London voice; I want to be able to talk about ideas instead of
machinery; and I want to hear your music—do you play the piano? I
haven’t got one ... but I believe there’s one up at the Sunday-school.
You will stop, won’t you?”

It would be cruel to refuse Alan’s request. In spite of the magnitude of
the task which the boy had set himself, and although he was engrossed in
it heart and soul, he was still young enough to want his play-time,
genuine play-time; not the play-time of which, ironically he had told
Dennis.... He was asking for his play-time now, but Dennis knew that he
must not yield; must tear himself away from a danger doubly dangerous,
because, far from wishing to avoid it, he longed to succumb to it.

He said, with an effort to play for safety: “I can’t tell you off-hand.
I must consult my pal, and see what he says....” He could not quite
bring himself to make his refusal absolutely definite just yet.... “But
our train doesn’t leave till eleven in the morning, so perhaps if your
foot’s well enough, you’ll come round and see what we’re doing.” He had
quite decided that he must go, but at least by this arrangement, he
would see Alan again before he left. “Ask for Dennis Blackwood, if you
turn up.”

“I’ll turn up all right,” said Alan.

Dennis walked back to rejoin Crispin. He felt oddly stimulated, oddly
excited. And all night long his heart throbbed to a new and strange
music; and his brain found utterance for that music that was as virile
and splendid as the one who had inspired it.

It was not the music that he had promised to Antoinette. He did not
write to Antoinette that night, nor the next night, nor the night
after....

                   *       *       *       *       *

Alan came round to the hotel early next morning, and burst into Dennis’s
room.

“Well, what have you decided? Where’s your pal? I’ll murder him, if he
doesn’t agree to your stopping.”

Dennis was kneeling on the floor, packing his bag; and he spoke without
looking up. “You needn’t murder him, Alan; but I’m not going to stop.”

The boy said after a moment’s silence: “Why...?” Then hotly, almost
pitifully he began to plead: “When I’ve only just found you—and when I
needed you most.... Why must you go? Why?”

Dennis picked up a roll of manuscript-music. “This will tell you why,
Alan, if you can understand it. I wrote it out for you this morning. It
will tell you all that I mustn’t tell you in words, or—or”—he clenched
his hands desperately and continued: “You can play it to yourself, boy,
on the piano at the Sunday-school, after I’m gone....”

                   *       *       *       *       *

The secret terror that had beset him ever since he was a boy, was upon
him, urging him to flight; secret terror, unavowed, unshared, upon which
even in thought he had scarcely allowed himself to dwell ... terror that
nevertheless had been part and parcel of his being, since the first dawn
of adolescence.

Different from the others, even in his schooldays; different, not only
by reason of his music. It was not his music alone that he had striven
to keep out, when he had avoided Eric Rubenstein.... He must be for ever
an outcast amongst men, shunned by them, despised and mocked by them. He
was maddened by fear and horror and loathing of himself.

Abnormal—perverted—against nature—he could hear the epithets that would
be hurled against him, and that he would deserve. Yes, but what had
nature been about, in giving him the soul of a woman in the body of a
man?

And beyond all powers of reasoning; beyond the fear, and the horror, and
the loathing, the thought of Alan reasserted itself, and the blinding
pain that had been inflicted at parting from him.

The train pounded onwards—westwards—Dennis cared little enough whither
it bore him. He knew only that it carried him away from that which all
his life long he had sought, and from which he now must flee, in order
that it might not become shameful.

Shameful—strange that such a word might ever be applied to love such as
his for Alan; love that had grown up in one night of happiness, and that
every instinct bade him welcome with glad lips and eyes and heart ...
love that was so strong that it would not die even under the torture
that was in store.


                              CHAPTER VIII

“... It will be such a nice surprise for Dennis,” mused Mrs. Blackwood,
as she stamped the letter inviting Antoinette de Courcy to spend the
following week-end at Eastwold. “If I tell Mrs. Ryan she’s a great
friend of Doreen’s, and staying in the house, she can’t possibly object
to our bringing her along to the dance.” Mrs. Blackwood reflected
further that in the event of Mrs. Ryan’s proving averse from the
prospect of having yet another to add to her list of girls, she must be
propitiated by the offer of the loan of lemonade-glasses or fish-forks.
Perhaps even, if necessary, Susan, her inestimable parlour-maid, might
be thrown in as a make-weight. One was always neighbourly about these
little things in Eastwold.

It was Mrs. Blackwood’s “At Home” that afternoon; she expected Mrs. Ryan
and her daughters; and no doubt they could come to some satisfactory
arrangement, whereby Antoinette’s invitation to the fancy dress ball
could be secured. But she would not send off the letter to Antoinette
until she had made quite sure. Mrs. Ryan, as the wife of the richest
stockbroker in Eastwold, was considered a very important personage; and
her dance was undoubtedly a fitting climax to the season of 1914, and
one not to be lightly trifled with.... To-day was July 16th, the dance
was on the 24th. Dennis would be back by then. In her last letter, Mrs.
Blackwood had asked him to make a point of being back, but of course she
had not said why.... She was well pleased with her little scheme, as she
waited in the pretty sun-flooded drawing-room for her guests to arrive.
The chintz furniture-covers that had just come back from the cleaner’s
gave the room a bright and cheerful appearance; there were flowers out
of the garden in all the vases; and the piano was heavily laden with
silver-framed photographs of the four children at various ages and
stages of development. The French windows stood wide open, and the
shouts of the tennis-players were clearly audible in the still air.
Doreen and Ottilie, and their partners, Tom Sanderson and Hugh
Clavering, were trying to finish a set before tea. Mrs. Blackwood could
hear Doreen’s pretty laugh; and Tom’s noisy exhortation to Ottilie to
“run for her life”; and Hugh’s praise of Doreen’s neat strokes; and
Ottilie’s punctilious counting, as vigorously she served into the net.
“Lof-fifteen—lof-zirty—lof-forty—Ach, such a camel _ist noch nicht
dagewesen_!”

Mrs. Blackwood wondered if it wouldn’t be possible to get up a tennis
tournament while Antoinette was staying with them. They could have it on
the Saturday after the dance; then there would be Clive and Lily to
play; Antoinette and Dennis; one of the Ryan girls and Tom Sanderson;
Doreen and Hugh—Doreen and the doctor’s handsome son from next door
always seemed to pair off together automatically, so why thwart the
designs of nature? The 25th—Reggie would be home from school by then;
perhaps he could be bribed to pick up the balls, if it was a very hot
day; she wondered how many socks and handkerchiefs would have been lost
in the wash again this term, and if he had already grown out of those
coloured shirts she had bought him last holidays....

Her reflections were cut short by the entrance of Mrs. Ryan with her
daughters Millie and Amy. They were followed by Miss Simpkins, a funny
little old maid, wearing stout boots and a multitude of charms and
bangles, with which she continually fidgeted.

Mrs. Blackwood shook hands with her guests. “This is nice of you, Mrs.
Ryan. And you’ve brought the girls, too. Doreen and Ottilie will be here
directly—they’re just finishing a game. Dear Miss Simpkins, how are you?
You’ve had a very long way to come.”

“Oh, not so very long,” chirped the little spinster. “I met Mrs. Ryan,
and she gave me a lift in her carriage. Wasn’t it _kind_ of her?”

“Very kind,” assented Mrs. Blackwood.

“Not at all,” Mrs. Ryan pronounced with dignity, “if one happens to be
fortunately placed oneself, one naturally likes to do what one can for
others.” She had very white hair, a very red face, and very thick black
brows; a combination that was awe-inspiring rather than pleasing; and
she wore an obviously expensive, but quite unsuitable hat which, by
means of a high bandeau, was prevented from entertaining any definite
relations with her head. Her elder daughter, Millie, was pretty in an
insignificant way, with yellow hair and a good complexion, but she had a
slightly strained expression that made her look older than her age. She
wore a coat and skirt of light grey cloth, and an unbecoming straw hat
with a feather. Amy was nineteen and a fluffier edition of her sister.
She spoke with a lisp, and wore a costume cut like Millie’s, only in
pale blue, and the same kind of hat with a wreath of daisies round it,
instead of a feather.

“I expect you are all getting very excited about the dance,” Mrs.
Blackwood began, “I’m sure my young people are.”

“We won’t ask you what they’re wearing,” said Millie, “the costumes are
all to be surprises. It adds to the fun.”

“Oh, certainly,” Mrs. Blackwood agreed. “And it was so thoughtful of you
to make the fancy dress optional for the men. Of course, my boys don’t
mind a bit, but I know some who hate putting on fancy dress—they think
it makes them look ridiculous.”

“It’th a pity,” lisped Amy, “becauthe it’th tho much prettier if
everybody ith drethed up, ithn’t it? I mean—for the thpirit of the
thing.”

“My dear, it’s hard enough to get sufficient men, as it is....” Millie,
rather bitterly, voiced the preponderating sentiment of a community in
which there were never enough men to go round.

“I’m sure _you_ never suffer from lack of partners, Millie,” her mother
interposed, and Millie quickly took her cue.

“No—no, of course not; I’m always all right.”

“Tho am I!” giggled Amy.

“So I should think,” said Mrs. Ryan proudly, “after having seen the
programme you brought home from the last subscription dance at the Town
Hall. It was scrawled all over with ‘T.S.’—that’s Tom Sanderson, you
know ... he’s been most attentive ever since; drops in quite informally
at all hours of the day. And,” with an arch glance at her younger
daughter, “I think it’s easy to tell the reason why!”

“That was my dance-programme you saw, Mamma....” Millie had listened to
the foregoing with a gradually stiffening face.

“Was it, my dear?” Mrs. Ryan laughed indulgently, “well, you really
can’t expect me to remember all your conquests apart, can you, now?”
Millie looked sullen and her mother continued: “I met Tom yesterday and
told him we were coming here this afternoon, and he said he might be
calling in too.”

“Yes, he’s playing tennis with the girls now ...” said Mrs. Blackwood,
making her point.

Mrs. Ryan’s face dropped; then she recovered herself with a swift
counter-attack. “Of course we’re delighted that you are allowing Doreen
to come to the dance, Mrs. Blackwood, even though she’s not really ‘out’
yet. But don’t you think it’s rather a pity to let her pretend to be
grown-up before her time?”

Little Miss Simpkins sighed sentimentally. “Yes, a young girl’s bloom is
her chief charm, isn’t it? Her freshness....”

“Oh, I don’t know that it’s so very much before her time,” Mrs.
Blackwood smiled, “she’s seventeen and a half ... and putting her hair
up, too, for the first time, in honour of your dance.”

Mrs. Ryan thought that this was an honour with which she could easily
have dispensed; it was most undesirable that a child like Doreen should
enjoy the same privileges as girls who really had a right to them.
Doreen was quite unnecessarily pretty, and it wasn’t fair on the other
girls that she, at her age, should already absorb a quantity of the male
attention, that should have been directed towards her elders and
betters.... But before Mrs. Ryan could say anything more, the
tennis-players came in from the garden, all very flushed, and Ottilie
still inclined to be argumentative with herself about the badness of her
playing.

“Well, young people, have you had a nice game?” Mrs. Blackwood beamed
upon the quartette.

“Splendid!” cried Hugh Clavering, looking at Doreen, “hot work, though,
when you’ve got to live up to a partner like mine.”

Doreen blushed and murmured: “Oh, Hugh ...” as she shook hands with the
Ryans.

“Not nearly such hot work as dancing these days,” remarked Tom
Sanderson, gulping down his tea. He was a nice, fresh-faced boy of
twenty-two; reputed to be the best rider in the county; and endowed with
a divine gift for saying the wrong thing, and appearing utterly
oblivious of having done so.

“Do you really find dancing such hard work, Tom?” queried Mrs. Ryan with
some acerbity.

“Yes, rather, don’t you?” retorted the ingenuous youth; “takes it out of
you, you know, luggin’ your partner round and round, especially if you
can’t get into each other’s stride.”

“Well, I trust you won’t find much difficulty with your partners on the
24th....”

“The 24th—why, I’d almost forgotten. Going to be great sport, what?
Weather looks settled, too. You’ll be able to use the garden for
sitting-out.”

Amy nodded vigorously. “Yeth, all decorated with fairy-lighth and
Chinethe lanternth and thingth.”

Mrs. Ryan turned to her hostess. “Dennis is sure to be here for the
dance, isn’t he? One likes to know how many to count on, even though, as
I say, when you’ve got to beyond fifty, another half dozen or so doesn’t
make any difference.”

“Oh, yes, Dennis will be back,” replied Mrs. Blackwood, “but you can’t
count on him as a dancing-man, you know.”

“Non-starter, eh?” said Tom with his mouth full.

“Oh, Denny likes different things to what we do,” Doreen was always
ready to rise in defence of her favourite brother, “he prefers getting
up early in the morning and going for long walks by himself, to dancing
or playing tennis.”

“I thpothe that’th when he geth hith inthpirathionth—early in the
morning,” suggested Amy.

“How wonderful the artistic temperament is ...” sighed Miss Simpkins,
“don’t you sometimes feel quite _overawed_, Mrs. Blackwood, to think
that you’ve got such a clever composer for your own son?”

“I must admit that the dear boy doesn’t try to make his family feel
small beside him,” Mrs. Blackwood laughed, “he’s most modest about his
work.”

“A charming young fellow,” concurred Mrs. Ryan, “but it’s a pity he’s
not a dancer. Perhaps we can persuade him to play us some of his
compositions, though, while the band has supper.”

Remembering Amberhurst, Mrs. Blackwood thought this extremely unlikely;
but passed the matter over in silence, and suggested that as Doreen
would be having a friend to stay with her next week—

But before the words were out of her mouth, and before she had time to
dangle Susan and the cutlery in front of Mrs. Ryan’s eyes, the door
opened to admit Mr. Griggs.

He was greeted on all sides by shouts of welcome, to which he replied,
beaming and rubbing his hands: “Really, this is too much—I am
overwhelmed—so much kindness.... I expected I should find a large
gathering here, all chatting about the dance next Friday, and I’m not
disappointed!”

“Of course we’re relying on you, as one of our best dancers, to make
things go,” said Mrs. Ryan graciously.

Griggs sat down beside Amy, who was looking very animated. “You can
trust me for that, Mrs. Ryan.”

“You’ll come early, won’t you?” pleaded Amy, “it thayth nine o’clock on
the invitathionth, but it’th nithe to thtart booking up before the
danthe really beginth, tho we athk all our thpethial friendth to come at
ten _to_ nine.”

“Ten to nine it shall be, Miss Amy,” cried Griggs, “or I might come at
half past eight and be mistaken for a waiter or part of the orchestra!”

“But the waiters and the orchestra won’t be in fancy dress, as I hope
_you_ will be, Mr. Griggs,” said Mrs. Ryan, very benign.

“Your hopes are not unfounded, Mrs. Ryan.... Of course I shall be in
fancy dress, I’m not one of your ‘optional’ shirkers. I wouldn’t dream
of missing such an opportunity to—ah—improve my noble features. I’m
coming as——”

“Don’t tell, don’t tell,” Amy broke in excitedly, “let it be a
thurprithe.”

“Very well, Miss Amy, I will be mute as the grave.... What about
starting the advance-booking right away? Let me see, have I got any
paper in my pocket? No? Well, what’s a cuff for? May I claim the honour
of the first lancers, Miss Millie?”

“... Such a dear girl,” Mrs. Blackwood started for the second time,
“Doreen is so fond of her.”

“It’s her first dance in England, isn’t it?” responded Mrs. Ryan,
thinking she meant Ottilie; “well, I hope she’ll be favourably
impressed.”

“Could she be otherwise, Mrs. Ryan...?” Griggs’ voice vibrated with
emotion.

“Ach, I shall remain sitting all ze night,” said Ottilie in accents of
gloom.

Tom chuckled irrepressibly. “How will you manage that?”

Ottilie repeated with conviction: “I shall remain sitting—I know it
_ganz gewiss_.”

“She means she’ll be a wallflower,” translated Doreen, and Griggs cried:
“We Britishers aren’t the people to let a fascinating foreign lady be a
wallflower for long. When Miss Ottilie returns to the Fatherland, she’ll
be able to tell them so, won’t she?... And now, Miss Simpkins, what may
I have the pleasure of booking with you?”

Miss Simpkins blushed and giggled. “Why, Mr. Griggs, I shan’t be
there—what do you imagine? An old woman like me....”

“Oh, Miss _Simpkins_ ...” with gallant indignation.

“It’s just a boy-and-girl affair, Mr. Griggs,” put in Mrs. Ryan, and
thought it just as well to make no mention of the fact that some of the
parents of the “boys and girls” were being invited to watch their
progeny disporting themselves, and perhaps to have a quiet game of
Bridge. The cosmogony of Eastwold fell naturally into two groups;
elderly married people, and young people to be married. There was no
room in the scheme for Miss Simpkins and her like, who did not come
under either of these headings....

For the third time, Mrs. Blackwood came forward with her request, and
this time Mrs. Ryan was left under no illusion as to its nature.
“Another girl, and a very good dancer, you say? We shall be
delighted....” For the sake of her prestige, she had to pretend that
this was the case. “Any friend of Doreen’s is welcome, and I’m sure _my_
girls won’t mind sitting out a dance now and then, if it’s to give a
visitor a chance.”

“Oh, you needn’t fear that Miss de Courcy will be a drag upon the
market,” exclaimed Griggs with less tact than enthusiasm, “there’ll be
no difficulty in getting partners for _her_!”

Mrs. Ryan said that she was glad to hear it, and inwardly boiling with
annoyance, turned to Mrs. Blackwood to exact her full toll of
fish-knives, lemonade-glasses, Susan, and whatever else Mrs. Blackwood
had to offer her.

The invitation to Antoinette was sent that night; and Antoinette,
receiving it next morning, was conscious of a reawakened interest in
life. It had indeed been depressingly dull and flat, ever since Hester
had ceased to fill her thoughts, and there had been no word from Dennis.
His sudden silence was strange to the verge of uncanniness. That last
letter of his had not given the slightest indication of the silence that
was to follow it; the conversation—his letters were really more like
very intimate conversations, than like written epistles—was to have been
continued the next day. And it had not been continued. It was as if
someone, in the middle of a sentence, had been struck dumb.

And now his mother had invited her to Eastwold—asked her to bring a
fancy dress for the dance—_good!_ It would be great fun to see Dennis
Blackwood again, and dance with him—she assumed that he would be
there—and to solve the mystery of his extraordinary behaviour. She
decided to go as a Bacchante; and Grand’mère raised her hands and her
voice in horror at the unmaidenly abandonment of a costume that would
assuredly frighten away all the prospective “partis” her hostess
intended her to meet at the dance....

Henriette, who secretly shared Madame de Courcy’s opinion of the
costume, but did not like to say so, talked in a large, vague manner
about not cramping a young soul’s development; and Grand’mère, with one
of her not infrequent lapses into coarseness, replied that it wasn’t
Antoinette’s soul which the prospective “partis” would be thinking of.

Anatole, for the sake of keeping up his parental authority, remarked
that he didn’t care for his daughter going to stay with people he did
not know. But Antoinette paid no heed to any of them. She set out once
more with a light heart, brimful of high spirits, and ready for anything
in the shape of an adventure, which the gods might see fit to offer her.

She was met at the station by Doreen and Reggie; and was greeted by the
former with affectionate enthusiasm, and by the latter with becoming
restraint. Doreen explained volubly that Reggie had come down from his
preparatory school that morning; that Clive was expected by a later
train from London; that Dennis hadn’t turned up at all—wasn’t it a
shame?—and that she hoped Antoinette wouldn’t mind having tea in the
nursery—they always had it in the nursery to please Nanna, on Reggie’s
first day home from school....

Antoinette replied that she would love to have tea in the nursery, but
secretly regretted that Dennis had not arrived. It looked as if her
anticipations were doomed to disappointment after all.

They walked through the little town, and up a steep sunny road, bordered
on either side by neat villa residences with neat carriage-drives and
neat gardens planted with neat shrubbery and flower-beds. Further on,
there were larger houses, separated from each other by wider spaces of
garden, houses built in imitation of the old-fashioned cottage-style,
with gabled roofs and rough white walls with black beams running across
them. These houses represented the imaginative flights of Tom
Sanderson’s father, the architect; and the one which bore upon its gate
the words “The Hermitage,” was the home of the Blackwoods.

Mrs. Blackwood’s welcome was hearty enough, but Antoinette thought that
she seemed worried and restless, and that beneath her continuous light
chatter, some real trouble or disturbance lay concealed. Doreen
conducted her to the spare bedroom with its little wooden balcony and
wide view of the Downs. Appreciatively Antoinette took in the details of
the room; the bright flowered wall-paper; the names of the books on the
revolving stand—“Wild Kitty,” by L. T. Meade; “What Katy Did at School”;
... one or two Hentys; “Alice in Wonderland,” of course ... a room,
reflected Antoinette, in which to feel very girlish and happy.

Half an hour later, a large party was enjoying nursery tea, presided
over by the old nurse who had brought up all the four Blackwood
children. The long table was richly spread with home-made cakes and
jams; Nanna sat at the head of it, with Reggie and Clive on either side
of her; Lily Hallard, Clive’s fiancée, was between him and Doreen; and
Antoinette was between Ottilie and Reggie. Mrs. Blackwood had said that
she would not join the nursery party, as she had already had tea, and
was busy. She would see them all later on....

Nanna brooded fondly upon their faces, occasionally admonishing her
favourite with: “Now, Master Reggie, my lamb, remember you’re not at
school: it’s butter _and_ jam in the holidays....”

Reggie responded: “Good job!” but the reminder was superfluous, in view
of the thickly-buttered and jam-smeared slice of bread that he was
conveying to his lips during conversation as well as in the intervals.
He and Clive were at present engaged in trying to disguise from each
other their pleasure at seeing each other again; and their talk was
conducted with the careful indifference worthy of the traditions of
Westborough and all the other Westboroughs in the United Kingdom.

Reggie said: “Some of our fellows did rifle-practice this term.”

Clive said: “Daresay we could fix up a target in the garden.”

Reggie said: “Daresay we could.”

After a pause, Clive re-opened: “Your last term at the prep. school,
isn’t it?”

Reggie nodded with his mouth full.

“Like to have that old bat of mine to take to Westborough?”

“The one you made a century with in the house-match against St.
Winstan’s—ra-ther!” for one instant Reggie defied tradition by showing
enthusiasm; then quickly he retrieved himself: “Daresay I could do with
it....”

Antoinette decided that she did not like Clive’s fiancée. She had an
aggressive personality, a shiny complexion, large hands and untidy dark
hair. Doreen had previously explained that all these were outward and
visible signs of “brains.” Lily went up to town daily to a School of
Economics, and usually came back in the evening by the same train as
Clive and Mr. Blackwood, and the other male denizens of Eastwold, whom
business and the excellent train service took to London for the day, and
restored to their families at night.

“I had to cut a class this afternoon,” Lily was grumbling, “all because
of that beastly dance to-night. I do think dancing’s rot!”

Clive agreed with her, but Doreen protested. “How can you say so? I
think dancing’s simply ripping—at least, I’ve only been to parties and
the dancing-class ... but real grown-up dances, like this one, must
be—Oh, just perfect!” Doreen’s eyes were very bright, her lips
tremulously parted. She was thinking of Hugh Clavering from next door.
He had engaged her for the supper-dance, and for ever so many other
dances besides, and he was so strong and fair and sunny, with his golden
hair and laughing grey eyes.

The whole atmosphere of the house appealed to Antoinette, typically
English atmosphere different enough from that of her own foreign
home—the old nurse at the head of the table; the schoolboy just home for
the holidays; Doreen’s excitement over her first dance.... But she did
wish that Dennis were here: she wondered how he fitted into the picture.

Ottilie, for the hundredth time that week, was expressing the conviction
that she would “remain sitting.”

“And when my dancers see I cannot dance in ze English vay, zey vill bow
zemselves and leave me.”

“They can’t do that,” Antoinette consoled her. “In England, once a man
is engaged to a girl for a dance, he’s got to stick to her for better or
for worse. He can’t just plant her there and run away, if he doesn’t
like her.”

“Not?” queried Ottilie doubtfully.

“Of course not.”

“_Verrückt_ ...” muttered Ottilie.

“It’s different in Germany,” Antoinette went on, “I’ve been to dances
there myself, so I know. A man introduces himself to a girl, whirls her
twice round the room, and throws her back again into the arms of her
chaperone where she waits for her next partner. But here it’s one dance,
one partner. You can’t give bits of the same dance to different men.”

Ottilie looked puzzled. “And to supper? In Heidelberg sometimes sree and
four dancers have me to supper engaged.”

“In Eastwold, Ottilie,” Clive spoke with authority from his end of the
table, “you will have one supper-partner, and one only.”

“And lucky if you get him ...” muttered Reggie. Ottilie as a type did
not appeal to him.

“Don’t be rude, Reg,” cried Doreen, but he continued irrepressibly:
“Ottilie’s going as ‘Britannia’ ... what a rag!”

“Well, and I’m going as a Dresden Shepherdess—there’s nothing funny
about that, stupid.” Doreen was staunch in her defence of her friend.

“What a nice idea,” said Antoinette, “a compliment to each other’s
nationality. It’s like foreign potentates wearing the uniform of which
ever country they’re visiting—oh, Reggie, dear, have you swallowed a
plum-stone?” For Reggie, in the simultaneous appreciation of her remark,
and an extra large mouthful of bread and jam, was slowly but surely
choking himself into an apoplectic fit.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Blackwood had not had tea; neither did she want any. She sat alone
in the drawing-room, as she had done for the greater part of the
afternoon, hoping against hope, and wondering and wondering if the next
train would bring Dennis, or the next. She had had no definite word to
say that he was coming; still, he knew that she expected him to-day ...
she was used to his indefiniteness in the matter of letters or telegrams
... perhaps he wanted to surprise her.... He was sure to come, knowing
that she expected him. She had to cling to the certainty of his coming,
to stave off as long as possible her inevitable disappointment if he did
not come.

But when at last Dennis himself stood in the opening of the French
window, just for one second she wondered if it were really he, or if all
her wishing had conjured up an image that would vanish....

“My dear, dear boy,” her arms were round him now, “so you’ve come in
time after all. What a fright you gave me. I’d promised Mrs. Ryan that
you were coming, and it would have been so awkward if you hadn’t turned
up.”

He repeated in a dazed kind of way: “In time for what? Turned up—where?”
And she saw that his face was drawn, and that his eyes were full of an
unutterable weariness.

“Mrs. Ryan’s dance, of course, dear.” She was making a pitiful attempt
to ignore the things that she saw, “it’s to-night—I wrote to you; didn’t
you get my letter?”

He shook his head. “No—or perhaps I did, and—and forgot. I don’t
know....”

They looked at each other; he battling with the longing to go to her,
and hide his head on her breast, and tell her everything; and she,
struggling against this strange terror of something unknown, not
understood, that had befallen her son.

“It’s a fancy dress dance ...” she faltered with stiff lips.

He almost smiled. A fancy dress dance—well, why not? Since the whole of
his life henceforth must be a masquerade, a travesty to disguise every
impulse, thought and feeling; to make them appear not different from
other people’s impulses, thoughts and feelings....

The dread in his mother’s heart, shadowy and shapeless, tightened its
grip. What had been done to him? What shuddering depths of unhappiness
had brought that look to his face? But all her love for him could not
give her sight where she was blind. Was there nothing with which she
could heal him? She clutched at a faint hope. “I’ve got a surprise for
you, dear. I’ve asked Miss de Courcy down for the dance—she’s here
already—in the nursery with the others. Won’t you go up to them?”

He heard himself saying: “Oh, good ...” and walked away, because he
could no longer bear to feel his mother’s troubled, searching gaze upon
him. He would go up to the nursery, and to the dance, and pretend that
he had come back on purpose for it, and pretend that he was glad to see
Antoinette—

_Antoinette_.... If at least he had been spared—that.

The shouts of the party in the nursery fell upon his ears, as he went
upstairs....


                               CHAPTER IX

Dennis, Clive and the three girls motored over to the dance, and sent
the car back for Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood, who were to come on later. It
was a very silent drive; Doreen tremulous with anticipation; Ottilie
despondent as usual. The symbolism of her costume was powerless to
disguise her true Teutonic instincts—no sooner was she arrayed in helmet
and shield, than Britannia immediately saw herself as Brunhilde, and
this despite the Union Jack swathed around her buxom figure.

Antoinette was feverishly excited by that queer restraint that had
characterised Dennis’s manner ever since his first appearance in the
nursery that evening. If it was acting, she reflected, it was
phenomenally bad acting—too tense and white-lipped; altogether overdone.
But he had kept it up all through dinner, and he was keeping it up now,
though they sat opposite each other in the car, their knees almost
touching. He was not looking at her, but out of the window, and the
moonlight showed up the strained set expression of his face. What lay
behind it all, she wondered. When that elaborate restraint was broken
down, as undoubtedly it would be during the evening, what would she
find?

Dinner had been an awkward meal. Mr. Blackwood had insisted on telling
Antoinette stories that made Mrs. Blackwood say reproachfully: “Oh,
Daddy _dear_ ...” and that left Antoinette in doubt as to whether it
were better to incur her hostess’s displeasure by laughing at them, or
that of her host by pretending not to understand them....

When they had almost reached their destination, Ottilie broke the
silence by saying to Dennis: “Your friend who so excellent piano
plays—comes he also to ze ball?”

“I’m afraid not, Ottilie. I left him up in town this morning. Wild
horses wouldn’t drag Crispin to a dance, you know.”

“_Schade_ ...” sighed Ottilie, regretting the wasted opportunities which
her costume, and Crispin’s appreciation of Wagner might have offered.

When Doreen introduced Antoinette to Mrs. Ryan, that lady favoured the
bacchante with a glance not unlike the one with which Grand’mère had
surveyed her. Antoinette argued from this that she was looking her best,
and prepared to enjoy herself. Her clinging draperies of warm reds and
browns and purples, and the vine-leaves in her hair, made her look
distinctive enough among the crowd of pierrettes, fairy-queens, peasants
and columbines who clustered around the doorway of the drawing-room,
booking up their programmes.

“I am delighted to welcome you here—Millie—Amy, this is Doreen’s friend,
Miss de Courcy; will you see that she gets some partners?”

Amy, Queen of Hearts, with a golden paper crown upon a head of hair that
had been vigorously treated with curling-irons, rushed up to Antoinette.
“Tho glad to meet you—let me introduthe Mr. Thanderthon,” presenting a
very chubby Arab, “we’ve jutht been out in the garden to thee if
everthing ith all right, we’ve had flagth put on the theat in the
arbour, tho we than’t thpoil our dretheth....”

Tom having booked his dance with Antoinette, she was handed on to
Millie, who wore a composite “national” costume, of which the main
ingredients were Dutch sabots, a black velvet bodice, a red gypsy
head-dress with coins attached to it, and two straggly little yellow
plaits reaching just to her shoulders. She introduced to Antoinette
several men whose programmes were already full, and turned to speak to
Mr. Griggs, resplendent in a hired “Charles II” costume, several sizes
too large, and a very luxuriant wig. The moment he espied Antoinette, he
hurried to her side, his would-be majestic gait somewhat impeded by his
sword, to which he was not yet accustomed. “Miss Antoinette, I am
charmed—charmed—to meet you again. The memory of Charlotte Corday still
lingers in my heart, I assure you, and though this time we meet in a
different guise, I trust we shall be as good friends as ever.... May I
have the pleasure of the second waltz?” suddenly reverting to the
business on hand.

Antoinette accorded him the pleasure of the second waltz, and he
continued raptly to gaze at her. “That’s a very pretty dress you have
on—worthy of its wearer, if I may say so. There’s what you might call a
laissay-allay about it——”

“Mr. Griggs,” interrupted the voice of Mrs. Ryan, “would you mind seeing
that Miss Holt has a supper-partner? I think she’s in the garden
now—dressed as a Draught Board, you know,” she added in a confidential
undertone, “we always have difficulty with her, and her people will be
so offended if they see her sitting out.”

“She shall have a partner, if I have to bring her one by the scruff of
his neck,” vowed the gallant Griggs, and made for the iron stairs that
led down into the garden.

“Oh, and—Mr. Griggs!” his hostess recalled him, “you will see they don’t
lift the girls off their feet in the third figure of the lancers, won’t
you?”

“Your commands shall be obeyed, dear lady,” declared Griggs, and
promptly fell down the stairs.

In the meantime Clive had dutifully booked two dances with Antoinette.
Handsome in his sullen, black-browed way, he looked very effective as an
Indian Chief. Lily had come as a Squaw to match him, but as she
disdained the use of external aids to nature, her complexion retained
its blameless European hue.

The first waltz had already been played, Antoinette had been whirled
round by a perspiring Neptune, and her programme was nearly full, before
Dennis made any attempt to approach her.

“Have you anything left for me?” His tone was carefully conventional.
She gave him a quick amused look, but as there was no answering twinkle
in his eye, assumed that he was not yet prepared to throw off the
restraint that was a more effectual disguise than any of the fancy
dresses could hope to be. Undoubtedly he was working up to a scene, and
had quite definite notions as to how the scene should be played. It was
far from her to complain. She appreciated the histrionic instinct
wherever she encountered it; and she was quite capable of giving him all
the support that he needed.

She answered demurely: “Yes, I think I have one or two dances to spare.”

“May I see?”—he scanned her programme—“I’m not a dancer, but perhaps
you’ll sit out the lancers with me?”

“I shall be delighted,” murmured Antoinette.

Mrs. Ryan tapped Dennis’s arm with the end of her ostrich feather fan.
“Naughty boy, not to have come in fancy dress.”

He smiled. “I didn’t know in time, Mrs. Ryan.”

“Didn’t you? What a pity. Of course you were on a walking tour. Cornwall
or somewhere like that, wasn’t it? Did you have a pleasant time?”

“Very pleasant, thanks.”

“I’m glad ... but I thought your mother had written to tell you it was a
_fancy dress_ dance?”

“I think her letter must have been lost,” he lied piously.

“Or perhaps it was you who lost it ... well, well, we must make
allowances for these great composers, I suppose. Tell me if there’s
anyone you’d like to be introduced to, won’t you? You know you’re quite
at home here.”

Released from Mrs. Ryan’s expressions of unwonted amiability, Dennis
wandered down into the garden. The trees were hung with Chinese
lanterns; the paths picked out with coloured fairy-lights; on the lawn,
deck-chairs awaited the couples who, between the dances, would sit there
and whisper under the sighing trees. For him the whole scene was imbued
with that feeling of horror and oppression which characterizes a
nightmare; if he cried out, his voice would not be heard; if he
attempted to run away, his limbs would refuse to obey him.... Some
volition other than his own, was compelling him to act and speak as he
was doing, while part of himself was being tortured, beating against
prison bars ... crying out for help, for understanding to a world that
would neither help nor understand, but condemn him to eternal
suppression, eternal loneliness. This nightmare-sense had overlain the
whole of the last dreadful fortnight since he had left Crannack.
Passively he had let Crispin drag him round the Cornish coast. He had
not wanted to come home just yet, and Crispin at least was restful,
because he asked no questions ... no questions, even, concerning a
vivid-looking brown boy, who had burst into the little hotel at
Crannack, and asked to see Mr. Blackwood, and left again a few minutes
later with all the light gone out of his eyes.... And Mrs. Blackwood’s
letter, mentioning the dance, lay with some of her other letters in the
pocket of Dennis’s tweed suit; he had read them; but the names, the
dates, the local gossip she retailed, had conveyed absolutely nothing to
him. It was only by chance that he had returned to-day, returned because
he was tired of perpetually striving to banish from his mind a companion
who asked so much, and to whom he longed to give so much, and to whom he
might give—nothing.

At home, at least there would not be those long hours of silent, hard
walking, dangerous hours when he had felt that he must take the next
train back to Crannack.... He could only keep away, by resolutely
shutting Alan out of his thoughts, admitting him but for rare seconds,
precious seconds, when the danger of returning to him was minimised by
the absence of such things as railway-connections. Even his imagination
must be forbidden too much free play.... And all the while, he felt that
he was being cruel to the boy in thus keeping him out; pleaded with him
in the nights when he lay sleepless and through the days when,
unheeding, he tramped along the beautiful Cornish roads: “Don’t you
understand that I can’t? That I daren’t? That it isn’t because I don’t
love you enough...?”

Very tiring, this eternal struggle.... He had imagined that it might be
easier at home. And at home there had been Antoinette.... She fitted
into the nightmare well enough; he might have expected that she would be
in the very centre of it. But so far he had betrayed nothing; he had
done the correct thing, asked her for a dance ... and heaven alone knew
what he would say to her, when it was his turn to claim her for Number
6!

Voices reached him where he sat in the shadow of a clump of trees.

“That’s all right—I think we’re safe now. Griggs has been dogging me all
the evening with a Draught Board, he can’t get rid of her at any price.”
It was Neptune who spoke, and his companion, arrayed as Father
Christmas, responded: “Yes, for the Lord’s sake, let’s get a quiet
smoke. Griggs is the very dickens.... Always trying to introduce me to
Little Bo-peep. I don’t know if there are two of her, or if I’ve been
introduced twice over, or if I’m seeing double, but I don’t like either
of them.”

“Awful rot, these fancy dress hops,” mused Neptune. Father Christmas
gloomily assented. “My sisters rigged me up like this—there was no
getting out of it.”

“Whatever am I to do with this beastly trident thing? Every time I
forget it somewhere on purpose, some silly ass brings it after me and
says: ‘I think you’ve lost this.’”

“Oh, just drop it here, and the crowd who call themselves Harvesters can
use it as a hay-fork. I wish to goodness I could leave this ghastly
beard behind too....”

They strolled off into the more secluded portions of the garden,
grotesque figures moving across the background of Dennis’s nightmare.

“Denny darling, I’m having a simply lovely time—even lovelier than I
knew it was going to be!” Doreen’s voice now.... The dainty little
Dresden Shepherdess tripped across the lawn to where her brother sat
smoking, “it’s such a pity you don’t dance, dear old thing, you do miss
a lot.”

“Do I, Kid?” He smiled up at her radiant face.

She breathed “Yes ...” and young Hugh, a slim and golden-haired Black
Knight from “Ivanhoe,” came and joined them.

“Doreen and I both agree that it’s top-hole, being grown-up.”

“Yes, but I’m only pretending just for to-night,” replied Doreen, “I
shan’t be really grown-up till I come back from Heidelberg next year.”

“It’s rotten luck, your having to go there,” said Hugh.

“I know, but you see, I must. I’m the exchange for Ottilie. She says
that girls of seventeen can go to grown-up dances over there, but being
grown-up in Germany isn’t the same as being grown-up here, is it?”

“The insularity of your views is something appalling, my child,” teased
Dennis.

Doreen pouted. “Well, it’s not the same, is it?” she appealed to Hugh.

“Rather not!” he concurred, his eyes resting tenderly on her; then he
said to Dennis: “You and I are in luck to-night—I’ve got half the dances
on the programme with Doreen, and you’re out of it altogether. The other
poor chaps are having an awful thin time, trying to remember whom
they’re engaged to. There are so many duplicates—half a dozen Ophelias,
four Red Riding Hoods, innumerable Snow Queens, and two Queens of
Sheba—I thought there’d be murder there: did you see them glare at each
other when they first met?”

“I suppose each thought the other was a distorted figment of her own
imagination, and was properly resentful on discovering that she wasn’t,”
said Dennis.

Hugh gave his hearty, boyish laugh, and Doreen said, “I think
Antoinette’s costume is one of the prettiest, don’t you, Denny?”

“And even that’s been duplicated three times over,” Hugh broke in,
“rotten imitations, I grant you. As Amy says, ‘they’re all drethed in
thkinth’.... I’ve booked dances with all of them—got ’em down on my
programme as ‘Tiger-skin,’ ‘Bunny-skin’ and ‘Hearthrug,’ to be able to
tell the difference.”

“And ‘Hearthrug’s’ father is in the fur trade,” Doreen giggled
delightedly. “I heard Daddy say that she was a very bad
advertisement....”

“Ah well, I daresay there wasn’t enough tiger-skin to go round,” mused
Dennis, “let us not be uncharitable.”

“Let’s go across to the arbour, Doreen,” suggested the Black Knight,
“I’ll carry you, because you’ll get your shoes damp.”

Doreen argued that as she had been standing on the grass all this time,
her shoes were already as damp as they were ever likely to be; but Hugh,
with a gallant show of mastery, picked her up in his arms and carried
her across the lawn. The figure of the Black Knight and the light blur
of Doreen’s dress receded from Dennis’s vision, as the sound of their
mingled voices faded from his hearing.

He reflected quite dispassionately that it was odd that he should still
be able to talk to the others as if he were one of them; odd that they
should not divine the gulf that yawned between himself and them. But it
was a strain.... He became conscious afterwards of how great the strain
had been. He was alone again now, and could relax, grant himself a few
moments’ respite from effort. Wearily he wondered when and how the next
demand would be made upon him. He could hear voices not far off.

“Shall we stay here for a little while, Miss Millie?”

“Yes, I should like to, Mr. Griggs. I’m sure you deserve a rest after
all your hard work.”

“Everything that I do in your service, is pleasure, Miss Millie.”

“Oh, Mr. Griggs....”

A very cross Little Boy Blue here interrupted the budding tête-à-tête.
“I say, Griggs, can you tell me whom I’m dancing the next with? I can’t
read what I’ve got on my programme.” He presented the crumpled programme
to Charles II, who rallied him in debonair fashion. “Now—now—now, what’s
all this? Someone’s always in trouble and coming to me for help. Can’t
say I admire your calligraphy, old chap—are these the lady’s initials?”
He deciphered slowly: “‘Goggle—eyes—and—flat—feet——’”

Little Boy Blue snatched away the programme: “Not there, man, not
there—here!”

“Oh, _here_ ... why, that’s Miss Baumgartner, surely—Britannia—or is it
the Queen of Sheba?”

“I didn’t know we’d got the next one together too,” Little Boy Blue
stared reproachfully at his partner.

“We haven’t,” retorted she coldly, “I’m engaged to Neptune.”

“And Neptune’s dancing with Dolly Dickson, the other Queen of Sheba—I
just saw them go in,” said Millie.

“If two people _will_ come as the same thing——” began Little Boy Blue
with resentment.

“I should have thought it was easy enough to tell us apart,” said the
Queen of Sheba haughtily, “her costume’s home-made and mine came from
Clarkson’s.”

“Yes, that was what the other one said too ...” murmured Little Boy
Blue, and evaporated into the shrubbery. Griggs palmed off the Queen of
Sheba on to an unsuspecting Highwayman, who had come out to have a
peaceful cigarette. Then he sank back into his chair and mopped his
manly forehead.

“Poor Mr. Griggs,” cooed Millie, “how tired you must be.”

“Oh, Miss Millie, I would willingly incur far greater fatigues if only
to hear you say ‘poor Mr. Griggs’ in just that tone....” He put his hand
to where the hilt of his sword should have been, but finding that he had
mislaid the sword, arrested the gesture half-way. “I love that costume
you’re wearing. National, isn’t it?”

“Yes, national.”

The voices became inaudible for a space, then—“I don’t know very many of
the steps—there are such different ways of doing it, aren’t there? But
perhaps if you’ll teach me....”

“It will be a labour of love, Miss Millie.”

... Retreating footsteps and silence. Then the music, faintly audible,
struck up again; but instead of the accustomed beat of waltz or
two-step, came the less familiar, haunting rhythm of a tango.

“_If anyone played one of those tango-tunes that were all the rage in
London before I came down here, I believe I’d weep...._”

Piercing through the stupor which, for the moment had numbed pain, came
memory, keen and poignant as a rapier-thrust. Alan was before him again,
looking up into his face with eager, burning eyes.

“You can stay with me a minute, boy,” Dennis whispered to him, “there’s
nobody looking.... Would you like to be dancing the tango in there? I
could easily introduce you to Mrs. Ryan—she’d think you a delightful
acquisition.... How we could have laughed over all this together, you
and I.... Are you eating your heart out in loneliness, Alan, as I am—as
I am? You must go now—I—the others are coming....”

Obediently the vision faded.

The dancers were straggling out into the garden again, grouping
themselves upon the lawn. Griggs picked up the trident from the ground.
“What have we here? Anybody claim this valuable article? Is it yours,
Madam?” offering it to the home-made Queen of Sheba, who paused,
wondering perhaps if she could not use the weapon upon her rival from
Clarkson’s.

“No, it’s not mine; it’s yours, isn’t it, Neptune?”

“I’ve been trying to lose it all the evening,” he groaned, “can’t you
raffle it or use it as a tooth-pick or a toasting-fork? I don’t care
what you do with the damn thing!”

Mrs. Ryan’s opulent aigrette appeared upon the balcony.

“Not catching cold, any of you, I hope?” ... and in answer to the chorus
of: “Oh, no, Mrs. Ryan....” “It’s lovely out here....” “The garden looks
ripping....” “It’s such a perfect evening ...” the hostess nodded
benignly. “That’s right. I like to see you all enjoying yourselves—Oh,
what is it, Susan?” She turned to Mrs. Blackwood’s faithful retainer who
had been lent to her for the occasion, and who had come out on to the
balcony to speak to her.

“Please, M’m, it’s the freezing-salt,” Susan announced in sepulchral
tones.

“Well, what about it?”

“It’s got into the strawberry ice, M’m.”

“Dear me, how very careless. What can we do?”

“We can’t do anything, M’m, the ices’ll just have to taste salt, only I
thought I’d better tell you.”

Susan withdrew and there was a burst of laughter from the group on the
lawn.

“Never mind, Mrs. Ryan, they’ll be cold even if they are salt,” cried
Tom Sanderson.

“Some people like them better that way—more piquant,” from Hugh.

“Yeth, quite a novelty, ithn’t it?” from Amy.

“Yes, rather ...” from the chorus.

Mrs. Ryan was very distressed. “You’re dear, sweet children to take it
like that, still there are plenty of other good things for you, so you
won’t starve.... Now, have you all got your partners for the lancers?”

Dennis waited till the group on the lawn had re-assorted itself and
paired off into different combinations of incongruity; then, as the last
couple disappeared into the house, he went across to fetch his partner.

Father Christmas, with whom she had just been dancing, was taking his
leave of her, and as Dennis appeared at the foot of the steps, his
father, together with Mr. Ryan and Dr. Clavering, came out on to the
balcony.

“Here’s Romeo come to fetch his Juliet,” Mr. Blackwood jovially
apostrophised his son, “lucky young dog—I wish I were your age!” with an
appreciative glance at Antoinette.

“Yes, that’s all very well—all very well when you’re young”—Mr. Ryan was
a stout little red-faced man with a wheezy voice—“but I can’t understand
this preference for sitting about in the damp, with next to nothing on.
It would kill me!”

The doctor smiled and Mr. Blackwood guffawed. “It wouldn’t kill me, but
then perhaps I’ve got a stronger constitution, eh, Doctor?” He threw out
his chest and positively winked at Antoinette.

“You needn’t boast,” snapped Mr. Ryan, “your gout is as bad as mine any
day, isn’t it, Clavering?”

“There’s not a pin to choose between you,” declared the doctor, a
twinkle in his humorous grey eyes. He was clean-shaven and soldierly in
appearance; a very pleasant type to look upon. Young Hugh could be glad
if he resembled his father in twenty years’ time.

Mr. Blackwood began again: “That boy of yours, Doctor, and my little
girl ... hitting it off very well, eh? Haven’t seen the young rascals
all the evening....”

“One is only young once,” smiled Clavering.

“... Trio of dear old gentlemen,” murmured Dennis, as he and Antoinette
walked across the lawn. The “trio of dear old gentlemen,” after a little
more facetious banter, and digging of each other in the ribs, returned
to their game of cards.

In silence they entered the arbour. Dennis swept aside the flags with
which the seats were draped. “I don’t like the patriotic decorations in
conjunction with your costume.”

She laughed with easy response to his mood. “Isn’t it rather a waste of
Amy’s forethought?”

He did not answer, and she wondered, not without a trace of impatience,
when at last he was going to throw aside his pose. Antoinette herself
was feverishly strung-up; every nerve in her craving the relief of some
violent scene, some violent emotion. The whole dance, dull enough in
itself from her point of view, was but a preliminary, an accompaniment,
a working-up to this moment.

Still he sat silent; and at last, unable any longer to bear the strain,
she took the initiative. “You have quite a genius for making dramatic
entrances, just in the nick of time, when everybody has given you up for
lost. Your arrival at Amberhurst was good enough, but to-day was more
effective still.”

He said: “Amberhurst—yes, I remember. They were hoping I’d play for the
theatricals, and I wouldn’t. It’s a pity that anticlimax seems
inevitably to succeed what you call my dramatic entrances.”

“You shouldn’t let it, then!” she cried, “surely it’s in your power to
prevent it.”

“Not always.”

She became aware then, of the utter weariness of his tone, the weariness
of his deep-set brown eyes. It seemed incredible that this was the man
who had written her those wonderful letters. Where was the promised
continuation of the long, intimate talks that had been started in them?
Where was his anticipated delight at seeing her again? Had he ever
really told her about himself and Eric Rubenstein? Taken for granted her
understanding of all his moods? Said to her: “I want you here beside me
in my dream-place....”

Well, she was beside him now, and there was nothing wrong with the
place—stars twinkling in a pale blueish sky, wind rustling faintly in
the trees, and swaying the Chinese lanterns to and fro—but he made no
attempt to break the oppressive silence, or in any way to shatter that
impalpable barrier which seemed to have arisen between them. Curiously,
critically almost, she watched him, as she leant back in her corner of
the arbour, and smoked her cigarette.

... And to him also the silence was becoming oppressive. He had not
found, in talking to the other figures in the nightmare, the same
appalling difficulty as he found in trying to talk to Antoinette. The
soft light of the lantern, swinging from the roof of the arbour, fell
upon the slim, lithe curves of her body; on the white throat and
shoulders above the wine-coloured draperies; on the flushed face and
hair tumbled to a riotous mass of curls. The face and hair and body of a
bacchante, indeed.

He was fully aware of her decorative value; admitted it at every point;
but of the appeal which she might once have made to his senses, nothing
remained. Alan, with his virile personality, had blotted out for Dennis
the fainter magic of Antoinette, so that he could no longer perceive
it—or if he did perceive it, then but dimly, remotely, as something not
felt at all, but just seen through a misty glass. He had wondered
once—it seemed a very long time ago, now—if Antoinette were not the one
girl in a thousand, in a million, with whom he could find happiness and
rest from the ceaseless internal wars of his own nature. And while he
had still been doubting, wondering, playing with the idea, writing
letters to a girl of his dreams, Alan had come....

Yet he knew that he owed her some explanation; that she expected one of
him. But what was he to tell her? What could he tell her? The truth...?
He suddenly felt a mad desire to tell her the truth. Groping back to his
first impression of her at Amberhurst, he was still convinced that she
would understand. She too, or so it had seemed to him, was different
from other girls, just as he—And it would be just a little less lonely,
if he could tell her....

The strains of the “Chocolate Soldier” lancers floated out to them with
bursts of clapping and laughter between the figures. Antoinette sat
listening with concentrated attention to the music. The fourth figure
was nearly over now; soon the dancers would come swarming into the
garden, encroaching upon their solitude, which might have been such a
thing of wonder ... and had merely been a thing of emptiness. She
resented the waste of the good moment, of the good setting—of
herself....

Dennis seemed suddenly to awaken from his stupor. He said, “I’m
sorry—about anticlimaxes, but believe me, they’re not my fault. They
happen—just happen—like everything else in this world that’s crazy and
cussed and without rhyme and reason. I——”

But already the dancers were pouring down the stairs into the garden,
and the voice of Britannia, deep and lugubrious, uprose upon the still
night air. She was addressing a Pierrot, whom Griggs had jockeyed into
asking her for the supper-dance, not knowing that Little Boy Blue, in
self-defence against the joint Queens of Sheba, had previously engaged
her for it. “Ach, no, I cannot. I have got von man already, and zey say
I must not have more zan von ...” as regretfully she refused the second
offer. “Ach, to zis England shall I never myself accustom....”

“Poor Ottilie,” murmured Dennis, “it’s a hard life.” He was secretly
relieved at the diversion that had checked the confession on his lips.
After all, it would have been a great mistake to tell her—he must have
been crazy even to have contemplated it. He must guard against these
incalculable impulses in future. For the present he was safe, thanks to
Ottilie.

“They might have let her have her Pierrot as well—what would it have
hurt?”

But Antoinette made no answer. She was possessed by a dull fury, her
nerves strained to snapping-point.

He had cheated her of a sensation.




                                PART II


                               CHAPTER I

But Ottilie had no occasion “herself to zis England to accustom”;
neither was Doreen obliged to put to the test her assertion that being
grown-up in Germany wasn’t the same as being grown-up in Eastwold. A
European war intervened in time to prevent a further exchange of
daughters between Herr Baumgartner and Mr. Blackwood. Ottilie, wailing
bitterly, was bundled off post-haste and with considerable difficulty,
to her native land. Mr. Blackwood was taking her as far as Dover, and
the rest of the family saw her off at Eastwold station; where she kissed
them all, including Reggie, much to the latter’s disgust. And they put
her into the train, together with the brand-new English hold-all, of
which she was so proud, and the large canvas bag on which were
embroidered in red cotton the words: “_Glückliche Reise_”.... And up
till the last, she craned her head, surmounted by its absurd little
straw hat, out of the window, and assured the Blackwoods repeatedly that
she loved them, and loved England; and enjoined Doreen to “Greet me Mr.
Griggs—greet me all dear friends....” Then, as the train began to move
out of the station: “Ach, zis vor.... _Jammerschade_!” The rest was
smothered by the noise of the engine.... Doreen cried all the way home,
and Reggie was compelled to remind her with some severity that Ottilie
was a German—the term “Hun” in these early days of the war had not yet
become incorporated in the language, or he would certainly have used it.
Ottilie was a German, and hence, obviously, a spy; Reggie expressed the
devout hope that he had said nothing in her presence that might lead to
giving information to the enemy; and tried to obliterate the shame of
her parting embrace by assiduous rifle-practice in the garden.

And young Hugh Clavering, looking very elated, climbed over the wall
into the Blackwoods’ garden that afternoon, and told Doreen how awfully,
awfully glad he was that she couldn’t go to Heidelberg now, even if she
wanted to ... but he might be there himself, with any luck—Heidelberg
would do just as well as Berlin, he wasn’t particular—yes, of course
he’d enlisted; was going straight into camp; fine sport ... and he’d
bring her a German helmet for Christmas.

And Doreen said how awfully, awfully proud of him she was, and she did
hope he wouldn’t get hurt, and yes, of course she’d write to him, and
would he send her a photograph of himself in uniform?

And Griggs and Tom Sanderson and Clive Blackwood, and all the clowns,
pierrots, highwaymen and the rest of the motley crew from the fancy
dress dance, had likewise enlisted; and of each one of them it was
proudly claimed by his family that he was the first man in Eastwold—the
first man in the county to have done so. Be this as it may, Eastwold
made gallant response to the call of King and Country. Clive applied for
a commission in the Royal Engineers; Tom gravitated naturally towards a
cavalry regiment; Griggs appeared in the modest uniform of a private,
and bore himself with that ingratiating charm of manner that had
distinguished his impersonation both of Marat and Charles II.

“Only a simple Tommy—but ready to do his bit with the best of ’em. We’ll
show Fritz the stuff Old England is made of!”

So, with a great deal of excitement, and metaphorical clanking of spurs,
and generally with the sensation of taking part in a picturesque
pageant, the manhood of Eastwold, very pleased with itself, left the
sunny, sleepy little town for the various camps and headquarters, where
it was to be instructed in the art of “showing Fritz the stuff old
England was made of....”

“And what is Dennis going to do?” Mrs. Ryan at last voiced the question
which had agitated the whole of Eastwold ever since the outbreak of war.
Dennis’s mother replied that for the present she didn’t know that he was
going to do anything, and rather hastily changed the subject. Eastwold,
with a tolerance and forbearance which later it was to lose, assumed
that Dennis, being an artist, and hence possessing a certain right to be
“peculiar,” would take longer than the others to realise his duty
towards his King, country and family. But inspired by the example of his
brother Clive and the rest of Eastwold, he would no doubt soon long to
feel his hand upon the hilt of his sword, as did every true-born Briton
in times like these....

Little Miss Simpkins ventured to suggest that the Blackwoods, in giving
one of their sons to the army, were adequately fulfilling the dictates
of patriotism.

“We women of England must give _all_ our sons,” returned Mrs. Ryan who
had no sons to give; and reiterated the ominous catch-phrase that had
just been coined: “in times like these....”

The war had run the course of four horror-stricken months, and still the
Blackwoods’ eldest son had made no move towards the recruiting-office.
Nor had he any intention of doing so. The thought of war inspired in him
none of those feelings with which convention decreed that every true
Briton should be inspired—in times like these. He had no desire to feel
his hand upon the hilt of his sword; no desire to help to bring the “day
of victory” nearer. The whole thing was damnable and stupid, and cruel;
and so was all the talk and the bombast with which everyone strove to
gloss over the fact that it was damnable, and stupid, and cruel ...
pretended that it was a noble thing, a glorious game, a game which every
Englishman should be proud to be playing.

“A little blood-letting won’t do the nation any harm.” Often and often
Dennis had heard that phrase upon his father’s lips, as comfortably Mr.
Blackwood smoked his after-dinner cigar, and fixed his son with a
baleful eye. Dennis at all events would not give himself up to become
part of the machinery of nations trying to prove which could stand the
most blood-letting; machinery that organised the murder of individuals
by individuals who had no personal quarrel with each other. And greater
even than his repugnance to the “great war game” as a whole; greater
even than his revolt against the senselessness of it, and the pity of
it; greater than any personal physical fear of death or wounds was his
fear of being sent out to inflict death or wounds on others ...
deliberately to maim and shatter the bodies of men as young as himself,
the bodies of men as young as Alan.

He would not enlist. And Eastwold might do its worst.... Eastwold was,
in fact, already growing restive.

Mrs. Ryan took him to task one day when she met him in the town. She had
just come out of the grocer’s shop, where she had been complaining
because the price of bacon had gone up again; and the grocer had replied
that in times like these.... She was therefore considerably ruffled when
she met Dennis outside. After a preliminary exchange of hostilities, and
a meaning glance at his civilian clothes, she said: “Well, I should like
to know where the war would be if everyone thought like that!”

“Presumably there would be no war at all,” he returned gently.

“Nonsense! The Germans would have been here long ago.”

“Not if _everyone_ thought like that.”

“The Germans would never think like that, even if the English did—and
I’m thankful to say they don’t. It’s the Germans who wanted the war.”

“And now the English want it every bit as much as they do.”

“Well, now they’ve started it, we’ve got to go on with it—we didn’t want
war.”

“I daresay they think and say exactly the same, only the other way
round....” Dennis walked away, weary of the argument. He would have been
wearier still, if he could have foreseen the countless times he was to
repeat that argument with different people, in different places, with
variations and amplifications. These were still the early days of the
war, and the crusade against pacifism was not so strenuous as it became
later on.

But Mrs. Ryan reported that conversation to Mrs. Clavering who reported
it back to Mrs. Blackwood; and Mrs. Blackwood, half uneasily, told
Dennis that it had been reported. “Of course Mrs. Ryan thinks you ought
to go, Denny.”

“Everybody does, Mother,” he smiled at her.

“And—shall you...?”

“Do you think I ought to, Mother?”

She was troubled by the direct question. “I suppose every man ought to
go, but it’s difficult to want them to. I suppose one can’t help being
selfish.... Daddy thinks you ought to go, Dennis.”

He ignored this, being already acquainted with his father’s views on the
subject. “And you Mother?” he persisted.

“I know it’s very wrong of me,” she murmured, as if apologising to the
wrathful spirits of her husband and Mrs. Ryan and the rest of the
community; apologising for being a mother first, and a “woman of
England” afterwards.

Dennis laughed, and took her in his arms. “You dear....”

She returned his kiss, but repeated: “Mind you, I know it’s wrong.”

“Wrong that you should want me not to go out and kill people whose
mothers love them every bit as much as you love me?”

She was silent, disconcerted by a point of view unfamiliar to Eastwold.

“Or do you think that because they’re Germans, they love their sons
less?” he teased her, and she pretended to be indignant.

“You’re trying to make fun of me, and to muddle me, and I—I’m sure you
ought to go, really....”

“That’s all right,” laughed Dennis.

But all the same, life at “The Hermitage” was far from ideal just now.
Mr. Blackwood reading the paper aloud to his family every morning, dwelt
with reproachful emphasis upon those portions detailing the atrocities
committed by the German soldiery in Belgium—as if to make Dennis
responsible for them. “Inhuman brutes—savages—devils! No Englishman
should rest till the last one of them has been wiped off the face of the
earth.”

“And I suppose no mention is made of the atrocities our Russian allies
have probably committed in Germany,” said Dennis, “don’t you see that
once the ‘dogs of war’ are loose, there’s bound to be that sort of thing
all round? For the baser elements of all nations alike? Debauch and
beastliness on the part of people sent mad by blood-lust?”

Mr. Blackwood turned purple. “Your views are disgraceful, sir. Why, to
hear you, anyone would think you were pro-Hun.”

“I’m not pro-Hun any more than I’m pro-British. I’m not pro-anything
that’s driving millions of innocent people to slaughter and be
slaughtered by each other. I’m for the first people who’ve got the
courage to put down their arms and end the whole thing.”

“You say that because you don’t want to fight yourself. Must I own that
a son of mine is a coward and a shirker?”

“That’s as you please....”

Mr. Blackwood turned to vent his fury upon his wife. “This is your
doing—you always did bring him up to be a spoilt namby-pamby!”

Between Mr. Blackwood’s spluttering rage, and Clive’s cold contempt for
Dennis, and her own secret relief at the attitude which he had taken up,
Mrs. Blackwood had no easy time. The house was divided against itself.
Doreen had as yet not declared herself openly on one side or the other.
She was sincerely convinced that every man ought to go, but she was half
inclined to think that an exception might be made in Dennis’s favour. It
was different somehow, for Dennis, though she had not the faintest idea
why....

But Reggie, taking no heed of any psychological subtleties, wrote from
Westborough, saying that he jolly well hoped Dennis would have joined up
by Christmas, and that he ought to be jolly well ashamed of himself if
he didn’t, and that he—Reggie—jolly well hoped that the war would last
long enough to allow him to enlist.

About the middle of December, Dennis realised that he could no longer
stand the strain of guerilla warfare in the home-circle, and decided to
go to London for a while. No doubt the strain upon his mother, too,
would be lessened, once his own irritating presence was removed from the
house. Mrs. Blackwood approved his decision; told him to be sure and
write if he wanted anything; and hoped he would often run down for the
week-end.

Then, very tentatively, she said: “Will you see anything of Antoinette
when you’re in London?”

He answered without looking at her: “I daresay I shall.”

“I’ll give you her address.”

He smiled. “I know it, thanks.”

It was the first time that they had mentioned Antoinette since she had
stayed with them for the dance. Mrs. Blackwood still did not know why
nothing had come of that little scheme of hers. It seemed just to have
fallen flat.... Dennis had been in such a queer mood when he came back
from Cornwall.... Perhaps Antoinette had been capricious or unkind to
him; he was so absurdly sensitive. Of course she had never ventured to
ask him about it. But perhaps if they met again in London——

Dennis certainly went to London with his mother’s blessing....

He was very glad of the £150 a year which had been left to him and his
sister and brothers by Mrs. Blackwood’s father, and that enabled him to
live as he pleased. He made a little money out of the sale of his
compositions, but not sufficient to keep himself entirely; and he would
have hated to be dependent upon his father.

He took a room in Tavistock Square, and went the next day to see his
friend Neil Barnaby.

Barnaby was sitting at a writing-table littered with papers when Dennis
entered. He looked up at him with a casual “Hallo?” and a funny, twisted
smile that seemed confined to one corner of his mouth only.

“Hallo?” responded Dennis.

Barnaby put down his pen, and swung round in his revolving chair. “It’s
six months, or thereabouts, since I saw you here last. Shall we pass
over the intervening time in silence, or do you wish to make statement
of it in detail?”

“Oh, pass it over in decent silence, I think,” laughed Dennis, “the best
of you is, Barnaby, that after six months’ separation, one can take up
the threads of intercourse as easily as if they’d been dropped
yesterday.”

Barnaby grunted. “Nevertheless you might have had the decency to report
upon the progress of your opera, considering that the libretto is mine.
Have you finished it yet?”

Barnaby, in his time, had tried his hand at nearly all branches of
literature; had perpetrated plays, a novel or two, an occasional set of
verses and newspaper articles. But he retained a special fondness for
the fairy-tale of “Karen and the Red Shoes,” which he had turned into a
play for which Dennis was writing the music.

He answered Barnaby: “No, it isn’t finished. I haven’t been able to do
any work at home of late. That’s partly why I’ve come up here for a
bit.”

“Can’t work at home, eh?” Barnaby fixed him with a critical glance.
“What is it—white feathers?”

Dennis nodded. “More or less.”

“H’m,” reflected Barnaby, “I at least am immune from that delicate sort
of attention.”

Dennis glanced quickly away from the crutches that lay beside his
friend’s chair. He was conscious of almost physical pain whenever
Barnaby made allusion to his deformity; fine massive head sunk between
rounded shoulders; one leg shorter than the other....

Dennis said: “Supposing you hadn’t been immune—that way?”

“You mean, if my physical disabilities hadn’t been so blatantly apparent
to the naked eye? In that case, my dear Dennis, I should be doing
exactly what you’re doing now—or rather, what you’re not doing.”

“You think I’m right in refusing to go, then?”

“If only they’d all refuse....” The concentrated fierceness of despair
was in Barnaby’s voice.

“‘Then,’” Dennis parodied Mrs. Ryan, “‘where would the war be?’”

“Nowhere! That’s the obvious answer to that riddle.”

“I know it’s the answer. I’ve given it myself over and over again.”

Barnaby continued impatiently: “The brute stupidity of the thing ... and
all the waste of art and intellect! Don’t give in, Dennis. Don’t let
white feathers and the opinion of your next-door neighbours drive you
into it. Get on with your opera. That’s the ‘bit’ for you to do, and a
‘bit’ which only you _can_ do.... Let’s at least preserve art from the
general wreckage.”

“I doubt if the old ladies at home would agree with you,” said Dennis,
“they’d say that art, too, must be sacrificed ‘in times like these.’”

“The Vandals.... I’d rather be a Hun than a Vandal any day! If the old
ladies at home get too much for you, for heaven’s sake don’t bring the
conflict of your opinions to me. I’m not interested in psychology at
present: I’m doing free-lance journalism just now, for which it isn’t
necessary. And keep in mind that it’s better to write music that will
live, than to help to fill the world with things that look like me—and
worse....”

                   *       *       *       *       *

But Dennis had no need of Barnaby’s reminder. The sight of the wounded
in the streets was enough; and the thought of the wounded in the
hospitals, being tended and mended, so that they might be sent out
again, and broken again.... And already one saw those who could not be
sent out again: armless, legless, blind; wreckage that could not be
utilised either on the field of battle, or on any other.

He plunged into his work, taking it up where he had left it before he
went to Devonshire. But the horror that was all around and about him,
got into his music and became part of it. The ideas that came to him,
found expression in harmonies that had an ominous and sinister beauty.
He knew that they had beauty, despite the horror with which they were
impregnated. He never lost his critical faculty where his work was
concerned, nor yet a certain detached surprise with regard to it.
Sometimes he wondered from what strange sub-region of consciousness
issued these visions—yes, that was the right word—visions of sound,
audible to himself alone, and that he had the power to translate and
transmit to others. And sometimes he was afraid of this music of his,
that sprang from he knew not whence, and over the going and coming of
which, he had no control. He was afraid now.... The clamour in those
submerged regions of his brain was so great and so complex that it
obsessed his every thought; waking or sleeping he heard the tortured
dissonances and weird scurrying arpeggios, that left him no peace until
he had found the right form of expression for them.

... Music such as might have been heard in a nightmare ... music
horrible and unreal, that in itself constituted a nightmare from which
there was no escape. Like Karen, the girl in the fairy-tale who was
compelled to dance on and on in the red shoes which she had so ardently
desired—on and on past the loves with whom she would fain have
lingered—so was Dennis compelled to listen without respite to this
nightmare-music, that was like an evil spell upon him.

As a child, some haunting phrase of music, suddenly remembered; or the
sound of a coach-horn heard in the stillness of the night, had had this
power to fill him with helpless terror. He had stuffed his fingers into
his ears, hidden his head under the bedclothes, but still the sound had
pursued him.... He was equally helpless now, equally terrified; lonely,
too; a loneliness that could be banished neither by talks with Barnaby,
nor by the long musical evenings he spent at Crispin’s flat.

... And the little khaki-clad processions marched gallantly through the
streets; shopboys and bank-clerks and grocers’ assistants, weedy and
pasty-faced, with a smile on their lips, and a joke to be tossed at the
girls they passed on the pavements.... Arms swinging, caps set rakishly
upon their heads ... a bit of swank and a bit of curiosity and a great
deal of heroism. And here and there for Dennis some face would stand
out, upon which there was neither swank, nor curiosity, nor heroism;
only wonder, dazed wonder; or a stupefied kind of patience.... And he
would long to drag that man out of the marching ranks, to ask him what
madness possessed him, or what ideal inspired him, that he must thus go
out and offer up his all to the Juggernaut of war.... And the answer
would always have been the same: he didn’t really know; but everybody
was in it, and he supposed that a fellow ought to do his bit.

And sometimes, Dennis caught sight of some face, some figure that
remotely recalled Alan’s. And the pain that had never quite ceased, only
lain temporarily dormant, awoke anew: pain, and a new panic-fear....
Supposing Alan were to be in one of those marching processions! He had
probably joined up by now, and with his democratic ideas, he would have
gone in the ranks. Alan was the type that could not be held back, that
would be eager and impatient to go. Dennis was certain of it.... He
would be crazily brave on the battlefield; would storm trenches in the
face of enormous odds.... And he would not return. People like Alan did
not return. He would lie out there with his body torn and shattered;
piteous unseeing eyes open to the pitiless heavens. Dennis turned sick
as his fancy painted for him the things that might befall Alan; things
that had perhaps already befallen him.

Consciously and unconsciously, Dennis scanned the faces of those who
marched past him, his heart throbbing hotly at the discovery of every
fugitive resemblance of look or feature. Soon he hunted for Alan not
only amongst the passing soldiers, but amongst the crowds thronging the
streets, pouring out of restaurants and tea-shops, waiting outside
theatres ... lived for the momentary thrill of encountering that chance
resemblance.

... Deeper and deeper into the crazy depths of the nightmare—nightmare
set to his own horrible music, and filled with strange faces, figures,
voices; and, almost like a futurist picture, with bits of streets,
buildings, bridges, where he had caught a glimpse of this one, and
that.... There was danger in his present mood, as there had been danger
that night at Crannack.... Deeper and deeper into the nightmare, sinking
in it, drowning in it....

With a last remnant of sanity, and obeying a wild impulse to fling out a
hand for safety while yet there was time, he rang up Antoinette, and
asked if he could come and see her next day.


                               CHAPTER II

Of the astonishment which his sudden appearance caused her, Antoinette
betrayed no sign when she received Dennis in the particularly hideous
drawing-room of the house in Cadogan Gardens. The resentment which she
had felt against him at the dance, had long ago died down, leaving only
an insatiable curiosity with regard to the cause which could have
engendered in him that queer dazed mood. The way he had seemed to clutch
at her at Amberhurst—and then his letters—and then the sudden
silence—the anti climax of the dance—and now his re-appearance after
nearly six months—he was really rather an extraordinary person!
Antoinette felt distinctly “intrigued,” and hoped that this time her
anticipation of dramatic developments would be justified.

He began without preliminaries: “I’m not going to apologise for not
having communicated with you before. There were reasons—I’ll explain
some time, and I’m sure you’ll understand. But for the present, may I
just pretend that I’m still talking to you on the bridge at Amberhurst
and that there’s been nothing in between?”

“Certainly,” she smiled, suppressing her curiosity regarding the “in
between,” and noticing that he also suppressed all mention of his
letters to her. “Pretend anything you like, and keep the apologies for
Grand’mère. She likes them—thrives on them, in fact.”

Dennis laughed. “Is she at home?”

“No, but she will be soon, don’t fret. You shall be introduced to her.”

“Won’t she be shocked at your receiving the visit of a gentleman not in
khaki?”

“She’ll be shocked at my receiving the visit of a gentleman in anything
at all,” sighed Antoinette, “so it really doesn’t make much difference.”

She had flung herself back upon the stiff and unresponsive sofa, one arm
stretched along the side, in a posture that seemed literally to crave
the yielding softness of cushioned divans. But there were no cushioned
divans in the house of the de Courcys; and to Dennis it seemed that
Antoinette with her short mass of hair and supple boyish figure, was
absurdly incongruous with her surroundings.

“You can contradict as much as you please,” he said, “but you _are_ a
square peg in a round hole.”

“Oh, I should just think so—here!” she assented quickly.

“Is it very bad?”

“Sometimes.”

“Spiked railings, and ‘Please don’t touch,’ and plenty of witches and
dragons to see that the rules are enforced—poor little enchanted
princess, I’m so sorry....”

She thought she caught a faint echo of something that had been in his
letters, and that had been lacking that night at the dance. Eagerly she
responded to it: “Sometimes the witches and dragons can be put to sleep
with fairy-tales, and the enchanted princess comes and dances outside
the spiked railings.”

“Will she dance with me, I wonder”—Dennis began, then burst out
laughing. “Metaphorically, of course. I wouldn’t dream of really
inflicting on you a sample of my terpsichorean art.”

“No, I remember you were kind enough to spare me at the fancy dress
ball....” She could not resist getting in this little thrust, and
wondered how he would parry it. He did not parry it; merely left it
alone; and she went on: “How are they all down at Eastwold? Very full of
good works?”

“Very! The Ryans, needless to say, have started a sewing-class—two
sewing-classes, one for the matrons and one for the maidens of the
neighbourhood. Mother and Doreen attend them, and Lily is at the local
V.A.D. hospital. She hopes in time to appear in a khaki uniform, with
initials on her shoulders, and a strap under her chin.... There was some
talk of Millie Ryan’s taking up nursing too, but that project was
knocked on the head, I believe, when her esteemed mother discovered that
there were only Tommies at the hospital and not officers!”

Antoinette laughed, and then sighed. “Yes, it’s all very well, ...
personally, I haven’t as much as knitted a muffler. It’s an awful
confession to make, but I loathe the idea of nursing (even officers!),
my sewing is beyond description, and I don’t feel drawn towards
scrubbing floors in a hospital.”

“Go on,” said Dennis.

She leant forward, clasping her hands around her knee, and shook back
her rebellious hair. “If I took up any of those things, it wouldn’t be
because I believed it was my sacred duty to my country to do them: it
would only be so that when people start with the inevitable: ‘And what
sort of war-work are _you_ doing?’ I could fling them my mufflers or my
dish-washing or my entirely superfluous secretaryship as a sop. And
that’s not quite good enough, is it?”

“Not nearly good enough,” smiled Dennis. He was discovering, somewhat to
his surprise, that he was really very glad to see Antoinette again. He
must have forgotten her peculiar exuberant charm during the time that he
had not seen her; but he was fully aware of it now—and glad that he was
aware....

“So you’re a rebel too, Antoinette.”

She flashed out: “Yes, I won’t make buttonholes just because Mrs.
So-and-so thinks I ought to! One must do war-work from genuine
patriotism or not at all.”

“And you haven’t any genuine patriotism?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I believe I had—once; only I’ve seen and
heard so much of the artificial kind, that it’s been spoilt for me.”

She fell silent, brows slightly contracted. He was more and more
convinced that she fitted into her environment as little as he did into
his, and that somewhere they would find a common meeting-ground, he and
she....

He glanced from her to the photographs of the numerous aunts and
cousins. “There’s not much family-likeness between you and these,
Antoinette,” pointing to a group of three plain girls with arms stiffly
twined about each other’s persons, in a manner indicative of sisterly
devotion, and one dear to the heart of every conventional-minded
photographer. “They may be very worthy, but they don’t appeal to me.”

“My cousins Sidonie, Jeanne and Hélène from Grenoble,” Antoinette
introduced them, “and Grand’mère would tell you that the lack of
resemblance between us is much to be regretted.”

“But surely even grandmothers—even your grandmother, Antoinette—has eyes
in her head?”

“I repeat that Grand’mère would beg you to remember that appearances are
deceptive, and that embroidered cushion-covers are more maidenly than
short hair, and would clinch the argument with the remark that Sidonie,
at least, has found a husband!”

“However did she do that?” murmured Dennis, still intent upon the
photograph.

“They had an awful time, doing it for her,” Antoinette’s eyes sparkled
with mischief, “there was once a young man of blameless antecedents but
of impecunious means, who was brought to the house, and proposed to
her—or rather her ‘dot’—and was refused by her father. The young man
wreaked a horrible and subtle vengeance by going across the road and
paying court to Sidonie’s cousin, Adèle. Adèle is, if possible, even
plainer than Sidonie—that’s her photograph over there, between Raoul and
Jacques, wearing English Eton suits, seven sizes too big for them.”

“Thank you,” said Dennis, gazing transfixed at the likeness of a fat
young thing with a yearnful expression, leaning over a stucco balustrade
with a tennis racket in her hand.

Antoinette continued: “Adèle accepted the young man: her dowry being
slightly larger than Sidonie’s, she could afford the luxury. But
hereupon Sidonie’s parents began to realise what they had missed, and to
scheme to get the young man back again. This was easily effected by
clapping a few thousand more francs on to Sidonie’s dowry.... They’re
the happiest couple in Grenoble now, I believe.”

“There is, of course, also Adèle’s point of view to be considered.”

“Well, she has at least the consolation of having started a family-feud
so bloodthirsty that it will not end as long as there is a single one of
them left to carry it on. And think how difficult it will be for my
uncle and aunt to get their two remaining daughters married, with
Nemesis—or rather Adèle’s parents—watching from the other side of the
road!”

“Antoinette, I’m enjoying you most awfully....” Enjoying, also, a
feeling of security in her presence—in this absurd, hideous room with
the family-photographs. He had escaped from the danger that threatened.
He was safe—with Antoinette.

The door opened to admit old Madame de Courcy and her daughter-in-law.
Grand’mère’s pleasurable anticipation of interviewing her
grand-daughter’s suitor—it was doubtless in this capacity that young
Blackwood was making his visit—was tempered by the thought that this
suitor was not one of her own selection. She was therefore prepared to
regard Dennis with a critical, not to say a disparaging eye. There was
also the little matter of his income: Madame de Courcy had
cross-questioned Antoinette very closely on the subject, without
obtaining any results whatever. Apparently Dennis had been reticent
concerning his financial position, a point greatly in his disfavour. A
young man in a _good_ financial position, had no need to be reticent
about it. “_Il doit y avoir quelque chose de louche_,” as she had
suspiciously remarked to Anatole, who agreed with her.

It therefore behoved Grand’mère first of all, to put the young man at
his ease, and then with her usual tact and discretion, to make him admit
the exact figure of his income.

With this end in view, she commenced by assuring Dennis how much
Antoinette had enjoyed herself at Eastwold, and how kind it was of his
mother to have invited her. Dennis replied with becoming courtesy, that
his mother had been delighted to have her. Which ended the first round.
The next was more directly personal.

“I see, Monsieur, that you are not in uniform.”

“No, Madame,” Dennis replied superfluously.

Henriette was gazing out of the window, a look of profound abstraction
in her cavernous dark eyes. Suddenly the sound of her voice vibrated
through the room. “When I think of martyred Belgium, my heart
bleeds....” Her hand was clenched against her breast.

Dennis began to understand why Antoinette had said that genuine
patriotism had been spoilt for her: small wonder, if she had to listen
to much of this sort of thing! He glanced at her, as she sat beside her
grandmother on the hard sofa, hands sedately folded in her lap, eyelids
lowered, the picture of the typical “jeune fille” decorously awaiting
the advances of her suitor. She was adorable, he thought with a warm
glow of affection ... and again something within him consciously
registered that glow, and was satisfied....

Madame de Courcy once more took up the thread of conversation. “My
grand-daughters in Grenoble occupy themselves with cooking for the
soldiers, and nursing them.”

“Not specifying if the latter is necessitated by the former,” murmured
Antoinette, who was on the old lady’s deafer side.

Madame de Courcy, catching the murmur but not the drift of it, yet being
convinced of its seditiousness, continued severely: “Antoinette does not
occupy herself with anything....” To which Dennis, in the manner of the
best French exercise, responded: “Er—no, but my sister knits socks.”

Henriette embarked upon a monologue directed seemingly to the atmosphere
in general. “Would that I had a son to give to France.... Gladly would I
have sent him forth to do his duty, though my maternal heart had been
torn with anguish!”

Madame de Courcy took the occasion to remind her daughter-in-law that it
was indeed regrettable that she had no son; and that she and Anatole had
always said so; and that it must be entirely her—Henriette’s—fault, as
all the other members of the house of de Courcy had been blessed with
male offspring.

Antoinette hastily changed the subject by asking Dennis what had become
of Crispin.

“Crispin—no, he’s not in the Army. He’s engaged upon a private and
personal war against the people who are trying to bar Wagner and Bach
from our concert programmes.”

Madame de Courcy broke in again: “I hear you are an artist, Monsieur, a
sculptor, is it not?”

“No, a musician,” Antoinette corrected her, and the old lady nodded her
head.

“Ah, he visits the museums? But that is indeed interesting.”

“He is a musician, I tell you!” shouted Antoinette.

“_Comment_—he gives piano-lessons?” cried Grand’mère in great
consternation. Dennis, very gently, succeeded in making her understand
that he “wrote pieces for the piano”; she looked relieved; asked him if
he were well paid; and in a loud aside demanded of Henriette if musical
conductors received pensions from the State in England....

Henriette languidly shrugged her shoulders. “Who thinks—who has the
heart to think of music now? For me, if I were a man, there would be but
one music thrilling my soul: the roar of cannons—” crescendo—“and the
beat of drums....” She let the sound of her deep voice slowly die away
on the word.

Dennis was sorrier than ever for Antoinette.

When he took his leave, Madame de Courcy pressed him to come again, and
Antoinette gave him a most decorous “Good-bye, Mr. Blackwood,” with a
blush and lowered lids, and then one second’s impish gleam from the grey
eyes under their thick black lashes.

Dennis walked away with a light heart. “It’s all right,” he told
himself, “quite all right....” He was struggling up out of the nightmare
into which he had been sinking, as a person sinks into a dark,
weed-clogged pool. The weeds still clung about him: there were several
things from which he must avert his mental gaze—or, better still, he
must pretend that they were not there. The picture of a boy’s lean body,
lit by the glow of a forge, was one of them.... But he could pretend
quite easily, and it would be all right, he repeated—if only Antoinette
would give him a hand.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Antoinette felt stimulated by Dennis’s visit. She was liking him more
than ever before. His whimsical sense of humour appealed to her, also
his delight in the eccentricities of the de Courcy family, as recounted
by herself. And there was still about him that air of mystery which
offered food for the wildest speculations. Half idly, and yet not
without a certain thrill, she began to wonder what sort of a lover he
would make.

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was two nights later, and he had taken her to a theatre. They had
laughed a great deal, and had had a very good evening, but now, as they
drove in the taxi towards Cadogan Gardens, a silence fell upon them.
Antoinette’s heart throbbed with excitement that was mingled with a
remote inexplicable dread; but she did not know whether it was the dread
of a repeated anticlimax, or dread of the climax for which she longed,
and which she sensed near at hand. Yes, she decided, she _did_ want
it—but still the oppression remained.

Abruptly he ended the strain; put his arms round her. “Antoinette, will
you marry me? It will be quite all right, dear ... really it will.”

And now that it had come, that for which she had waited, she was
conscious only of a feeling of withdrawal, that amounted almost to
recoil.

“Will you, Antoinette...?”

She wished that after all, he had not come to the point so quickly;
wished he had prolonged the rather charming uncertainty of their
intercourse; wished that he were not already claiming a definite
answer.... All this, while his arms were around her, his lips very
gently straying over her cheeks, her eyelids. As one soothes a child, he
murmured again: “You’ll see, it will be all right.”

Of what was he thus persistently reassuring her, she wondered with a
touch of impatience; and freed herself from his arms. “I’m not sure,
Dennis ... d’you know,” with a little burst of hysterical laughter,
“I’ve an awful longing to say that this is so sudden.”

“But you must have always known that it was bound to come,” he pleaded.

“Y-yes, but—” She could not put into words the feeling of flat
disappointment that was upon her. He had kissed her—asked her to marry
him: climax stirring enough; and yet something in her that was not
satisfied, protested: “This can’t be all! Is this really all...?”

“Well?” he smiled down at her, and she was irritated by his calm. Surely
a man who cared deeply for her must have behaved differently in the face
of her vague answer; must have sought by his passion to kindle a like
passion in her.

“I don’t love you,” she said very low, knowing that she spoke the truth,
and wondering what effect this statement would have upon him. He
considered it in silence, as the cab drew up at the door. He helped her
out and dismissed the driver. Antoinette, on the door-step, had one
moment of fear lest Dennis should take his dismissal to be final. She
had not meant to be quite so drastic as all that; she liked him too much
to want to hurt him.

... To her relief he was beside her on the door-step now, and in the
darkness, his arms were round her again. “Dear child, believe me—it will
be all right....” Very lightly he kissed her lips, and as he ran down
the steps: “I’ll write to you to-night.”

Antoinette, rather dazed, rather irritated, and more disappointed than
ever, let herself into the house. She reflected, quite irrelevantly,
that Dennis had omitted to lay stress on the fact that he loved her. Now
she came to think of it, he had not even mentioned it.


                              CHAPTER III

“... I didn’t think it was possible to be quite so happy as this. I want
to thank you for it again and again, but I simply can’t find words.
You’ve made me so glad and triumphant. I know now that nothing else
matters, and that nothing can ever come between us. Please say you know
it too, because you do, deep down in your heart, don’t you? Oh, I can’t
say one fraction of what I want to, but I can hardly wait till
to-morrow, to have you in my arms again.... God bless you, my dear....”

The sight of the scrawled phrases sent the blood rushing to Antoinette’s
cheeks; and yet—she had given him no reason to burst into these pæans of
joy. Was he so dense, then, that he did not perceive that there was no
answering joy in her? Dense and selfish he must be, with that peculiar
masculine denseness and selfishness that she had always abhorred in the
men who had hitherto flirted with her—men who had taken for granted that
her pleasure in receiving their attentions must equal their pleasure in
bestowing them. What right had Dennis to take so much for granted? She
had credited him with more subtlety of insight than was common to the
average male. His caresses had lacked the masculine brutality that had
always frightened her. Dennis had not frightened her: he had merely
bored her.

She read the letter through again, and again thrilled at the sight of
the words. Which of her impressions of him was correct? How was it that
his letter could thrill her, when under his kisses she had remained as
cold as ice? Obviously, there was still some mystery that awaited
solution.

Perhaps it would be solved this morning! He had rung her up, and asked
her to meet him for a good long talk ... and at the sound of his voice,
tense and controlled, over the telephone, she was aware of an intense
desire to avoid hurting him, and to find that everything was really “all
right.”

He took her to a little underground tea-shop in the Strand much
frequented by Barnaby and his journalistic friends. It was empty at this
hour of the morning, and no sooner had Dennis given his order for
coffee, than he took Antoinette in his arms, kissed her and kissed
her.... And Antoinette let him kiss her and kissed him back, trying to
act the part, shamming the passion she was far from feeling, and that
she longed so genuinely to call into existence by shamming if it could
not be otherwise, and wondered all the while that he did not seem to
notice the coldness beneath this sham passion of hers, and that he could
still murmur brokenly between their kisses: “I’m so glad—so very
glad....”

“Let’s go and tell your people when we leave here, shall we?” he cried,
as he released her, “do you think your grandmother will die of the
shock?”

“Oh, she needn’t know just yet. There’s not such a hurry, is there?” ...
Again that twinge of alarm. She must know that she could still escape in
case of need. If her people were told at once, and an engagement between
herself and Dennis formally announced, all possibility of escape would
be barred.

“But there’s no need to keep it a secret,” he protested, “I feel I can’t
keep it to myself a moment longer. I want to tell everybody I
meet—Crispin—Barnaby—and to wire to them at home—Mother will be ever so
glad. I may just tell her, mayn’t I?”

“I’d much rather you didn’t, Dennis....” More and more real her alarm,
now. She must succeed in combating this desire of his to take people
into his confidence. For once his family knew, and her family, and his
friends, and her friends, she would be bound hand and foot to carry out
her portion of an agreement into which she had not yet entered. Not
yet.... She was frightened of being rushed into a decision; determined
to play for time.

“I’m not sure of myself, Dennis. I told you so last night, and it’s
true. Won’t you give me a chance to be really sure?”

He avoided answering the direct question and argued: “We could tell them
all the same, couldn’t we? Whether we tell them now, or in six months,
doesn’t make much difference.”

“Yes, it does. It makes all the difference in the world to me—it should
make all the difference in the world to you, if you care that I should
really care for you.”

He said sadly, “But don’t you, Antoinette?”

“Not yet.... Not as I want to be able to care for the man I marry. Not
as I have cared for—other people.” A fleeting recollection of some of
her feelings for Hester crossed her mind.

“Oh, don’t talk like that,” Dennis begged her.

“But I must!” she cried impatiently, “not to make you jealous, or
anything as absurd as that, but just to get things clear, to show you
that I do know the difference between the real thing, and what isn’t the
real thing.”

“And this—isn’t the real thing?” He spoke without looking at her.

“I’ve told you it isn’t—yet.”

“But it may be? You think it will be?”

For the sake of the eagerness in his voice and eyes, she smothered
doubt, and replied, “Give me six months, and I’ll tell you then.”

As they climbed the little stairway that led from the tea-shop to the
street-level, she had the ridiculous sensation of having been
reprieved....

He had to rest content with her decision. His belief that all was well
was still unshaken; but it was a pity that she had chilled his first
enthusiasm; a pity, also, that she had not let him tell his mother. Once
his family knew, and her family, and his friends, and her friends,
withdrawal would be made impossible. Not that he had the slightest
desire to withdraw: this _was_ the real thing, he assured himself over
and over again, as he held her in his arms and kissed her.

All the same it would have been safer to make withdrawal absolutely out
of the question....

In order to avoid the curiosity which her family would have displayed,
had it been known that she was seeing Dennis three or four times a week,
Antoinette stated airily that he had returned to Eastwold; and accounted
for her frequent outings, by manufacturing an entirely fictitious set of
invitations from an entirely fictitious set of friends. Sometimes, to
vary the monotony, she threw in some equally fictitious friends of
Rosabel’s, with the result that she was able, in comparative peace, to
continue her experiment with Dennis.

It certainly was an experiment from Antoinette’s point of view, but she
wished with all her heart, that it was something more than that, or that
it would become something more.... At present there was not much hope.
He seemed incapable of arousing her, even though on their long drives
home through the darkened streets she lay in his arms and returned his
kisses, and tried so hard, for his sake as well as for her own, to catch
fire. She resented the lack of mastery in him—mastery that should have
demanded and compelled love, instead of gently pleading for it. Was it
love, though, for which he pleaded? She was still aware that he did not
reiterate that he loved her; did not use the words that love would have
used, and that she longed to hear.... But he wanted to marry her; he was
taking for granted that at the end of six months she would marry him.

Of that queer glamorous mystery that had once enshrouded his
personality, nothing remained. All the promise that he had held out in
his letters from Devonshire was yet unfulfilled. When she tried to lead
him to talk openly of himself, he fell silent, or changed the
subject—and kissed her. It seemed to her that she knew even less about
him now than at the beginning. And he knew nothing about her. She was
convinced of that. He never made any attempt to fathom her moods and
feelings; to discover what her thoughts had been in the past, or what
were her ideas concerning the future. Nor would he discuss their
relations to each other; always silenced her questionings with: “It must
be all right—it was meant to be.”

“I don’t feel that it was,” she argued uneasily.

“You will—in time.”

“And ... if I don’t?”

“Oh, don’t let’s think of that.”

“But why do you wilfully blind yourself like this?” she cried.

He said mournfully, “Because life is so full of cruelties, that the less
one sees of them the better.”

“It’s cowardly, just to pretend that they aren’t there!”

He flushed and started at that; and she hoped it might lead to some
further explanation.

“Much better to face them out.”

He shook his head. “No ...” and relapsed into silence.

Exasperated, she gave it up.

Often she wondered what his relations with other women had been, and
tried to sound him on the subject.

He answered: “There’s never been any other woman,” and she knew by
instinct that he did not say this merely to please her, or to assuage a
non-existent jealousy, but that it was the truth ... and she could not
tell why it filled her with a new uneasiness. Yet she could not bear to
sever their connection entirely. Sometimes, for days together, he did
not see her; left her without news of his whereabouts. Then she began to
believe that he would never return, and was conscious of a fear quite
disproportionate to her real feelings for him. It was always with
immense relief that she welcomed him back. There were so many little
things for which she liked him. On rare occasions, she released him from
his fictitious exile in Eastwold, and he was allowed to lunch in state
at Cadogan Gardens. Antoinette enjoyed watching him as he made
conversation with her grandmother, who thought him a very backward young
man, and strove by an increased amiability to give him the courage
necessary to demand Antoinette’s hand in marriage. Grand’mère was not at
all sure that she would accede to such a demand, but then, from her own
point of view, it was almost as enjoyable to refuse as to accept an
offer of marriage for her grand-daughter. Antoinette had explained the
subtlety of Grand’mère’s attitude to Dennis, who, sharing her delight in
it, solemnly acted up to it. It added, also, to the pleasant feeling of
truancy appertaining to all her expeditions with him. Yes, in their
lighter moods, they harmonized well enough. It was only in moods that
were not light—

And yet she could never quite rid herself of the hope that they must one
day stumble upon the thing which would dispel, as if by magic, the
mental fog that had descended between them. Some quite little thing ...
something equivalent to a mere click or switching-on of machinery that
would be in perfect working-order, if only one knew how to set it in
motion. The hope that one day it would be set in motion, sprang up
afresh whenever she was not with him, but it died down inevitably at
their next meeting, died under his queer silences and evasions, and
under his kisses....

Once, in one of his more clear-sighted moments, he cried out to her:
“Oh, why can’t you care for me more?”

And all the longing of her soul was in her voice, as she replied: “My
dear—if only I could....”

Dennis’s music alone thrilled her, as could nothing else about him. In
it, he seemed to give something of himself that he otherwise withheld;
and yet she felt that it was not to her that it was being given. He
played her his old songs or bits of his opera, but nothing that had been
dedicated to her or that had been composed because of her. Lacking the
power to inspire him, she was completely shut out of his music.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Thus they drifted, for the six months and over the six months. He was no
longer pressing her to make a decision, as he had done at first. She was
guiltily aware that she ought to do so, that the situation was absurd,
anomalous, and that she ought to end it—one way or another. But which
way? She was no nearer to loving him than she had been six months ago;
but she dreaded the idea of the blank there would be in her life, if she
put him out of it altogether, as she surely must do, once she spoke the
decisive word. So she did not speak it....

More and more silences and evasions now; the fog between them thicker
and thicker.... And always he kissed her; kissed her with a fervour that
seemed to increase in the same proportion as their mental affinity
seemed to diminish.

At the end of a hot August day, they drifted in their punt down one of
the backwaters at Wargrave. Antoinette had done most of the punting; and
now, deliciously tired, she lay back among the cushions, while he
paddled down-stream. Through half-closed eyes she watched him, noted the
contrast between his athletic build and sensitive features. He was
gazing straight ahead, into the green-gold tunnel formed by the
overhanging branches. What was he thinking of, she wondered. Was it some
new musical inspiration that had come to him, and that was absorbing his
entire thoughts? He was rather a wonderful person altogether;
good-looking, and a genius. She was musician enough herself to recognise
that he was a genius. It was absurd that she should not love him....
Perhaps, unbeknown even to herself, already she was beginning to love
him? Perhaps—with a sudden quickening of her pulses—perhaps someone had
spoken the magic password...?

He put down the paddle, tied up the boat, and came and flung himself
down on the cushions beside her. He had chosen his moment well. For the
first time she was glad of the storm of kisses that he showered upon
her. No need to complain of his gentleness now—not now, with his hands
clenched into the short warm tangle of her hair, his hard kisses beating
down upon her lips and upon her throat. She lay passive under the storm,
rejoicing in this new fierceness and mastery that had come to
him—fierceness and mastery that in any other man would have terrified
her—and thought: “It’s going to be all right—it _is_ all right now....”

Suddenly, without a word, he pulled himself away from her, untied the
punt and paddled back to the landing-stage. All the way to Paddington,
their compartment was crowded and conversation impossible; but
Antoinette was satisfied with what the day had already given
her—knowledge that it would be easy to make her decision now. Should she
tell him to-night, she debated as the taxi bore them homewards, or
should she leave it till to-morrow, and let to-day be sufficient unto
itself? She decided on the latter course, convinced that it would
harmonize better with his mood. He was exceptionally silent; and on her
door-step, he bade her good-bye without kissing her again, without so
much as touching her. And she was well pleased with his behaviour that
showed a fine appreciation of a mood for once shared.

Oh, but she was looking forward to seeing him to-morrow!

And to-morrow, at breakfast, there was a letter from him waiting beside
her plate. Joyfully she swooped down upon it. After all, he had been
quicker than herself to seize the moment. This would be one of his
perfect letters, and at last she would be able to give in response to
it, all that he might ask of her.

Grand’mère, who had of course recognised the handwriting, looked
inquisitively over the tops of her spectacles.

“What has he to tell you, the young Blackwood? Would it not be time to
ask him to lunch again?” And aside to Henriette: “_Cela lui donnerait
peut-être l’entrain qui lui manque...._”

... One of his perfect letters: Antoinette’s heart fluttered wildly—and
then stopped.

“... I’m sorry, but we can’t go on like this. I’ve known it for a long
time, and I am to blame for not having acted on my knowledge sooner. You
were right and I was wrong—it wasn’t the ‘real thing.’ I should have
broken with you completely when I first began to realise it, but for
your sake I tried to go on pretending, long after I knew it was useless.
So I’m afraid it must be good-bye.”

“_Eh bien_,” persisted Grand’mère, “he has at last made you his
declaration...?”

But Antoinette sat staring at the letter, stunned and bewildered as from
a blow between the eyes. This—after yesterday.... She was dazed with the
sheer incredibility of the thing; too dazed, even, to be conscious of
pain. That would come later.

“For your sake I tried to go on pretending——”

So yesterday, also, had been mere pretence on his part, yesterday, when
for the first time she had been genuine in her response to his
passion—his sham passion. It was fantastic, this reversal of their
original positions!

“So I’m afraid it must be good-bye.”

The words, read and re-read till they seemed to become devoid of all
meaning, swam before her eyes. If only he had indeed chosen to break
sooner, he would have left a blank in her life; but no more. Why must he
have waited until this moment, when it meant leaving far more than a
blank? One did not suffer when it was only a blank, but when it was
more....

“For your sake I tried to go on pretending, long after I knew it was
useless.”

That was the answer; and it stung. Between the lines, she thought she
read contempt of herself; contempt and dislike.

But was it entirely her fault that she had never possessed the key to
any of his moods? He had always shut himself away, hidden from her the
workings of his mind, so no wonder that this revelation of an attitude
that must have been crystallizing gradually during the past months came
as such a shock.

She folded up the letter, and put it away with the one he had written
the night he had asked her to marry him.

“I know now that nothing else matters, and that nothing can ever come
between us....”

As contrasts, she reflected, the two letters were quite effective.


                               CHAPTER IV

At last, thank goodness, he had found sufficient energy to break away
from this deadlock, to end this weary game of pretence! He had thought
that with Antoinette he could escape definitely from his abnormality;
escape from his loneliness; from the ever-present terror of himself;
from the nightmare of his own music; and his thoughts of Alan.... From
all these things he had sought refuge in Antoinette’s arms; she would
make him forget that they existed. And besides, Antoinette was of those
who understood; he had not the slightest intention of deceiving her;
some day they would talk everything out openly together.

But Antoinette had failed him; failed him in her moments of recoil, as
she had failed him in her moments of insincere passion. He knew all
along that her passion was insincere, and it frightened him. Was he,
then, in truth so abnormal, so different from other men, that he was
incapable of rousing real passion in a woman, real love? She did not
love him; yet she would not let him go, even when he begged her to make
her decision.

“We must go on, dear—or go back.”

“I can’t go on yet, and ... and I don’t want to go back. It’ll leave
such a big hole in my world if you’re not there, Dennis.” ... Always
appearing to give herself with one hand, and to withhold herself with
the other.

He began more and more to doubt the possibility of her understanding,
and to revise his previous judgment of her—judgment based upon some
flimsy illusion created that night at Amberhurst. She was after all just
an ordinary normal girl, who would turn from him in shuddering aversion,
if she knew.... And she was rather immoral, he thought, in her
simulation of passion that she did not feel; and endowed too, with the
ordinary woman’s vanity, that could not bear to lose an admirer, and
must keep him dangling, even though he meant nothing to her.

But it became more and more difficult to break as time went on; he knew
that there would have to be scenes and explanations. And he dreaded the
idea of explanations now.... Of mental kinship between them, there was
no longer any trace; neither of the warm tenderness which he had felt
for her at first. He shut his inner self away from her, and, when they
met, since they could not talk—he kissed her. It was evidently what she
wanted, now that she had overcome her first distaste, and what he—well,
not what he wanted, but what for the moment, could in some small measure
content him.

He was rapidly sinking back into the nightmare out of which he had hoped
to rise; nightmare of loneliness and strangeness and being different....
And the old hunting-mood had him again, when for hours together he paced
the streets, courting danger and the thrill of danger from a flung
glance or smile or whispered word ... and with burning cheeks and
beating heart, fleeing danger ... and courting it again.

And all Antoinette’s kisses could not content him now, even though she
gave them so lavishly in response to the passion that was not for her,
but only venting itself on her. That last day at Wargrave—surely some
instinct must have told her? Was she so dense or so insatiable that she
had really perceived nothing? She must have perceived nothing, or she
could not for an instant have endured his kisses. More than time for
them to break—so at last he had broken with her; and his letter would
eliminate all possibility of a further compromise—of further drifting.
He was not hurting her, at the most her vanity; and that did not matter.
She would console herself easily enough; find some other man to fill his
place.

And now he was free—for what, though? Free to take anybody, anything
that could reach him through his charmed circle of isolation. For in
this isolation of a soul terrified of itself, and doomed to eternal
misunderstanding and misjudgment, lay the greatest temptation of all:
the temptation to stretch out a hand to others like himself, and to own
himself frankly to be one of them. It would be so much easier.... But
his abhorrence of himself, and his honest desire to be as other men;
above all, the æsthete in him insisted on a perpetual wearying struggle
between his principles and instincts for the existence of which he was
no more responsible than for the colour of his eyes. He had done his
best to fight them down, only sometimes he was very tired, tired of
having to keep this ceaseless watch over himself, tired of having to
suppress and thwart desires that were natural to him, but would be
classified as vicious and perverted by the world of ordinary people,
lacking understanding of his peculiar temperament. Yet, even while he
craved for understanding, he dreaded it: for this reason he had not been
near Barnaby for weeks. He guessed that Barnaby’s attitude would not be
one of conventional intolerance, and therefore deliberately avoided him.
Once he allowed himself the luxury of confiding in someone, he could not
tell what effect this greater freedom might have upon him. Fear, mingled
with some strain of asceticism, made him deny himself that luxury, even
as in his schooldays, it had prevented him from accepting Eric
Rubenstein’s sympathy and friendship.

But London was too dangerous to him in his present condition. He almost
welcomed a letter from his mother, asking him to come down to Eastwold.
Hugh Clavering was expected home on leave, and his engagement to Doreen
was to be made public. Dennis went; but Hugh’s leave was several times
postponed, so that he did not actually arrive till after Christmas.

Dennis soon realised that the ladies of Eastwold were experiencing
considerable difficulty in the matter of how to treat his mother. Of
course if Mrs. Blackwood had only been _his_ mother, one could quite
simply have cut her; but as she was also Clive’s mother and Hugh’s
future mother-in-law, it complicated things. Clive was in the trenches
and had been mentioned in dispatches.... But there was Dennis who
steadily refused even to attest under the Derby scheme, and who thought
that all war was wrong (which was ridiculous, at least as far as the
British were concerned) and said so on every possible occasion.

Some of the ladies argued that one should condole with Mrs. Blackwood on
the subject of Dennis, rather than reproach her; some thought that his
disgraceful views more than outweighed Clive’s deeds of valour, so that
they felt justified in cold-shouldering Mrs. Blackwood. But the majority
contented themselves when they met her, with enquiring enthusiastically
after each individual member of her family, and leaving a frigid gap in
the conversation to mark the place where Dennis would have been enquired
after, had he been worthy of such enquiries....

Lily Hallard, very military indeed in her V.A.D. uniform, openly
confessed that she didn’t like the prospect of having a shirker for a
brother-in-law; and in her loud-voiced aggressive manner tried to
convert Dennis to a proper frame of mind.

“How you can bear to sit at home, while other men—while your own brother
is in the trenches!”

“They’re doing what they think is right—or rather, they don’t think at
all.”

“And you think it’s right to let others go out and be killed for you?”

“Killed for me.... Good Lord, do you think I _want_ them to go out into
that infernal mess and muddle? I’d hold every one of them back with my
own hands, if it were in my power!”

“You make me sick,” said Lily. “That’s not a man’s way of talking. Look
at Tom Sanderson—he’s exchanged into an infantry regiment, because he
says there’s nothing doing in the cavalry, and he’s so eager to get to
the Front. That’s the proper spirit.”

“Not unless you can believe, with all your intellect and soul, that
you’re doing some good by taking part in that wholesale butchery.”

“A fat lot most of our boys think of ‘intellect and soul.’ They just go
and do their bit, and don’t talk about it.”

“If they did—if people talked and thought about it more, there might be
some hope of ending the war altogether.”

“We don’t want the war ended that way!”

“No, you want it to be ended by fighting, rather than by thinking.... To
hear you, one would positively imagine that you enjoyed the idea of the
war going on and on.”

“It must go on till we win. Oh, if only I were a man! I’d give anything
to lead a fine cavalry charge....”

Dennis did not doubt that she was quite competent to do so.

Altogether, he suffered no lack of attempts to convert him.

There was Griggs—Lance-corporal Griggs—who had not been out yet, but was
dying to go, and expecting to do so next week, as he had been expecting
every week since the outbreak of war.

“What—not yet in khaki, Dennis, old man? What’s all this about pacifism?
Come, come, come, that’s nonsense—artistic temperament, that’s all.
You’ll make as good a soldier as anyone, just the same. We’re all in
this—don’t let anyone stand out. What I say is, rope ’em all in—rope ’em
all in.”

Dennis was reminded of the day at Amberhurst, when Griggs with just as
much fervour, had sought to induce him to play the piano during the
theatricals. “Rope ’em all in—everybody’s got to do something....”

No one must stand out. No one must be an exception. Not even if they had
no leanings towards the particular form of entertainment advocated by
Griggs.

Even Doreen, gentlest of sisters, did her best with Dennis.

“Don’t you think you ought to go, Denny dear, now that everybody else
has gone?”

“Do you imagine, Doreen darling, that I should have waited till
now—waited till everybody else had gone—if I had intended to go at all?”

A letter from Ottilie had come through _via_ Switzerland, saying that
“she herself with a hotly-beloved Bavarian officer on the West Front
engaged had;” also that she hoped to see her dear friend Doreen again
“as soon as the dreadful war over was.”

Dennis went on: “Surely you’d rather that your Hugh and Ottilie’s
soldier-man didn’t have the chance of shooting each other to bits?”

“But the Army’s so big, Denny: they’re not likely to meet.”

“In all probability they won’t. But there are thousands of others in the
same respective positions, facing each other in battle. Don’t you wish
they weren’t?”

“Y-yes, of course I do, but ... everybody’s going, Denny.”

And then the Ryan girls.... Millie cut him dead when she met him in the
town, but Amy, not prompt enough to achieve the cut direct, had begun to
smile before she realised what she was doing ... tried to retrieve the
smile, blushed, and finally stopped to say: “We all think it’th thuch a
pity about you, Dennith. All really nithe men go and fight, don’t they?”
Then, having said so much, she could not resist the temptation to
continue: “I’m keeping up a Correthpondeth with _three_ Lonely
Tholdierth—jutht ordinary Tommieth, of courthe, but being in khaki
maketh all the differenth, doethn’t it? Ethpethially if you never thee
them ...” with which somewhat ambiguous statement, she vanished.

The only one who made no assaults upon Dennis’s convictions, was young
Hugh himself, very tanned and handsome, very much the hero of his native
village, and the same unspoilt and charming boy he had always been.

“Doesn’t want to kill the Huns? Well, neither do we—part of the time.
Some of them are awful decent little chaps, quite pally with our men.
Still, I suppose it’s our job to do ’em in, if we can.”

The biggest discussion took place at the Blackwoods’ Sunday lunch party,
the occasion on which the engagement was officially announced. Lily and
her mother came, and Hugh and his parents, and Griggs, and the
Ryans—poor Millie had to exchange a few civil words with Dennis after
all, thus marring the effect of the previous cut.

The ladies had retired from the dinner-table; Hugh had vanished in
Doreen’s wake; and Griggs, as a non-smoker, had been accorded the
freedom of the drawing-room. Dennis was alone with his father, Mr. Ryan
and Dr. Clavering. Griggs, on his exit, gazing after Hugh and Doreen,
provided the old gentlemen with the necessary cue.

“There they go—the gallant and the fair! Doesn’t it make your heart
envious to see them, Dennis? It’s the uniform that does it, my lad, the
uniform....” He slapped his narrow chest, and went off, beaming.

“Yes, we believe you right enough,” grumbled Mr. Blackwood, “if I were a
young man, I’d be ashamed to be seen about in anything but khaki.”

“They say conscription’s coming in,” Mr. Ryan wheezed hopefully.

“That’ll be the end of all our slackers and shirkers, and a good job
too. What’ll you do then, my son?”

“Precisely what I’m doing now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Refuse to fight.”

“But you can’t,” cried Mr. Blackwood, “they’ll put you in prison, or
shoot you as a deserter.”

“Let them.”

“You mean to tell me,” expostulated Mr. Ryan, “that you’re afraid to go
out to the Front and die like a gentleman, and yet you’ve no objection
to staying at home and being shot like a dog? It’s monstrous, sir,
monstrous.”

“My objection to going to the Front isn’t entirely fear for my own skin,
Mr. Ryan, though I know you’re convinced that that is my sole reason for
staying behind. I don’t suppose I’m any more or less afraid of death
than the average man of my age.”

“Prove it,” muttered his father, “prove it....”

“I daresay I shall prove it, when conscription comes in. I would rather
be shot, as Mr. Ryan says, ‘like a dog,’ than submit to a law that
orders me to murder men with whom I’ve no personal quarrel. And if I did
have a quarrel with a man, I shouldn’t murder him.”

“There would be some cases in which it would be your duty to do so: what
would you do if a German attacked your mother?”

Dennis smiled as Mr. Ryan put the inevitable question. “I could defend
my mother by incapacitating him for the moment, without resorting to the
extreme measure of taking his life.”

“Tommy-rot!” snorted Mr. Blackwood, “when a man’s blood is up, he
kills.”

“Perhaps in the case of a personal quarrel. But you can’t say it’s his
duty to kill when he has no quarrel at all.”

“It’s his duty to his country——” began Mr. Blackwood, and Mr. Ryan’s
breathless voice broke in: “His country’s quarrel should be good enough
for him.”

“But it’s not the quarrel of the whole of this country, any more than
it’s the quarrel of the whole of Germany. Why not try and restrict the
quarrel to those who made it, without dragging in millions of innocent
people on either side ... people, some of whom don’t even know what the
quarrel is about, and what they’re fighting for? German peasant boys
taken straight from the plough—English lads raked out of remote sleepy
villages: how much do you think they know?”

“There can be no doubt that every Englishman knows what he’s fighting
for,” declared Mr. Blackwood.

“Yes, he’s told that he’s fighting for honour and glory and freedom, and
to defend his home and country from a dastardly enemy. And the German
boy is told exactly the same. And they both believe it, bless them. When
they’re both out there, dying a foul death side by side, perhaps they
may wonder if it was true, and if it was worth while, and why they let
themselves be driven out to kill and kill and be killed by each other.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Mr. Ryan testily, “we all know that war is very
dreadful——”

“Yet you won’t even attempt to stop it!” cried Dennis. “You encourage it
to go on. It’s like a fire that instead of confining to the smallest
area possible, you’re fanning and fanning till it spreads from one end
of the country to the other, and flinging on more material every day to
feed it. Why in heaven’s name won’t you try to stamp out the blaze?”

“Yes, it’s all very well to talk like that,” said Mr. Blackwood, “but
there always have been wars, and there always will be. Nations that have
had no wars have become degenerate, and gone to the wall.”

“Oh, I can’t stick all this humbug about war being necessary, and war
being good for us! How can people talk such stuff, if they have the
slightest conception of what war really implies?”

“Well, you won’t alter human nature,” answered Mr. Blackwood, “man is a
fighting animal, and for my part I should be very sorry to see the
fighting instinct knocked out of him.”

“That’s setting yourself deliberately against all idea of progress,
Father: because certain evils have existed up to the present, is that a
reason to declare categorically that they are bound to exist in the
future? Why not root them out? What is there to be proud of in the
instinct that leads one man to kill another? Why deny all possibility of
conquering an instinct that can only make for misery?”

He looked from one to the other of the two red-faced elderly gentlemen;
his father angrily fingering the stem of his wine-glass; Mr. Ryan
glowering at him through the heavy wreaths of his cigar-smoke. Only the
doctor, on the opposite side of the table, gave the impression of an
impartial spectator.

“I’ve no patience with all this rot!” cried Mr. Blackwood, “if a man’s
got no fight in him, he’s unnatural, that’s what I say, unnatural.”

“You’ll allow a man to conquer nature with his ships and his
railways—you’ll allow him to widen as much as possible the gulf that
separates him from the beast; but when it comes to rooting out the
war-instinct—_No!_ He can’t overcome that. Why should he? It’s always
been there, always will be. In fact, you’re rather proud of it: it’s
part of a gentleman’s equipment. You want progress and the conquest of
natural difficulties in every possible direction, and yet you won’t
admit that a man can conquer _himself_. You’re shouted down as
‘unnatural,’ if you as much as speak of overcoming an instinct that is
nothing but a hindrance to civilisation and progress.”

“Oh, you and your artist friends, I daresay you talk a lot of twaddle,
but you won’t convince _me_.” Mr. Blackwood drained his glass of port,
and rose from the table. Mr. Ryan followed him. Dr. Clavering remained
where he was.

Dennis smiled at him across the table. “Well, Doctor, you’ve been very
silent all through this.”

“I was umpiring.”

“They were two to one.”

“Oh, you were quite capable of holding your own. But you’ll never
convince them, Dennis, my boy.”

“And you, Doctor?”

“I don’t say that you’ve convinced me, but I can understand why, as an
artist, you take that point of view.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to have excuses made for me on that ground,”
cried Dennis, “nor am I pretending for a moment that Clive and Hugh and
others like them, can go out and kill, because they’re more brutalised
than I am. It’s their belief that I’m up against—their belief that
they’re doing right.”

“Dennis, Dennis, you’re fighting a losing battle! It’s too late for
pacifism now. The war’s started and the only thing for us to do is to
make every effort in our power to end the unfortunate business; and that
can only be done by fighting to a finish.”

“And what then? Doctor, it’s no use pretending that ‘this is a war to
end war.’ I don’t believe it. Do you believe that the British are
fighting for disarmament, for democracy, for world-peace, any more than
the Germans are? The governments of the big nations—not the
mass-peoples, because they weren’t asked—but the governments of all big
nations organise warfare with the same ends in view—extension of power;
consolidation of empire; commercial and political advantages. If we go
on fighting till Germany has to cry ‘Pax’ from exhaustion, it simply
means that the balance of military power will be shifted, and that _we_,
instead of the Germans, will be the war-lords of Europe. Do you call
that a goal worth the sacrifice of one man’s life-blood—let alone of
millions?”

“But that’s only a hypothesis, Dennis: you can’t be certain what will
happen after the war. We must end it first and then see. And surely, on
the strength of a mere hypothesis, you wouldn’t wish to see the Germans
win?”

“Of course not. It’d be a tragedy for any one of the great powers to
attain the complete military victory they’re each striving for.”

“But, my dear boy,” the doctor protested with some heat, “now that
we—now that all the nations—have sacrificed so much, we can’t go back.
Think of the utter futility of the whole thing ending in a draw!”

“I still maintain that that’s better than fighting till one side
(whichever it is) is beaten to its knees, and the other in the position
to dictate terms of bondage; and free to go on, through the years,
preparing for wars more terrible even than this one.”

“Well: and if it’s a draw?”

“If the so-called fruits of victory are withheld from them all alike,
there’s some chance that the people of each nation, seeing the true
nature of the war-machine by which they’ve been driven, will clamour to
have it broken up; will protest against the maintenance of great armies
and navies for their mutual destruction. There’ll be some chance of an
era of real peace—not the sham peace of the lull before the storm, which
will exist if the powers can be definitely divided into conquerors and
conquered, with the conquered merely biding their time to reverse those
titles, and the conquerors ever on the watch to see that they shan’t do
so. A lasting peace can never be achieved by war, because war only
breeds war.”

Dr. Clavering smiled. “You’re a Utopian dreamer, Dennis, but I sincerely
respect you, just as I respect my own boy, and all the other boys who do
their bit in their particular way.” He added after a moment: “And I
doubt if you’ll find your way easier than theirs....”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Later that afternoon, Dennis wandered out for a walk in the hills
surrounding Eastwold, thus cheating Mrs. Ryan of the opportunity to draw
him into a renewed discussion on militarism versus pacifism.

The first breath of Spring lay upon the land; just a breath, and no
more. The woods were not even faintly misted over with the green of
budding foliage, but stood out as massed shadows of purple and bronze
against the pale sky. Except for the deeper colouring of the woods, it
was entirely a day of half-tints; light fawn of the ploughed fields;
light green of the pastures where the cattle grazed; tenderest blue of
the sky. The hedges that separated the fields were lines of brown,
curving rhythmically about the undulations of the hills. Scattered farms
nestled in the hollows, and from them went up a medley of animal sounds;
lowing of cattle; barking of dogs; bleating of lambs; sounds that were
blended with the rapturous outpourings of larks, and the drowsy distant
peal of church bells, rippling eight notes down the scale.

Dennis lay at full length on a ridge above a chalk-pit, and looked out
at the hazy blue view, while the soft wind blew in his face, and flung
up the good strong scent of freshly-ploughed earth and young grass.
Railway-tracks gleamed in the sun; chalk-white roads wound their crazy
way up and down the hilly country; and across fields to meet them, just
as the brooks and rivulets, born of the winter’s heavy rains, meandered
along to join the placid shining river that followed its leisurely
course to the sea.

And Dennis thought of all the roads and railways that had been made
throughout Europe to connect one country with another; of how these same
roads and railways had been torn up or blocked and barred to form
frontiers and sever the connection between one country and another. And
he thought of the rivers that flowed through one country and another;
rivers, some of which ran red now with the mingled blood of nations
locked in this death-grapple of hatred and lust and vengeance—nations
each and all inspired by the thought that they were fighting in
self-defence for justice, for glory, for their honour, for their
fatherland, for their God ... each and all fighting blindly against each
other for the same abstract principles.

And the rivers flowed on, imperturbable; calm; oblivious of all
artificial frontiers; oblivious if it was French or German or British or
Austrian blood that reddened them.

If there remained enough sane people in this world gone hideously mad,
could they not put an end to it all? Could they not open the eyes of
those blindly fighting—of those in government who organised and were
responsible for the fighting? Surely it must be the aim of every
rational human being to stop the war: not to secure the victory of this
nation or that, but to lay the foundations of a lasting peace for all
humanity? But people holding such views were looked upon as cowards,
shirkers, traitors. And if they stood rigidly by their views, allowing
themselves to be deviated neither by scorn nor insults; allowing
themselves to be persuaded into no weak compromise or half-measures,
they would in all probability be shot or put in prison.

It must come to that for him too. For months, the Harmsworth press had
been agitating for conscription; the Bill would be passed that _ordered_
every man to go out and shed the blood of his fellow-men. And then....

If only sufficient people had the courage to fight against the war, then
might the other countries of Europe lie as peacefully as this spread,
misty landscape at his feet. The roads and the railways might link them
together again; the barriers of racial hatred and racial envy be swept
away; art and civilisation arise once more in place of murder and
barbarity.

Already, as was usual with him, thought was translating itself into
sound, into music that was no longer morbid as a nightmare, but strong,
triumphant, a pæan of peace—the peace of all nations. Into it would be
blended the characteristics of each; the steadfastness of the English
and the indomitable fire of the French; the depth and the innate
good-heartedness of the German people; and the easy tears and laughter
of the Austrians; the Italians’ hot-blooded rhetorical love of their
country, and the incurable melancholy of the Irish, the Russians and the
Poles.

The voice of each he would transfuse into his music. He would make
himself the medium through which their individuality, their thoughts,
their dreams, their yearnings should be expressed. His brain teemed with
the new bold harmonies into which they would be orchestrated. This
symphony of his should be as international as art itself; as
international as the heart of the man who, seeing beyond hedges and
frontiers and class-distinctions, claims the whole world as his
“country,” and claims kinship with all people who walk upon the face of
it.

He got up and wandered back into the straggling little town. A new
recruiting-poster on one of the hoardings caught his eye: a pink-kneed
Highlander with arm outflung against a highly-coloured patchwork of
field and hedge, demanding: “Isn’t this worth fighting for?”

Dennis smiled as he answered the question: “It’s worth more than that;
it’s worth—_not_ fighting for!”


                               CHAPTER V

He was in London again now, and the Conscription Bill had been passed.
All men must go, except those who were medically unfit, indispensable in
their present occupations, or had religious or conscientious scruples
against the taking of life. These could appeal for exemption, and their
cases would be heard before tribunals set up for the purpose. It sounded
rational enough and humane enough that no man should be forced to fight
against his convictions; but already there were howls of protest and
indignation at this clause in the Military Service Act. It was offering
a loophole of escape to cowards and shirkers ... easy enough for a man
who was afraid to fight, to fake up scruples that would keep him safely
at home, while better men went out and shed their blood for him.... The
Government was too soft-hearted altogether ... scruples, indeed ...
pampering a lot of weaklings.... Thus the “Daily Mail” and others of its
kind. When it came to it, Dennis wondered, would the tribunals do
justice, and how?

He was walking up the Strand one Saturday afternoon to meet Barnaby at
Miss Mowbray’s tea-shop. The matinée crowd from the Vaudeville Theatre
was just pouring out on to the pavement when he came face to face with
Antoinette and Rosabel Fayne. For a second he and Antoinette stared at
each other, both blushing furiously, each doubtful as to whether the
other intended to stop or pass on.

Rosabel ended their indecision for them. “Oh, Mr. Blackwood, what a
surprise, meeting you ... isn’t it a surprise, Antoinette? Do come along
to tea with us, won’t you? It’s my tea-party—I mean it’s Antoinette’s
birthday, and we’ve been to the theatre—only the pit, of course, but
very dissipated in war-time, isn’t it? Shall we go to Fuller’s?”

Dennis, very embarrassed, glanced at Antoinette, but her eyes were
obstinately downcast, and she gave him no assistance whatever.

“Do come,” Rosabel rattled on, “it’ll make it so jolly. This is my
afternoon off, but I have to be back at the hospital by six.”

“Then I think you’d both better come and have tea with me,” said Dennis.
“I was on my way to meet a friend at Miss Mowbray’s.” He expected that
Antoinette would protest here, or make some excuse not to follow his
suggestion, but still she said nothing, and in silence walked along
beside the talkative Rosabel.

It was nearly six months since he had last seen her. In the interval,
after his first bitter resentment had died down, he had scarcely thought
of her, and he assumed that she had thought equally little of him.
Everything had been over between them when he had made his final cut,
long before that, really ... so it was quite ridiculous that he should
now feel so constrained in her presence. Why had she given her tacit
consent to this three-cornered party? What was her attitude? One of
curiosity, no doubt, he reflected sardonically, curiosity as to what his
own attitude might be. She wanted a fresh sensation; Antoinette was like
that.... He decided that at all events he would not gratify that desire.

They turned up a stone-flagged passage between the back of a theatre and
a row of small shops, entered a narrow doorway, and descended the steep
stairs into the tea-room. It was neither square nor oblong, neither
circular nor octagonal; but seemed to be made up of a variety of odd
corners of different shapes. A big fire burnt in the grate, and six or
seven little tables of dark stained wood were spread for tea.

Rosabel gave a cry of delight. “Oh, how lovely ... isn’t it too Bohemian
for words? Such a quaint shape ... and the dim light ... and that cosy
little table in the alcove ... have you ever been here before,
Antoinette?”

“Yes,” said Antoinette, speaking for the first time, “I’ve been here
once before.” Once.... The day after he had asked her to marry him. Did
he remember that, too, she wondered, as, much to Rosabel’s glee, they
ensconced themselves at the table in the alcove, where Barnaby was
already seated. She had met the crippled journalist several times
before, and talked to him rather hectically while Dennis vanished behind
the curtain which divided the tea-room from Miss Mowbray’s private
sanctum and the kitchen. He was rather a long time chatting to Miss
Mowbray and ordering the tea.... So much the better. When he came back
she would no longer be able to talk; the beating of her heart choked her
when she could actually look at him and hear his voice.

This accidental meeting had been anticipated and mentally dramatised a
thousand times over. One swift look between them, one touch: “It was all
a mistake, Antoinette, I had to come back—It’s all right now ...
dear....” Herein the imaginary meeting had invariably culminated;
meeting longed for, almost prayed for during six weary months.

He returned to their table, and still without seeking Antoinette’s eyes,
and without speaking to her directly, embarked upon a desultory
conversation with Barnaby. Through the small barred window near the
ceiling, that was on a level with the street, Antoinette watched the
legs and feet of the passers-by; legs and feet without bodies or heads,
continually passing and passing. She remembered that thus, with an odd
sort of fascination, she had watched them that first time, while Dennis
had stumblingly tried to assure her that it was all right—that he was so
glad. How much did he remember, she wondered again. And the footsteps of
those strange bodiless legs on the pavement outside, echoed: how
much—how much—how much?

“Oh, but you’re not seeing this place at its best,” Dennis was informing
Rosabel in answer to her enthusiastic praise of the tea-shop, “it’s
empty to-day, but as a rule it’s crammed full of actors, journalists,
artists and rebels of all descriptions.”

(Thus he had played up to Grand’mère, when he had lunched at Cadogan
Gardens, giving his audience what it wanted!)

“Oh, how _exquisite_,” cried Rosabel, feeling that here indeed she was
having her money’s worth, or rather Dennis’s; “I do so love rebels.
Sometimes I think I’m one myself ... but it’s rather naughty of you not
to be in khaki, isn’t it, Mr. Blackwood?”

“Oh, you mustn’t try to air any military views here, Miss Fayne,”
Barnaby twinkled at her from under his shaggy brows, “this is entirely a
haunt of pacifists.”

“What a sweet idea,” murmured Rosabel, who could always adapt her views
to the needs of the moment; with equal flexibility she had transferred
her one-time adoration for Marie Antoinette to the present Queen of the
Belgians as being just as unfortunate and more up-to-date. “And how
clever of you to have discovered this ‘haunt,’ as you call it, tucked
away behind the theatre like this.”

“I knew Kitty Mowbray before ever the tea-shop existed,” Barnaby
explained, “she was on the staff of the ‘Daily Standard’ at the same
time as I was; then the paper went bust, and she took up this instead.
She does a roaring trade now.”

Antoinette puffed nervously at her cigarette, and, through the haze of
smoke, cast occasional surreptitious glances at Dennis. Often enough,
during those six months, she had wondered if, when she saw him again,
she would discover, as she had once discovered with Hester, that he
meant nothing to her. He should by rights mean nothing to her. The love
that he had awakened one day, and had not even come to claim the next,
should indeed have been a short-lived emotion; short-lived as those few
fleeting hours in the punt ... memory upon which, in view of his letter,
she could only dwell with shame-flushed cheeks ... memory upon which,
nevertheless, she dwelt again and again, striving to draw from it a
little warmth with which to animate the dull, lifeless present. That
love had not died during dreary days and nights of self-reproach, and
longing for him to return, and conviction that he would not return, and
more self-reproach ... days and nights of hope that to-morrow, at last,
would bring the letter, the wire, the telephone-call that said that he
was coming back to her.

It was not dead now, but very acutely and painfully alive, as she sat
looking at him; tracing with a half-fearful joy the familiar outline of
his chin and jaw; listening to the familiar tones of his voice. She was
grateful to the others for talking; she felt incapable of taking part in
the conversation herself.

Miss Mowbray entered with the tea.

“Has O’Farrell been here to-day, Kitty?”

The ex-newspaper-reporter, a sunny little woman in a blue linen overall,
shook her head in reply to Barnaby’s question. “He’s broke again, poor
dear. He had his last lot of sausages and mashed on tick last Friday,
and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Well, if he turns up after I’m gone, tell him, with my love, that he’s
a confounded idiot, and that if he doesn’t deliver that cartoon of his
in time we shall never be able to get it into this week’s ‘Dove.’”

“I’ll tell him all right,” smiled Miss Mowbray.

“‘The Dove’ is the name of the pacifist paper Barnaby is editing,”
Dennis explained for Rosabel’s benefit.

Rosabel clasped her hands ecstatically. “‘The Dove’—Oh, what a _sweet_
name!”

Barnaby grunted. “Yes, that’s all that is sweet about it. It’s a very
vehement peace-dove, I assure you. We expect our office to be raided
every day. O’Farrell’s political cartoon will do the trick, I should
think, if he delivers it in time, instead of indulging in riotous orgies
of sausages and mashed. It’s Lord Derby and the Kaiser playing a game of
Oranges and Lemons while a stream of unfit recruits passes under their
outstretched arms to their death.”

Later on, a very bad-tempered Crispin joined the group, nodded curtly to
the two girls, and sat down between Dennis and Barnaby. “F-fools!” he
ejaculated, when at last he became articulate. “N-narrowminded idiots!”

“There, there, what’s the matter now?” Miss Mowbray, who had come to
take his order for tea, tried to soothe him.

Crispin spluttered: “A b-beauty. F-full-sized g-grand. P-perfect tone.”
Then, with a rush: “S-said they wouldn’t have it in the house any more.”

“Who wouldn’t have what in the house any more?” queried Rosabel, quite
bewildered, but very interested.

“My uncle and aunt. Their B-blüthner piano. Because it was a Hun m-make.
So I said they n-needn’t have me in their b-beastly house any more
either. And n-no more they shan’t!” concluded the irate musician. After
a deep draught of Dennis’s tea he found strength to add: “D-don’t
deserve to win the war—p-people like that.”

Antoinette smiled at the vision of Crispin and the Blüthner grand
homeless upon the pavement in Fitzjohn’s Avenue; but she began to wish
that the party would diminish in size, instead of increasing. The larger
the party, the easier for Dennis to avoid meeting her eyes. Perhaps if
she were alone with him—was it possible that he was really so impervious
to memory as he seemed, absorbed in some political discussion with
Barnaby, while Rosabel strove to assure Crispin that she, too, was a
rebel? ... assurance pathetically incongruous with her peaked little
face under the hideous flat felt hat that constituted part of her
nurse’s uniform. If only the others would go—the thought choked her. If
they went, would he throw off this pose of indifference? Was it only a
pose, though? What if it were genuine? Or what if it hid—not agitation
caused by this sudden meeting, but actual dislike of her presence? There
had been dislike between the lines of that last letter, perhaps
something even stronger than dislike. And while all his other letters,
his charming letters, seemed mere faded ghosts, that one letter had
never lost its power to sting. Did he still hate her? She must know. She
could not possibly make matters worse than they were already by knowing
the truth.

Eventually the others began to disperse. Barnaby hobbled up the stairs
on his crutches, and returned to his office in Fleet Street; Crispin
took his grievance into Miss Mowbray’s sanctum; Rosabel, suddenly aware
that it was long past six, scuttled off in the direction of her
hospital.

Dennis and Antoinette were left standing at the foot of the stairs.

“I must go, too,” she said, hoping that he would give some sign at last,
or make some attempt to detain her.

“Is Grand’mère waiting for you with an inquisition as to how and where
the afternoon has been spent, and isn’t there a lie ready to meet the
situation?”

So he remembered that much! She gave him one swift look to ascertain if
he were about to betray how much else he remembered. But his smile was
quite inscrutable. For very shame at having been mistaken in her
impression that he was on the point of behaving as he had always done in
the imaginary version of this meeting, she flushed scarlet as she
answered: “I have almost forgotten how to lie to Grand’mère.”

“A pity that a practice which you have really brought to a fine art
should be allowed to rust,” he commented cynically; and his cynicism
hurt her, as had his previous indifference and apparent lack of memory,
and one or two other things, absurd little things ... like seeing that
he had a new slouch hat and brushed his hair straight back, instead of
parting it at the side ... things that she would scarcely have noticed
in the days when she did not care for him. She felt as if she had been
mentally skinned; as if every nerve were exposed and quivering, and as
if there were nothing about him that had not some mysterious power to
hurt her.

She said in reply to his remark: “You see, there has been no need to
keep in practice.”

He raised his eyebrows in amused astonishment. “Do you mean to tell me
that you have altogether ceased to cast a veil of fiction over your
goings and comings?”

She was silent. She could not tell him that she had expended all her
store of unveracity on the invention of excuses that had to be plausible
enough to account for the cessation of letters, outings and
telephone-calls, and that yet had to be calculated not to put him in a
bad light, so that in case he ever came back—she had not wanted to make
the severance seem too abrupt, so for a while she let it be assumed that
they were still seeing each other occasionally, and the hardest lies of
all were those she had to tell when she went out with quite irrelevant
people, and allowed the family to take it for granted that she was with
Dennis.

“_Eh bien, il était aimable, le jeune Blackwood?_”

And for pride’s sake: “_Oui, Grand’mère, très aimable_.” Easy enough to
fib about a good time that one had had; difficult beyond belief to fib
about a good time that one had not had. Antoinette had lost her taste
for fibbing since then. Besides, as she had told him, there had been
nothing and no one in her life to justify or necessitate it. And she was
too much of an artist to waste a good lie, when the truth would do as
well.

She repeated: “I must go now ...” and thought how grotesque it was that
they should be standing side by side, laboriously making conversation,
when a year ago in this same place, he had held her in his arms and
kissed her. Why couldn’t he kiss her now, while there was no one about?
Once, he would have been quick enough to seize the opportunity. And now,
not one of those unwanted kisses that she was not paying for with a
separate stab of longing.

“I’ll see you to your station,” he said, since he could not very well do
otherwise. “Charing Cross Metropolitan for Sloane Square, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She smiled in memory of the innumerable times that he had seen
her home by that route.

They walked down the Strand together. After a while, he broke the
silence with, “Does your mother’s heart still bleed for France? It was
France, wasn’t it, or was it Belgium?”

She laughed feverishly. “It doesn’t matter. Her heart is always bleeding
for something—symbolically. Actually, she’s never been as happy in her
life as now.”

“How’s that?”

“She recites patriotic poems—the ‘_Carillon_’ and ‘_Belgique meurtrie_’
at all the fashionable charity performances.”

Dennis laughed aloud. He could so well imagine Henriette de Courcy with
her deep voice and her dramatic gestures and her symbolically bleeding
heart, reciting with much relish to an audience composed chiefly of
foreign ambassadors and English ladies of title.

“Mother tried ever so hard to make me take it up, too,” said Antoinette,
“I suppose it would have made quite an effective picture, mother and
daughter, both with Parisian accents, both moaning for their lost
Belgium. But I really couldn’t bear it.”

“I should think not;” for the first time she detected a note of genuine
interest in his tone. “And have they tried to persuade you into other
sorts of war-work?”

“Oh, yes ... translating French into English (because you know both
languages so well, dear), or cutting bread and butter in a canteen, or
emptying slops in a hospital. I’ve not done anything.”

“From conviction?”

“Oh, no, not from conviction,” she said in a listless way, “more from
laziness.” She added wistfully, “I wish I had convictions—any sort of
convictions. Just to have them.” If one had convictions, one had at
least something in one’s life that would stand rock-firm; something by
which to steer; one was not helplessly buffeted about upon shoreless
seas of emotion.

Dennis smiled. “You seem to consider convictions a luxury: they have to
be paid for pretty dearly, I can tell you, if one stands by them.”

She had been so absorbed in the conflicting sensations of the moment
that she had not realised what might be in store for Dennis if he stood
by his convictions.

“What—what is going to happen to you?” she asked tentatively.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I wait till I’m called up; then I lodge my
appeal; then I appear before the tribunal; and then—heaven only knows!”

“I see,” she murmured, too shy, almost too afraid of him to say more, or
to express the hope that he would get his exemption.

Silence fell upon them again. They were nearly at the station now. And
there he would take his leave of her, with that new, half-cynical
politeness; and he would not ask if he could see her again, and she
would not see him again until chance flung them together once more,
perhaps in another six months, perhaps in a year, perhaps never. And
there would be one horrible moment when she would have to watch him
disappearing into the crowd, knowing that in this vast town, and amongst
these vast shoals of people, the odds were a million to one against
their meeting again. With every second the hope diminished that he would
still say something, do something that would spare her that one moment.

He took her ticket at the booking-office and presented it to her.
“Well—good-bye.”

She disregarded his extended hand, yielded to her fear and to her
frantic desire not merely to be dependent upon blind chance for her next
glimpse of him. “Please—Dennis....”

Something of her desperate anguish pierced at last through his
assumption that all she wanted of him was a fresh sensation. He looked
at her white face and quivering mouth. “Why, Antoinette, what is it?”

She shook her head, not daring to speak, lest the tears that scorched
her downcast eyelids should fall.

“What is it?” he repeated gently.

She tried to smile; made a great effort to gain self-control, but
nevertheless it sounded lame and piteous as she stammered: “C-can’t
we—just be friends?”

He knew then that it was not friendship that she asked of him; saw also
that he was face to face with some very real emotion. A certain amount
of curiosity, blended with a slight softening of his attitude towards
her, was responsible for his next sentence.

“We can’t very well leave things like this, can we? There’s a great deal
to be talked about.”

A sigh of relief escaped her. She was to be spared the moment she had so
dreaded; spared at least for a while. She had been reprieved, and memory
mocked her with a vivid picture of the last time she had experienced
that sensation: going up the stairs of the tea-shop, after Dennis had
unwillingly acceded to her plea for six months’ time in which to make
her decision.

“Come for a stroll now—it’s nearly your dinner-time, though, isn’t it?
Hadn’t you better telephone to say you’re not coming home?”

She laughed tremulously, and found her voice again. “Yes, if you can
think of a suitable lie for me to tell them. They mustn’t know I’m with
you.”

“Oh, you’ve met a friend of my mother’s, who insists on your dining and
going to the theatre with her. That’s the usual sort of tale, isn’t it?
And it’ll cover all emergencies in case we’re late.”

Antoinette nodded and disappeared into the telephone-box, where she
spent considerable time placating a resentful father at the other end.
Anatole declared that she ought to come home to dinner on her birthday,
as she had been out the whole afternoon.

“I had to say that your mother’s friend was sailing for America
to-morrow, and that this was my last chance of seeing her,” Antoinette
told Dennis when she rejoined him, “and when Father began to argue, I
rang off....” She did not know what was in store for her now, but at
least she had enjoyed those few uneasy minutes of lying to the irate
Anatole.

They left the station, and walked down towards the Embankment.

“Have I been a brute to you, Antoinette?”

“No—Oh, no ...” fervently she denied his self-accusation. “It wasn’t
your fault, not any of it. It was all my fault. I made you hate me.”

“Yes,” he admitted, “I did hate you. But it wasn’t entirely your fault
either. There were so many other difficulties and complications that
helped.”

She said: “Yes, I know....”

“Do you know—do you?” At the intense eagerness of his voice, some
instinct warned her to banish all trace of interest or curiosity from
her own. She replied in dead level tones: “Yes, of course I know ...”
and wondered what had prompted her to the lie.

“Are you sure?” he persisted, as if he very much wanted her to be sure.

And again she repeated: “Yes ...” and waited in breathless tension for
what he would say next. She had no idea as to the nature of the
difficulties and complications to which he alluded; had vainly sought an
explanation of them during the last six months. But she knew now why she
had lied: perhaps he would solve the mystery for her, if she pretended
that already she had solved it for herself.

“That makes things very much easier,” he said, “it was that which first
drew me to you at Amberhurst—thinking you’d understand, that you must
understand, because you had the same kink of abnormality as I had.”

“Just the same,” she murmured, still utterly ignorant of his meaning.

“You see I always knew I was hopelessly different from other men. Women
never appealed to me. All the attraction I ever felt was for——” He
stopped, still uncertain of her, but it was beginning to dawn on her at
last, and she helped him out again.

“Yes—I know.”

“Well: then you came along, and I spotted you at once. And seeing that
the taint was in you too, I thought it must make you as lonely and
miserable as it made me, and I imagined that the two of us could fight
the loneliness better together.”

He broke off to let some people pass between them; and she, confused and
bewildered, but also strangely excited by this revelation, wondered if
she could succeed in hiding from him the fact that she had never been
aware of any particular taint in herself!

“It might have been all right if you’d said ‘yes’ at once,” he resumed,
“only you hung back.”

“I’m sorry, Dennis.”

“Ah, don’t say that. You were only being true to yourself; I see that
now, but at the time, it made me furious. You wouldn’t go on and you
wouldn’t go back. You just kept me dangling.”

He set these accusations forth in a mournful, passionless way, as if
merely stating his case, and with no desire to wound her. But she felt
the wound nevertheless, and the pain of it gave her a queer thrill of
elation. Better a thousand times that he should hurt her like this, than
that there should be between them that dense impenetrable veil of
silences and evasions. Even now, whenever for a moment she lost the
sound of his voice amid the noise of wheels and the blaring of
motor-horns, she feared that he would say nothing more, and that the
veil would fall again before it had been properly lifted. And strung up
to an almost unbearable pitch of excitement, she waited to catch his
jerked-out sentences again.

“I always thought that one day I’d be able to tell you all about
myself——”

“Oh, if you had, if only you had.... I tried so often to make you tell
me, and you never would.”

“Yes, that was where I made my mistake. I let my first impression of
you, the correct one, become obscured....” Subtle fascination in the
knowledge that only by reason of his discovery of some taint or kink
which they had in common, could he at last reveal all that the veil had
hidden of dark turmoil, dark moods and impulses.

“We couldn’t go on as we were. I felt dishonourable and loathed myself
for not telling you, or breaking with you, but one seemed as difficult
and impossible as the other.”

“I wouldn’t let you break,” she said softly, “I remember.... And of
course you couldn’t tell me anything. And you must have hated me more
and more for making you hate yourself.”

“You understand well enough now,” he cried, “I was a fool ever to doubt
that you would.”

On and on they walked, and the rumble of traffic and the hurrying
footsteps made a strange accompaniment to words that were more strange
yet. On and on, dodging other pedestrians, plunging across roads. But
she was stimulated beyond all consciousness of fatigue.

“What was it,” hesitatingly she spoke, choosing her words with care, so
that he might not divine her ignorance, “what was it, that time at
Amberhurst, that showed you?”

“My child, the way you looked at that woman, was quite enough.”

Hester.... So that was it!

“You were in love with her, weren’t you?”

“Yes....”

“And there had been others, hadn’t there? Other women?”

“Yes—Oh, yes.” Rapidly she cast her mind over those school-girl passions
of her early youth—Miss Prescot—Natasha—passing flickers of emotion
aroused here and there by the beauty or attraction of women she had met
in hotels abroad—finally Hester.... This, then, was the taint of which
he spoke; the taint that they shared, he and she. Only whereas he had
always striven against these tendencies in himself, in herself she had
never regarded them as abnormal. It had seemed disappointing, but not in
the least unnatural, that all her passionate longings should have been
awakened by women, instead of by members of the opposite sex.

“And you were thinking of them, weren’t you, when you said you’d known
what the real thing was like?”

“Yes....” This, at all events, was the truth.

“You’ve never known it with a man, have you?”

“Never, Dennis....” Never until now.

“I’ve known it, once, with one of my own sex ... that was a long time
ago. It was terrible ... and rather wonderful, but it had to be beaten
down, and beaten down again, and the scar has never quite healed.”

She stole a glance at him, as he strode along at her side, a furrow
between his deep-set eyes. A wave of burning tenderness and longing came
over her. It was a shame that he should have to suffer so horribly from
the consciousness of his abnormality, while her own had never caused her
the slightest uneasiness. She understood now all the misery of his
schooldays, everything that he had half-told her in his letters. He had
put the key into her hands, hoping that she would be able to fit it into
the lock ... only she had never been able to do so. She had not even
tried—furiously she lashed herself with reproach—she had been far too
indifferent to him, far too much absorbed in her love for Hester, that
very love which proved her so closely akin to him. But he had always
suffered, as a boy, as a man ... and she had gone scot-free. If only she
could make up to him for all that he had been through, for the times
that he had in vain asked her for understanding, for the times that she
had thought of him without love, and kissed him without love. She had
been blind and insensible before, because she did not love him; but now
it seemed that every pang he had suffered, every tortured desire that
had been his, found its reflection and counterpart in her.

“I’ve never known what it was to love a woman. Not really. I didn’t love
you, Antoinette ... you know that. And you didn’t love me, either, did
you?”

“No ...” she added under her breath: “Not until it was too late.”

She saw him flush; caught his murmured: “Oh, my dear ...” but if he said
more, it was lost in the rumble of wheels. Heedless of the direction in
which they had been walking, they had almost worked their way back to
Trafalgar Square. Overhead the searchlights were flashing rapier-blades,
continually crossed and re-crossed upon the background of thick dark
blue. Whitehall was crowded. She had a moment’s panic, lest she should
lose sight of Dennis. In this bewildering sea of faces and figures that
pressed in upon her from all sides, she would never be able to find him
again. They would go different ways, each hunting for the other ... but
they would never find each other again in the sickly half-light of the
darkened streets. There were so many different ways that they might go.

The next minute she was reassured by the pressure of his arm against
hers. “Shall we go into Lyons’ for a meal? I saw you didn’t eat anything
at tea.”

Nor could she eat anything now. She was too tired and excited; but she
was touched by his concern for her, and followed him through the
swing-doors into the crowded and garishly-lighted Corner House. The
strains of a rag-time band fell upon their ears; the sound of mingled
voices and laughter, rattle of crockery, footsteps of waiters....

“Not quite the right _mise-en-scène_ for a psychological dissertation,”
Dennis smiled as they seated themselves at a small corner table.

“Oh, it’s good enough as a contrast,” she laughed, and reflected that
she was indeed having an uncommon birthday-party ... uncommon
birthday-presents, too. Meeting him had been the first; that moment at
the station when she had had her reprieve, had been the second; the way
he had suddenly taken her arm in the crowd, was another. Were there more
to come, she wondered? She dared not hope for more, but accepted with
gratitude each as it came.

“It’s a case of ‘like to like’ with us.” He had given his order for
dinner and they faced each other across the narrow table. “And because
there’s a certain amount of the masculine element in you, and of the
feminine element in me, we both have to suffer in the same way.”

She felt suddenly compelled to honesty. “I haven’t suffered—because I
didn’t quite realise ... about myself.”

“And I’ve made you realise...? Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she implored, “I should have had to know sooner or
later.” And she was glad that it was he who had made her realise ...
glad....

“Yes,” he assented, “of course you would. Not much peace of oblivion for
people like us. Not much happiness either, so far as I can see. Not when
one always has to fight and watch and take care, and pay the penalty for
having instincts that aren’t like other people’s.”

Yet she had been happy, blissfully happy during her brief passion for
Hester. She had not fought nor watched nor taken care, for she had never
realised the need of doing either. She felt as if she had not been
justified in being happy, as if it were unfair to him that she should
have escaped paying the penalty. But in future she would not escape.
Suffering must inevitably accompany realisation. Again she was glad: for
by suffering shared, she would earn the right to stand by him in his
loneliness.

Clatter of plates; the continual coming and going of people between the
tables; the rattle of money on the cashier’s desk; the cloying sweetness
of “Until,” played by the band. And Dennis’s low voice reaching her
across all the other conflicting sounds.

“We’re disinherited from the legitimate ways of happiness, you and I.
We’re Ishmaelites, outcast for ever from the world of normal men and
women. Yet it isn’t our fault that we were born with unusual natures any
more than it’s a cripple’s fault that he’s born with a deformed body.
But they turn from us as if we were lepers. What do they know of the
continual struggle to be decent, and to keep decent, with something
always tugging you the other way? They don’t know the ghastliness of
having to pretend to be as normal as they, and all the while to be
stifling and suppressing the most vital side of yourself—the love-side.
And they don’t know what it’s like to go in perpetual fear of discovery,
and fear of your own condemnation as well as theirs.... I’m twenty-six,
Antoinette, and I’ve known, or almost known ever since I was fifteen;
and in all those eleven years I’ve never told a soul.”

“I’m glad you’re telling me now....”

“My dear, whom should I tell, if not you?”

Swiftly she raised her eyes to his and dropped them again. “Thank you,
Dennis....”

... They stood outside the swing-doors and shivered in the night air.
The music and light and voices were cut off behind them, and they were
caught up in the dark swirl of traffic again. He piloted her across the
road and into a taxi; gave the address to the driver; slammed the door.

And then his arms were round her, his lips clinging to hers ... and the
shock of joy was so poignant, that she averted her face and buried it
against his coat-sleeve, so that he might not find her lips again, nor
kiss them again just yet—not just yet.... Let her hold this moment fast,
hold it and hold it against memory of all the days and nights of
fruitless yearning, against the dread of days and nights that might
perhaps still be to come.

She stirred a little in his arms, and he kissed her again.

“Dennis—I love you....”

Strange for him also, to hear this from a woman. “My dear....”

Her arm stole round his neck, drew his cheek down beside hers. And she
remembered how with just these gestures she had formerly counterfeited
passion.

“I love you, Dennis....” Words breathed scarcely above a whisper; words
that she had not spoken to him before; words that she derived a queer
sort of delight from repeating now, as if only by admitting and
re-admitting her love for him could she atone for her past insincerity.

After a while she said: “Will you tell me what it means, Dennis, that I
can care for you like this?” She really meant: “Doesn’t it prove me
perfectly normal after all?”

And he understood and answered the unspoken part of her question. “It’s
only another proof of your abnormality, my poor child. No normal woman
could care for me, I’m sure. You only do, because you are what you are,
and I am what I am. It’s ‘like to like,’ as I said.”

“Then I’m glad I’m like that.” Glad of anything that enabled her to love
him so well.

“You mustn’t be glad; it’s a curse, a terrible curse. You’ll know some
day!”

Yes, some day she might know, but what matter now, while he held her
close, and between his warnings kissed her, and kissed her again, so
that her face and throat and hands alike burned with the touch of his
lips.... Exhausted, finally, she leant back against his shoulder.

“Tired, dear?”

She nodded; too tired even for speech now; dead tired with tramping up
and down the streets while they talked; and with the nervous tension and
excitement; dead tired, but happy, she told herself triumphantly, even
if she were never to be happy again.

He almost lifted her out of the cab. “You’ve had a strenuous day—your
birthday, too, isn’t it? Many happy returns.... Did your grandmother
give you a needle-case or a pair of embroidery-scissors? Good-night, my
dear....”

                   *       *       *       *       *

She asked no questions of the future; scarcely allowed herself to wonder
into what strange channels they were about to drift. Not for a moment
did she delude herself into belief that she could save him from the
shadowy danger which had always threatened him, nor into belief that he
loved her, or could ever love her. But at least all was clear between
them; it was to her that he had first spoken after his years of
self-imposed silence; he no longer hated her.... Therefore she was
happy, even though she knew that her hold on happiness was as precarious
as that of a person clinging to a very small raft in a very stormy sea.

                   *       *       *       *       *

“It’s wrong of me to do this, and wrong of you to let me,” he declared
at their next meeting, when without an instant’s hesitation, they found
their way into each other’s arms.

She laughed up at him. “Why is it wrong? I know, and you know, and we
each know that the other knows, so nobody is deceiving anybody.”

“You’re an immoral woman,” he teased her.

“I don’t care if I am!”

“Yes, but what’s going to become of us, Antoinette?”

With fast-beating heart, she yet managed to say lightly: “I’m sure I
don’t know, dear.”

As it was she who had been responsible for bringing about yesterday’s
situation, she must not let him imagine for an instant that she thought
she had any claim upon him, or that she expected him to marry her.
_Marry_ her—she had forgotten: marriage was not for such as she,
Antoinette reminded herself severely.... Only it was a pity that she
could not take the same serious view of her “taint” as he did of his. It
seemed so absolutely normal and right that she should love him. But she
must remember that she was an outcast and an Ishmaelite, and it was all
great fun, as long as they could be outcasts and Ishmaelites together!
She seemed to have recaptured some of the exuberant joyousness and
vitality of the Amberhurst days.

“And I’m sure I don’t know either,” he replied, “there’s all this
military business hanging over me, too; it’s impossible to decide
anything yet.”

“Quite impossible,” she agreed; and finally, to put him at his ease and
free him from all sense of responsibility towards her: “So don’t let’s
bother.”

“Idiot-child,” he laughed and kissed her.

She had to cloak her outings with him now under a most elaborate set of
falsehoods. Already Dennis was in the family’s bad books for having
taken no decisive steps towards proposing for her hand in marriage; and
since that explanation the other night, it was more necessary than ever
that he should be kept a “guilty secret” from the family. She revelled
in having this secret to keep. It heightened her enjoyment of the good
hours with him, as contrasted with the dull ones spent with her family.
If, as he had said, people like themselves were “disinherited from the
legitimate ways of happiness,” then it behoved her to snatch what
happiness she could, when and where she could.

They had had dinner at Lyons’ one night and were walking up Shaftesbury
Avenue towards the Coliseum. She always loved these evening expeditions;
loved the mingled excitement and security that she felt in knowing that
he was beside her in the shifting crowds.

They had to halt on the kerb at Charing Cross Road, while the stream of
traffic flowed past them; and suddenly, from the crowd on the opposite
side of the street, a figure detached itself for Antoinette; a man,
stalking hurriedly in the direction of Trafalgar Square. Something in
the walk, graceful and yet athletic, attracted her notice. She turned to
Dennis, and saw that his eyes were riveted to the same figure, now
rapidly vanishing from sight.

“Is that someone you know?” she asked.

He started, like a person awakened from heavy slumbers. “Someone
I—thought I knew....”

He said nothing more, but all that evening remained abstracted and
curiously restless.


                               CHAPTER VI

Some days later, Dennis and Antoinette, on their way to Miss Mowbray’s,
fetched Barnaby from his office.

“We’ve got a new acquisition at the tea-shop,” he said, “a man called
Rutherford. He’s an absolute firebrand.”

“Pacifist?” queried Dennis.

“Of course. The most passionate pacifist I’ve ever encountered. Your
most eloquent tirades, and mine, and even O’Farrell’s pale to
insignificance beside his. He’s a friend of O’Farrell’s—came down the
other day with him and the Taylor woman.”

Dennis laughed. “How is the O’Farrell _ménage_ progressing?”

“Don’t ask me,” returned Barnaby, “it’s Benny Joseph’s affair just now.
He’s been acting as go-between for the two parties. I believe the spirit
of melodrama which they exhale appeals to him as an actor.”

“I hope they’ll be there to-day,” said Antoinette. She was enjoying more
and more these afternoons at Miss Mowbray’s, and the haphazard meetings
with people different enough from her family’s set of acquaintances. “I
love melodrama.”

Barnaby smiled at her eagerness. “They can supply you with plenty of it.
She’s a mad Irishwoman, married to an intensely worthy British husband.
They live with his people in Chelsea, and they’ve let the studio that’s
attached to their house, to Conn O’Farrell, who is also Irish, also mad,
and a bit of a genius into the bargain.... Well, you can do the rest in
your head, can’t you?”

“Some of it, perhaps,” laughed Antoinette, “but not all.”

“No, you’re right, there is rather a lot. This Rutherford man has been
lecturing Conn on the folly of wasting his time with a woman, when he
ought to be devoting himself entirely to the Cause—and then the woman
goes and weeps on Benny Joseph’s shoulder, and says she’s going to
commit suicide because Conn doesn’t love her any more—and then Conn
comes and weeps on Benny’s other shoulder, and says he’s going to commit
suicide because _she_ doesn’t love him any more. And so on _ad
infinitum_. If Benny has succeeded in snatching them both back
simultaneously from the brink of suicide, I expect they’ll be there
to-day.”

They were. When Dennis, Barnaby and Antoinette descended into the
tea-shop they found Conn O’Farrell and Mrs. Taylor seated at a table
with Benny Joseph and Everard Walters, a very handsome, dark-eyed young
man who was acting at the theatre next door.

Dennis introduced Antoinette all round, adding: “You’d better sit down
and talk to Benny, child. He’s got a perfectly respectable family in
Hampstead, even if he _is_ on the stage.”

“I don’t see why a family in Hampstead should render me entirely
innocuous,” protested the young Jew.

“Oh, but it does, Benny. You know that your wild Bohemian ways are only
skin-deep, and that one day you’ll settle down with some nice little
girl of your own people, and forget that you ever knew the smell of
grease-paint.”

Benny looked hurt, and Antoinette said: “Never mind; I’ll talk to you,
even if you are respectable.”

“That’s nice of you!” Benny turned to Dennis: “Is the lady a
sympathiser?”

Dennis laughed. “She hasn’t got any convictions, or if she has, they’re
entirely plastic, aren’t they, Antoinette? But we’ll make a real convert
of her before we’ve done. Here’s the one before last!” He broke off to
greet the lank-haired undersized youth who had entered shortly after
them, “you’re a first-rate advertisement for the Cause, Oswald.”

Oswald Forsyth turned a pair of mournful grey eyes up to the ceiling,
and struck an attitude. “Plucked from the very doors of the
recruiting-office,” he declaimed, “and made to see the light of the true
faith by Barnaby’s persuasive eloquence. Now on the staff of ‘The Dove,’
and one of the most inspired pacifist poets of the age, eh, Barnaby?”

“Not so bad,” grunted Barnaby, and disposed his crutches under the
table, “not so bad, considering you’ve only just left your slate and
copy-books behind you. Have you had tea yet, O’Farrell, or shall I order
it?”

“You may order it,” laughed the Irishman, “but it’s divil a chance that
you’ll get it. I did order a pot of China tea and some cakes, but Miss
Mowbray has forgotten us the day, and Pegeen here starving for sight of
a penny bun. It’s Roy Radford and his performing Flappers that have
consumed all the food, and there’s himself in the midst of them,
devouring the last muffin in the establishment!”

The plump little theatrical producer, who had overheard this from his
table in the far corner, looked up and beamed; and the half dozen
long-haired, long-legged and very pretty flappers who were with him,
protested hotly against Conn’s accusation of greed.

“You story!” ... “When Flossie hasn’t even had her third cup of tea
yet!” ... “And I’ve only had four cakes—teeny ones.” ... “You’re a mean
cat, Mr. O’Farrell!”

Miss Mowbray bustled in with a heavily-laden tray. “Sorry to keep you
waiting, Mr. O’Farrell. Here’s your Welsh Rarebit.”

“That’s m-my Welsh Rarebit,” declared Crispin Burgess, sitting in lonely
grandeur at a table all by himself, “I ordered it y-yesterday.”

“I don’t care if you ordered it last year,” returned Conn, “I’ll keep it
in pawn till our tea and cakes appear.”

“It’ll be s-stone-cold by then.”

“It will not,” said Pegeen, “for I will eat it this very minute. I like
Welsh Rarebit. Mr. Burgess can have our cakes, if they come this side of
Christmas.”

Crispin spluttered: “I hate c-cakes,” and came over to dispute his claim
upon the Welsh Rarebit, which Pegeen was already in the act of
demolishing, the while she twinkled mischievously across at the six
flappers, who one and all smiled back at her. There was something about
her that irresistibly drew smiles, Antoinette thought; not beauty, for
there was little enough of that in the wide generous mouth, the tilted
nose, and the untidy tangle of black hair, but something more subtle
than beauty; fascination, perhaps.

“Dear me, have I made a muddle again?” enquired Miss Mowbray sunnily,
returning with relays of cake and jam for Roy Radford’s voracious
troupe, “doesn’t Mr. Burgess look cross? Was it baked beans and tomatoes
you ordered? I do hope not, because I gave them to Mr. Walters, and he’s
eaten them up long ago.”

“I took what the gods gave me—in lieu of the fruit-salad and wafers I
had ordered—and was content,” said the actor in his beautiful purring
voice.

“There now, isn’t that too tiresome of me? But I do wonder whom those
baked beans can have belonged to....” Miss Mowbray, balancing a trayful
of crockery, relapsed into a profound reverie, from which she presently
emerged to say: “There’s Vera Mansfield, I must go and talk to her. She
was married two days ago, just before Mr. Mansfield was arrested. Wasn’t
it splendid of her?”

Antoinette looked up with eager interest; caught an impression of a
plain little woman with earnest eyes; and she was thrilled and rather
awe-struck at the idea that this woman had “stood by” the conscientious
objector, up to the very gates of prison.

Evidently it appealed in just the same way to young Oswald.
“Splendid”—with shining eyes he echoed Miss Mowbray, “it’s great,
it’s—it’s almost unbelievable, people going through with it like that to
the last.”

Antoinette smiled. “Well, you’re going through with it too, aren’t you?”

“Me? Oh, rather! None of your half-and-half for this child....” He added
with a slightly wistful expression: “But it is splendid, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Mansfield spent a few minutes in conversation with Miss Mowbray,
and went out again; and as she did so, a short young man wearing a
yellow felt hat and a green muffler, pelted down the stairs, fell over
Barnaby’s crutches, and announced in a breathless, husky voice:
“_Everard_—_Benny_—I’ve got it, actually got it!”

“Got what?” Everard enquired languidly.

“My exemption, you ass, three months’ exemption.”

“And on whatever grounds did you appeal?” demanded Barnaby, “you haven’t
any convictions that I’m aware of.”

“Sole-support-of-widowed-mother,” said Harry Hope glibly, “but if
someone doesn’t give me a part in something soon, my widowed mother will
be the sole support of _me_!”

“A pity they’ve only allowed her three months of existence,” mused
Everard.

Harry looked perturbed. He was fond of his mother.

“I expect he can appeal again,” said Benny.

“I can—they said I could—but that won’t prolong the old lady’s life.”

“It is you who will have to seek to prolong it with every care and
attention in your power.”

Harry burst into peals of raucous laughter, and Everard winced. “For
heavens’ sake, curb that high-explosive laugh. It shatters the nerves,
Harry, it grates....”

The flappers looked over at him and giggled, and wearily Everard
shrugged his shoulders. During his career on the stage, he had
specialised in playing the parts of cardinals; majestic cardinals; wily
cardinals; jovial cardinals; suave cardinals. And although at present,
work being scarce, he was playing a German spy in the farce next door,
and masking his beautiful diction with a guttural Teutonic accent, the
peculiar pussy-cat manner that had made him invaluable as the cardinal
in “Pippa Passes,” still clung to him in everyday life.

Pegeen, in the intervals of consuming Crispin’s Welsh Rarebit, was
taking Antoinette into her confidence. “Is it a friend of Dennis
Blackwood’s you are, my dear? Then you must come and see Conn and me in
the studio one day. We’ll have a party, we will that. I am so happy this
day, that I could kiss everybody. I could kiss Benny Joseph this very
minute, for glory be to God, we owe it all to him!”

“Oh, I don’t wish to compete with the deity, Mrs. Taylor,” murmured
Benny.

“‘Mrs. Taylor,’ indeed; My name’s Pegeen. I would just as soon you
called me ‘Margaret,’ as my parents-in-law do, and my husband, God rest
his soul——”

“D-didn’t know he was d-dead,” pronounced Crispin.

“He’s not, dearie, he’s not ... but he may be by to-night, for all we
know. ’Tis a dangerous job, it is, walking up and down the King’s Road,
Chelsea, and flashing a wee bull’s-eye lantern up at all the houses and
into all the gardens.”

“And not knowing that all the while we’re in the studio together, Pegeen
and I,” Conn put in, “talking of this and of that, and of the great day
that’s coming for Ireland; and I doing a bit of a drawing of her,
perhaps, and she getting a bit of supper for the two of us.”

The two “Irish lunatics,” as Barnaby called them, gazed at each other in
undisguised adoration; then Pegeen resumed: “He is a stick, is William,
my husband. A real English stick. I said to him one night when the moon
was full, ‘William,’ I said, ‘will we be taking a Thermos flask and a
packet of sandwiches up on to Hampstead Heath for a picnic?’ And he
looked at me, my dear ... he just looked, and said, ‘Margaret, are you
mad?’”

Antoinette, convulsed with laughter, could not resist the temptation to
ask: “Whatever made you marry him?”

“I thought I might be able to do him good,” Pegeen replied simply, “but
that man is past doing good to.”

“He is that ...” O’Farrell concurred.

“But now we know what true happiness is, thanks to that ungrateful
Jew-boy, who won’t even let me kiss him!”

Dennis and Antoinette exchanged a look of amusement and again, as
previously in the crowd, she felt conscious of a delicious feeling of
security. It was good to be with him, and to be enjoying these people
with him. Outside, the strange bodiless legs passed and passed; the
cries of the newspaper boys echoed down the stone passage; and inside,
the atmosphere became smokier and smokier, and bits of _risqué_ stories
became mingled with political arguments, theatrical jargon with the
orders for meals; and the mournful lilt of the Irish voices was a queer
contrast to the high-pitched shrieks and giggles of the flappers. And it
was all very delightful and unconventional and unlike Cadogan Gardens.
And Dennis was being nice to her. And she was very happy.

The door to the street banged, and quick footsteps came down the stairs.
A voice, youthful and eager, was heard asking: “Is Mr. Barnaby in
there?”

Dennis started. Was it hallucination again that made him believe it was
Alan’s voice, the same hallucination that only a few days ago had made
him believe that it was Alan’s figure he had seen in the crowd? He had
suffered from so much of this kind of hallucination at one time....

“Yes, we’re all here, Rutherford, come in,” cried Barnaby. Antoinette
glanced at Dennis’s face. And had no need to be told that already her
precarious hold on happiness was threatened.

“This is the man I was telling you about, Dennis, I wanted you to
meet——”

Alan cut him short. “We met ages ago. I’ve still got one of his
handkerchiefs in my possession. Do you remember tying up my gory wound
for me, Dennis?”

“I remember,” said Dennis, and Alan grinned at Conn and Pegeen, flung
off his hat, and seated himself between Everard and Barnaby.

“What about your tribunal?” asked the journalist.

“The local tribunal has already passed me for Combatant Service,”
replied Alan, “but I’m appealing again at the House of Commons next
week. And then—good-bye to freedom for me, I suppose! But I’ll tell ’em
a few home-truths before I’m locked up. Beefy, sanctimonious old men,
sitting there to tell me it’s my duty to go out and take my share in
murdering peasant-boys and students and labourers.... And the same sort
of old men on their side, egging _them_ on to fight us, with just the
same platitudes about duty and honour and self-defence, saying that we
declared war first, just as we say they sprung the war on us! And the
capitalists of all countries coining money out of bloodshed.... Do they
want the war to stop, those government contractors, making their
millions by supplying munitions or boots or food for the armies?”

Dennis watched him through narrowed eyes. He had not altered much. He
was eighteen months older, that was all. But there was the same quick
impatience in phrase and gesture, the same vivid look.

He went on: “The only way to stop the war—not only this war, but all
future wars, is by opposing conscription. You’re all for the good cause
here, I suppose?”

Barnaby answered for the company in general: “Yes, they’re all appealing
on different grounds. Everard, I forget what yours are?”

“I’ve not had the honour of being called up yet,” the actor replied
evasively.

“And yours, Crispin?”

By a series of grunts, Crispin made it known that he did not intend to
fight against the nation that had produced Beethoven and Bach.

“I’d like to appeal on every ground there is!” Oswald cried excitably,
“one can’t do enough to keep the horror from going on.”

“I’m appealing on racial and personal grounds,” declared Benny, “I won’t
be made to fight the Jews of other countries, even to avenge Brave
Little Belgium, or prove myself a true patriot!”

Oswald began:

   “‘Breathes there a man with soul so dead
   Who never to himself has said——’”

“I’ve said ‘This is my own, my native land’ at least half a dozen times
in half a dozen different lands,” Benny interrupted, “I have relatives
scattered about in allied, enemy and neutral countries alike. And how
can a man fight for any particular country, when he’s got an aunt in
every port?”

“And England talks of defending the honour of small nations,” murmured
Conn, “has she forgotten Ireland at her very door, Ireland that she’s
oppressed and ground under her heel these many years? Let her recognise
Ireland as an equal and raise her up from the thraldom of a vassal
before she takes Belgium’s name in vain to hide her desire for gain.”

“Well, at least you’re free from the necessity of appealing,” said
Barnaby, “they’ll never dare introduce conscription into Ireland. It’ll
mean revolution if they do.”

“And may I be the first to fly the _Sinn Féin_ flag in the streets of
Dublin that day!”

“What about you, Dennis?” said Alan.

“Humanitarian grounds.”

“Good!” For a second their eyes met, and then parted again. There was
chaos in Dennis’s mind. Alan’s personality had lost none of its potent
spell ... and there was Antoinette beside him ... and he longing and
longing to have the boy all to himself.... And he knew that all his
energies must go to the concealment of that desire. He leant back in his
chair and listened to Alan’s voice—and was aware that Antoinette’s gaze
rested always on himself.

“Conscription has got to be fought,” Alan repeated, “without
conscription, Germany could never have gone to war. And the people have
got to be made to see reason, those who say that we must go on with the
war ‘for the sake of the men who have fallen.’ What sense is there in
that? Because we have wasted a million good lives already, why should we
throw another million on to the same refuse-heap? ‘To make their
sacrifice worth while!’ As if anything could make their sacrifice in
such an iniquitous cause worth while! ‘They died gladly for their
country’—it’s all cant, cruel sickening cant to make the people at home
see the war through rose-coloured spectacles. If they saw it without the
spectacles, they wouldn’t be so willing to go on paying for the
continuation of it. ‘We must fight until the whole of Germany is
crushed’—is the whole of Germany to blame for this war, any more than
the whole of England? Blame it on the German High Command, if you like,
and on the Prussian Junkers and their kind, but not on the people—people
as straight and decent as ours, only maddened by this artificially
worked-up hatred, this dizzy vision of world-power and world-empire. But
in Germany, just as in every other country, there are people who don’t
let themselves be dazzled by that vision, and who are ready to work for
the overthrow of governments that can organise wholesale butchery as a
means by which to extend dominion.”

“The pity of it is, that we’re so few,” said Benny, “such a small and
unpopular minority.”

Alan returned impatiently: “We’re not out for laurels.”

“No, it’s more likely to be the broad arrow,” said Oswald.

“Let it be the broad arrow, then! It’ll be the badge of freedom of the
future, badge of honour for those who have struggled against the tide of
public opinion. The militarists’ hatred of us is much more bloodthirsty
than their hatred of the Germans; we are the cowards and the traitors
who are deliberately delaying victory. ‘If we don’t give Germany a
knock-out blow now, the war will start all over again for the next
generation’—you hear the ignorant and the thoughtless reiterating that
catch-phrase like a lot of parrots. The war all over again—that’s
exactly what they will have if they do win their complete military
victory. When the ‘knock-out blow’ has been dealt, they’ll have to go on
keeping big armies and building big ships, to consolidate their position
as top-dog. And as long as we have big armies and navies, we shall
always have wars. The pretty toys have to be used—they can’t be kept for
show.... People call us ‘Pro-Germans’—it’s laughable. If I’d been in
Germany or anywhere else, I’d have fought just as hard against being
turned into a cog in the infernal machinery of war. It’s the whole
system of militarism I’m up against, not the individual wrongs of one
country or another. No civilised industrial population of any country
wants war. Miners in Cornwall and Lancashire or Galicia and Siberia;
poor devils sweating in our factories and in _their_ factories;
railwaymen, schoolmasters, farmers—what do they want with war? Nothing
... until the idea is drilled into them by those in power. The people
who want war and believe that war is good, should be allowed to make a
private picnic of it. The government officials and cabinet ministers and
war profiteers on both sides; the people who say they’d rather lose all
their sons, than that they shouldn’t go out and fight——”

“The khaki-clad females who say they wish they were men, so that they
could kill a few Huns themselves,” Dennis put in.

“Yes, if only that small handful who started the war, and are continuing
it, could finish it up amongst themselves, without implicating the
masses!”

“Without the masses, there would be no war,” said Barnaby.

“Exactly!” cried Alan, “without the masses, there _could_ be no war, and
that is the solution of it all, and the end and the aim of socialism—to
free the masses from the tyranny of governments that can drive them like
cattle to be slaughtered in this crazy campaign of greed and hatred.
Look at the wonderfully organised man-power of all the nations, with all
the woman-power behind it; look at the scientific miracles and the
ceaseless labour and energy that go to the production of big guns,
submarines, aeroplanes, poison-gas; think of all this employed in the
cause of destruction.... And think of the heroism and self-sacrifice of
those who really ‘die gladly’ for a mistaken ideal; and the tremendous
flame of patriotism that’s burning in the hearts of all the peoples
alike: if all these tangible and intangible splendours could have been
used in the furtherance, instead of in the destruction of civilisation!

“And you’re expected to take your share in the destruction, without
asking if it’s right or wrong. All honour to the men who, when war broke
out, almost as a matter of course left their homes and their loves and
their careers, because they thought it was the only decent thing to
do.... And all blame to the old men at home, and to the narrow-minded
women and unimaginative girls who made it appear the only decent thing!
We’re convinced that it isn’t, and _we must stand firm_, cost what it
may! We’re few: that doesn’t matter. We shall be pilloried: that doesn’t
matter. All that matters is that we shall have striven against what our
brains and our hearts recognised as evil—Oh, not only evil, but stupid
and petty and beastly—and that we shall have done our bit towards
bringing nearer the day when militarism will be supplanted by industry,
and we may hope to have an international system of legislation that’ll
knock out the possibility of disputes having to be settled by the
barbarous and unintelligent means of bloodshed.”

“Unintelligent, good Lord, yes!” cried Barnaby, “the whole thing is
unintelligent, even from the militarist point of view. There are
thousands of men being forced to fight, who are physically and mentally
unfit to be of the least use in battle, but whose brains might have
given us scientific inventions that would have benefited humanity, works
of art, books, music.... No, they won’t let them stop at home and do
what they _can_ do, but must send them out to do incompetently things
against which their whole nature rises in revolt. From the general
utility standpoint: in which capacity is the artist of more value to the
nation? As a creator of a work that may live, or as a mass of shattered
nerves, totally incapable either of fulfilling the requirements of the
army or of carrying out his own ideas?”

“Oh, how much does the general public care about art or the artist these
days?” exclaimed Dennis.

“They may not care now,” rejoined Barnaby, “but it’s the sacred duty of
everyone who’s got the gift of creation to try and keep it intact. When
the war is over we shall be grateful to those who through the long night
of destruction have kept alight the torch of art and intellect. That’s
rendering a greater service to mankind than putting your life at the
disposal of the war-machine.”

“And the sight of all those war-shrines makes me sick!” cried Alan.
“‘_Greater love hath no man_——’ How dare they profane the words? It’s
not that a man is merely ‘laying down his life for his friends,’ but
trying to do some other man in at the same time. How does that fit in
with ‘_Thou shalt not kill_?’”

An unobtrusive-looking spectacled man, who all this while had sat silent
at the corner table which Crispin had vacated, looked over at the group.
“It does not fit in, and it never will, but the Church has become untrue
to herself, as those who serve her have become untrue, perverting her
words until they seem to serve the ends of the State.”

Alan asked eagerly: “Are you appealing on religious grounds, then?”

The man replied, “Yes. And I daresay I’ll get partial exemption.
Non-Combatant Service. The despicable compromise that some men can make
with their conscience. ‘_Thou shalt not kill_’—they think they’re
obeying the letter of the law if they don’t bear arms and go to the
fighting-line; but they’re scarcely obeying the spirit when they accept
work in munition-factories, or otherwise help to release men to be
killed in their place.”

“Yes, I’m up against people of that sort, as much as I’m up against
rabid militarists,” said Alan; “they are the cowards and shirkers who
deserve all the onus heaped upon the community of pacifists and
socialists as a whole. Men whose conscience won’t let them kill, but who
haven’t the courage to back their opinions—I’ve no use for them. Passive
pacifism won’t do any good. What we want is active pacifism, fearless
and unashamed, ready to join hands with the workers of all other
countries; to stand firm against their immoral, gain-seeking
governments; and ready to suffer the utmost penalty of their idiotic and
benighted law.”

Crispin rose from his chair. “You b-bloody pacifists make as much noise
as b-bloody militarists. One c-can’t hearoneselfthink....” And on this
cryptic utterance he made his exit.

The cloud of smoke became denser and more dense. Roy Radford and the
flappers had long since departed, and the remaining company, having
abandoned their separate tables, formed one collective straggling group.
Through the smoke, Antoinette watched them; O’Farrell’s fine sensitive
features and visionary eyes shadowed by a thatch of wild auburn hair;
Barnaby’s rough-hewn head and hunched shoulders; Everard’s sleek good
looks; Harry Hope’s chubbiness; Benny Joseph’s dark eyes and Semitic
profile; the nondescript appearance of the religious “objector” who had
joined in the conversation; Oswald’s thin pale face and jerkiness of
movement; Pegeen’s tilted nose, and the cigarette stuck impertinently in
one corner of her mouth.... Picturesque enough, the whole group, only
now Antoinette dared not glance at that slim boy with his dark flaming
eyes, nor at Dennis ... not since she had seen that look on his face
when Alan had entered.

Barnaby was saying: “From every possible point of view, whether from
religion, art, socialism or humanity, war is a disgrace to any civilised
nation. Personally, I’m out of the running, altogether, but I envy you
fit men for having the chance to do your bit in the cause of peace.”

Antoinette got up to go, wondering if Dennis would accompany her as
usual. He followed her up the stairs, but it was evidently his intention
to return to the others when he had said good-bye to her.

At the top of the stairs she faced him.

“Is that—is that the boy we saw the other night?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the one you told me about?”

“Yes....”

“You’re still in love with him...?”

And again: “Yes....”

With one hand she was clutching the wooden balustrade. He saw her
knuckles whiten under the strain, as she said in a dead, unemotional
voice: “D-do you want me to back out altogether?”

“My dear, it’s for you to say.”

He could not bring himself to make a quick, clean end to the situation
then and there. He was too dazed and bewildered to think. He only knew
that he could not speak the word that would hurt her so much, not now,
although her head was defiantly raised, her eyes downcast, as if she
were determined that nothing should be visible to him of the pain he
might choose to inflict.

“It’s for you to say.”

She relaxed the tenseness of her attitude, and seemed suddenly to go
limp. “Oh, I don’t know what to say....” The situation had come upon
them both as a shock. Neither of them felt capable of coping with it at
the moment, and in the doorway....

“Meet me down here one day, and we’ll talk it all out,” he whispered
hurriedly.

She nodded and turned away.


                              CHAPTER VII

“I had quite made up my mind that you were dead,” said Dennis when,
later on, he and Alan walked back to his rooms in Tavistock Square.

Alan laughed. “Did you think I’d been storming trenches single-handed,
and that my V.C. had been sent home to my weeping mother?”

“Something of the sort. I knew well enough that you’d expose yourself to
every possible risk—as you are doing, only on the right side, thank
heaven, instead of the wrong.”

“I’m running no greater risks than you are: perhaps imprisonment,
perhaps death. I should think the latter quite probable if they attempt
to force us to do war-work in prison—dirty trick, that, but they are
quite capable of it.”

Dennis said nothing. For himself, he had long ago contemplated these
possibilities. It was different to contemplate them for Alan. He wished
somehow that Alan need not incur such risks, and yet was proud of him
for incurring them ... and realised that on the other side, the
militarist side, they felt precisely the same: those who sent their
lovers and sons to the fighting-line and dreaded their going, yet would
not hold them back....

“It’s all a bloody shame,” he said aloud, “such a bloody shame....”

“Yes, and when you think of all the labour and ingenuity that are being
spent in the invention of more and yet more diabolical means of
destruction.... I’ve watched big guns being made, and shells in
munition-factories.”

“And how did you contrive to get into a munition-factory?”

“The name of my never-sufficiently-to-be-respected father was disguise
enough for my revolutionary tendencies when I was up North,” said Alan,
“but when I was going about the country, trying to get at the people’s
outlook in various branches of industry, I had to assume alternately the
disguise of a sanitary inspector, a newspaper-reporter or a workman.
I’ve been temporary railway-porter and ship-builder’s apprentice, and
followed all manner of trades since I saw you last.”

“And hasn’t your father cast you off for ever yet? Mine would like to,
but he can’t quite do it because of mother. She, poor dear, is the
victim of the complicated Eastwold table of weights and measures,
namely: Do one son and one son-in-law in the trenches outweigh one
conscientious objector, or do two in the trenches equal one in quod?”

“My father’s done more than cast me off,” said Alan, “he’s tried to get
me run in before now—beery old buffer, making pots of money out of the
war; sitting at home and joining in the hue-and-cry: ‘We want more
men—more ships—more munitions....’ They’re tearing up the young manhood
fast enough to make soldiers, and tearing up the forests to get wood to
line the trenches and dug-outs. There was a pine-forest I passed through
in Devon—or rather the remains of a pine-forest ... a wilderness of
prostrate tree-trunks, with sticky pale-red stumps, lying crippled and
bruised, with their branches crushed under them. And the sight and the
smell of the resin oozing from where the boughs had been sawn off was a
thing that hurt you—a damnable thing!”—his voice suddenly tightened—“it
was like seeing the forest bleed to death before your very eyes. And all
the time men were at work hacking, hacking and sawing ... you couldn’t
get away from the rasping of those saws and the dull blows of the
choppers. While I watched they were stabbing at the trunk of a great
giant of a tree, and I saw its crown waver and rock and sway, and heard
a sort of groaning crash as it fell to the ground among the litter of
mutilated boughs and bleeding roots.... And all around were neat piles
of stacked-up logs and sawn planks, ready to be despatched to France.
The glory of that forest once—and now——”

“I know,” replied Dennis, “they’re felling the old beech-trees around my
home, too—trees that have taken centuries and centuries to grow; and
when I’ve cried out at the pity of it—‘_Every tree that can be of
service to the country must come down!_’ It’s terrible and wonderful,
this ruthless, relentless concentration of will and effort. The men
going out, and the women taking over their jobs—even inanimate nature
pressed into service to ‘help to win the war!’”

Alan nodded. “Yes, and with all that force pushing against us, we’ve got
to use the same concentration of will and effort to win peace.”

They had reached Tavistock Square. Dennis opened the door with his
latch-key and went up to his room. Alan followed him. And thus he had
once followed Alan, by the light of a guttering candle, up a rickety
wooden staircase at Crannack. And thus, in imagination, he had often
felt himself being followed by Alan. As they were about to enter the
room, Dennis wheeled sharply round. Alan smiled back at him with
half-impudent confidence. “Well?”

“All right, I only wanted to see if you were really there—you’ve had
such a way of dogging my heels, just like that, and then vanishing when
I turned to look at you.”

Alan said: “You were a coward to run away that time at Crannack,
Dennis.”

“You know why I had to run away—why I had to make myself run away. It
wasn’t easy, Alan.”

“It’s no use running away. Because you’ll never _get_ away. We’re made
like that; why not look things straight in the face?”

“Antoinette said something of that kind a long while ago, without having
the vaguest idea what she was talking about.”

“Antoinette?”

“The girl who was with me at the tea-shop to-day. The girl with whom I
sought safety from you.”

“And did you find it?”

“Do you need to ask?”

Alan sat down on the floor, and with hands clasped round his knees,
gazed into the fire.

“Then what do you want with the girl now?”

Dennis shrugged his shoulders.

“She’s mad on you,” Alan persisted, “I could see that. But you don’t
want her, Dennis—we don’t want her.... Cut her out altogether!”

Dennis answered sadly: “She is out altogether, poor Antoinette, to all
intents and purposes.”

Alan turned his head with a slow smile. “Good ...” he murmured.

“Damn you, don’t talk and look like that!” Dennis blazed out in sudden
rage, “you might be a woman, intolerant of all favourites but yourself!”

“I am intolerant of other favourites. And they’re no good to you, no
earthly good ... are they?”

“No ...” said Dennis dully.

“You admit it! Then why continue to strive after what can’t really
satisfy you?”

“Because I mustn’t take what would really satisfy me.”

“Then at least accept the fact that you are as you are, and don’t try to
pervert yourself into something you never will be. We’re both right over
the border-line of the normal—I more than you, because no woman could
ever attract me in the least—and we’ve got to have the courage to face
out that knowledge and, above all, to be true to ourselves. You want to
make our love an abstraction. Believe me, you’ll only succeed in making
it unnatural.”

“Unnatural, good Lord! Isn’t it that already?”

“You’ve been brooding too much in secret, Dennis, you’ve grown morbid.
Why will you persist in regarding it as something vicious and
degenerate? For people made as we are it’s natural and it’s beautiful to
love as we love, and it’s perversion in the true sense to try and force
ourselves to love differently.”

“I know ... I know all that, yet I can’t accept it as justification ...
even though love like this is little short of crucifixion, as long as
some remote principle nails us to the cross and forbids expression.”

“Then in God’s name, Dennis, why deny yourself and torture yourself like
this?”

Dennis flung out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

Alan looked at him....

Then, very softly, he spoke. “All right, Dennis, it shall be as you say.
Hang on to your foolish Quixotic principles, if you must ... if you must
... but you’ll never get away like that—never, no, never in this
life....”

                   *       *       *       *       *

So now the shadowy danger, that she had perhaps not taken so very
seriously, just because it was shadowy, had materialised in the shape of
that boy. Dennis had warned her, and she had said: “Yes, I know....”
With her brain she had accepted his warning, with her brain understood
what it implied. But she had not felt anything. Even now the poison had
not begun properly to work.... It was still difficult to overcome the
initial sense of absurdity, of having to be jealous of a—man. Certainly,
if Dennis had chosen to make love to her at Amberhurst, she would have
given him every right to be jealous of—Hester. Crazy world ... and all
these years she had lived with her eyes shut, never perceiving how crazy
it was! She could not hazard any conjecture as to the future. All her
previous experience was powerless to assist imagination. She was on
entirely new ground now, ignorant of the significance of such landmarks
as she might encounter; instinct her sole guide, and one whom her reason
and her sense of humour were still half-inclined to mistrust.

At least she was glad that no decisive action was called for on her
part. On the spur of the moment she had offered to back out, and he had
not accepted her offer. She could remain passive now, and await
developments.

Mrs. Taylor rang her up while she was awaiting them, and invited her to
tea at the studio. Antoinette went, and found the Taylors’ house a low,
rambling building in a tree-shaded street in Chelsea. The studio was
connected with the house by a glass corridor, but it had another
entrance that led through a walled passage into the street. A third door
opened into a tangled garden, overgrown with weeds.

Pegeen met Antoinette at the side-entrance, and impressed her to keep
silence during the brief transit from the street to the studio. She
explained in her inimitable fashion that since the studio had been let
to Conn O’Farrell, her husband and parents-in-law did not think it
suitable for her to frequent it.

“But glory be to God, I have a latch-key of my own, so I say I’m taking
a walk, and just pop out of the front door and into here by this
side-entrance, when no one’s about. It’s like watch-dogs they are over
me, my dear.... William’s at the office all day and Special-Constabling
most nights, but he’s always telling his mother and his father to look
after his ‘little floweret’—that’s me, dearie—while he’s gone.”

“So they do their duty by you!” laughed Antoinette.

“They do that, in the true Christian-martyr spirit; for it is a very,
very bitter thing for Mother Taylor to have a wild Irish scaramouch like
me for a daughter-in-law. Her Willie should have married one of the
Vicar’s daughters from next door; they play croquet all the
afternoon.... It is really a vicarage next door, my dear, and that’s the
truth of it!”

Antoinette was taking in every detail of her environment. A square of
blue was visible through the big skylight; an oak chest, left untidily
open, disclosed a collection of gorgeous-coloured fabrics; garments of
all hues and all periods; a very old carved table was littered with
paints, cigarette-ends, lip-salve, pencil-stumps and chocolates; the
originals of Conn’s political cartoons were upon the walls, and formed a
queer contrast to the more imaginative examples of his art—the
illustrations to old Irish fairy-tales and the designs for scenic
decorations. And then Pegeen, with a childish and charming absence of
false shame, exhibited Conn’s drawings of herself in all manner of
poses....

“But aren’t you afraid that someone will see them and find out?” said
Antoinette.

“Oh, there’s never a soul in here but Conn and me and our friends. The
servants from the house aren’t allowed in. I do all his dusting for him,
bless the lad! We want no strangers here, and for another reason that
I’ll be telling you now....” Pegeen cast a glance over her shoulder,
lowered her voice to a mysterious whisper, and kicking aside one of the
rugs on the polished floor, disclosed a sliding panel. “Look!”

Antoinette looked, and as the panel slid back beheld a cavity some six
feet deep. “A trap-door, Pegeen, a real trap-door?”

“Hush, my dear ... there are papers in there that could get the whole
lot of us put in prison this very minute—” (Surely this was all a
child’s game of “conspirators?”)—“we must get them safely over to
Ireland and into the hands of our leaders before the month is out. We’re
going together, Conn and I, when the time comes.”

... This was more lurid even than anything Antoinette had anticipated
from Barnaby’s descriptions. Pegeen replaced the rug, offered her the
cigarettes, and curled herself up in one of the deep armchairs.
“To-night there’ll be company in the house—they have a bishop to dinner,
my dear, all in gaiters, and I talking to him as if butter wouldn’t melt
in my mouth.... And Conn will stand in the glass passage, just this side
of the curtain, and strain his ears for a sound of my voice among the
other voices ... and after dinner maybe I’ll slip away and steal down
the passage for one minute and feel his arms round me in the dark—then
back again to old Gaiters, and the talk of how they’d like to have the
parish church restored, and how well this bloody England is doing in the
war.”

“How marvellous, Pegeen, that’s better than anything I’ve ever
accomplished!” Antoinette told her of her own campaign of lies invented
to elude Grand’mère’s vigilance. “It’s so neat, pretending to your
parents-in-law that you are miles away, when you’re really in here,
separated from them only by a curtain.”

“Yes, it was a happy thought, that curtain. I advised my mother-in-law
to have it put there when we let the studio to Conn, because I said,
’tis for the look of the thing, and with artists you never know.... And
she said I was after showing a bit of proper feeling at last!”

“Where did you meet Conn?” queried Antoinette, and was rewarded with the
entire history of Pegeen’s life.

“I was left an orphan at the age of six, my dear, and I had two aunts in
Ireland and one in England. And they played battledore and shuttlecock
with me right enough, for not one of them was pleased to have me in the
house with her own brats. You see,” Pegeen added with delightful
simplicity, “they were never quite sure if my mother had been married to
my father, so they thought it best not to give me the benefit of the
doubt....” Followed the account of her marriage to Mr. Taylor, and the
freakish impulse that had led her into it.

“It made me laugh so the way he said: ‘Margaret, I don’t understand
you,’ every time I opened my mouth ... and when he asked me to marry him
I said ‘Yes’ just to annoy my aunts, who said they never would have
believed it of me.”

Antoinette suggested that in the course of Pegeen’s married life she
might have heard that remark of Mr. Taylor’s once too often.

“Yes, indeed, my dear. And the night I met Conn, I felt I’d be
suffocated dead by the morning if something didn’t happen! So I wandered
out for a walk by myself, and there in the middle of Trafalgar Square
there was a recruiting-meeting, and a man with a big banner telling all
those poor fools of Englishmen to go and fight for their country.... I
made a face at him—I did that! And Conn—he was in the crowd, too, with
his friend Rutherford—he saw me make that face, and came and spoke to
me. And, dearie, when I heard that boy’s voice, I could have put my arms
round his neck and wept....”

“When Irish meets Irish,” murmured Antoinette, “it must have been rather
wonderful.”

Pegeen’s greenish eyes shone. “It was that....”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Later on Conn came in, having just returned from Rutherford’s tribunal
at the House of Commons. “They’ve not heard his case yet, but I thought
I’d have time to slip down here for a cup of tea, and back again.” He
drew Pegeen towards him and kissed her lips. “I’ve brought you these
primroses, the first I’ve seen this spring—let’s have that great green
bowl, and I’ll be arranging them while you get the food.”

Pegeen disappeared into the pantry adjoining the studio, and called to
Antoinette to come and watch her fry the eggs. Conn was left dreamily
putting the primroses one by one into the jade bowl.

“Wouldn’t you rather I went?” Antoinette suggested to Pegeen, “I’m sure
you want to have him all to yourself.”

Pegeen laughed. “What a child for talking nonsense! We like to have you
here. It’s a poor sort of hospitality that wishes one friend to go, when
another arrives.”

But all the same when Conn joined them in the pantry, and kissed
Pegeen’s neck as she bent over the gas-ring, Antoinette felt that she
was an intruder—a feeling which, to do them justice, neither Conn nor
Pegeen seemed to share. They had a composite meal of eggs and tea and
cakes, all among the cigarette-ends and the lip-salve, with the massed
bowl of primroses as table-decoration in the centre. Then Conn declared
that he must go. “I don’t want to miss Rutherford’s speech; it’ll be
worth the hearing.”

Pegeen made a grimace. “I hate that person.”

Conn said warmly: “You’ve no need to say that now, Pegeen, love....”

Antoinette asked, “Is anyone else at the tribunal, Mr. O’Farrell?”

“Barnaby’s there and Dennis Blackwood. Will I give him your love, Miss
de Courcy?”

“Oh, never mind about it ...” she laughed; but the thought of Dennis as
a spectator at Alan’s tribunal made her heart give a sudden painful
jump.

“Good-bye, Pegeen; it’s William’s night on duty, isn’t it? Will I leave
the side-door open...?”

Pegeen shook her ruffled head. “It’s the footsteps I’m thinking of,
Conn, the two lots of footsteps all down the gravel-path. You’ve no idea
how they show up!”

“Then I’ll have to carry you”—Conn’s eyes rested fondly on her—“that’ll
only make one lot.”

“There’s another way, too,” Pegeen broke into her impish laughter, “the
house on the left of this stands empty. If I can get into that garden
from the street and over the wall into ours——”

Conn laughed. “Then William will spot you with his lantern, burgling
your own house! Well, I don’t care how you find your way in, as long as
you do—after the bishop’s left....”

The door banged behind him. Antoinette reflected that here indeed were
combined melodrama and romance and farce of the most highly-coloured
variety. Oh, certainly romance for those two mad, delightful people who
loved each other; romance in the need for secrecy, and their peculiar
methods of ensuring it; melodrama in the existence of the trap-door
concealing the papers; farce in the idea of the respectable household
adjoining this anything but respectable studio, the vicarage next door,
the stolid Special Constable patrolling the streets.

“And to think I might never have known this happiness!” said Pegeen,
“that objectionable person Rutherford was for ever advising my Conn not
to take the studio. He said I was a harpy and that I didn’t really love
him. So Conn believed him, and would not come near me, and I thought I
would kill myself.... I told that to Benny Joseph, that nice Jew-boy
when he came to tea here. And I cried into his handkerchief. And he made
it all right, speaking to Conn and saying I was not a harpy, and did
really love him truly. Now, I’m asking you, do I look like a harpy?”

“You’re a darling,” laughed Antoinette, and Pegeen gave her a warm broad
smile. “I liked you the first time I set eyes on you. I don’t know why
Dennis Blackwood didn’t bring you here before; he and Mr. Barnaby often
come to see Conn.... I like Dennis,” she mused, “he’s a dear fine
fellow, he is that, and he plays the piano like an angel. Aren’t you of
the same opinion, my dear?”

Antoinette said softly: “I am....”

“It’s glad I am to hear that! It means that there’s a great day of
happiness coming for you just as it’s come for me.”

“I’m afraid not, Pegeen.”

“But why, my dear?” Pegeen came and sat on the arm of Antoinette’s
chair. “Why not?”

“It—it’s difficult to say....” Incredibly difficult.

Pegeen put her arms round her with a gesture impulsive and almost
maternal. “Oh, my dear, won’t you tell me what it is?” She seemed to
have lost for the moment her elfin devilry, and to have become softer,
less of an imp, more of a woman. “I’ve had to go through sorrow too, to
know happiness.... Tell me, dear: is it another woman that’s come
between you?”

“No, Pegeen, it’s not another woman....” She was beginning to feel
frightened. Dennis was at the tribunal, every nerve drawn tense with the
hope that Alan would get his exemption. Quickly she chased from her mind
the half-hope that he would not get it. That ... was ungenerous.... Was
it, though, in the face of such a dangerous enemy? How dangerous,
exactly, was Alan? Could he be fought on equal terms, or was his
advantage over her so great that the conflict was already decided in his
favour? If only she knew.... But how, and by what standards was she to
measure the power of this strange enemy? She was oppressed by fear of
the unknown; longed to be able to confide in Pegeen.

“It’s not another woman, it’s——”

But that was the sort of thing one could not say. Not to anyone. Not
ever.

“Then it’ll all come right in the end, you’ll see”—Pegeen was still
gently stroking her hair—“he’s a silly fellow and perhaps doesn’t know
his own mind yet, but one day you’ll be as happy as Conn and me, and
that’s what I’m wishing you with all my heart.”

Antoinette raised her head, and with an effort smiled. “Yes, I expect
it’ll all come right....” She would not spoil the picture of herself and
Dennis pairing off as a secondary couple to Pegeen and Conn. But it had
been hard not to tell Pegeen. Pegeen’s warm-hearted sympathy would have
soothed, if not comforted her. It would have been such a relief to tell
someone. But—_one could not tell that sort of thing_. However much one
longed to. However frightened one was. However lonely.


                              CHAPTER VIII

By what standards was she to measure Alan’s power...? Instinct answered:
by the power that Hester had once had over herself. There would have
been little enough hope for Dennis pitted against Hester, or any of
those other women; little enough, if it had come to it, against—Pegeen.
Antoinette was fully alive to Pegeen’s attraction, and realised that she
might have had one of her swift burning passions for her, had she not
been so entirely absorbed in Dennis, the greater love blotting out all
possibility of a lesser. But if she had not cared for Dennis so much, he
would have stood a poor chance against Pegeen; and according to that
analogy, Antoinette stood a poor chance against Alan. She had not heard
from Dennis; neither did she know the result of Alan’s appeal. Inaction
was becoming intolerable. If matters were decided one way or another, at
least she would be rid of the uncertainty, and could try and adapt
herself to the altered conditions. He had told her to meet him at Miss
Mowbray’s to discuss the position ... and it would be better, once she
knew. This she told herself repeatedly, and it gave her a sort of
spurious courage as she walked up the passage between the theatre and
the tea-shop, and with fast-beating heart descended the stairs.

Her hope that she would find Dennis alone was immediately dashed. The
usual group was complete, save for Conn and Pegeen, and to-day it
included Mrs. Mansfield and Ernest Strickland, the religious objector.
Antoinette slipped into the vacant place that Dennis had made for her
between himself and Everard. She gave an exclamation of surprise on
seeing that the latter was in khaki. “Why—what’s happened?”

“He’s ratted!” cried Alan, “that’s what’s happened. Couldn’t stand out,
and took the easy way. The play has come off next door, and I suppose he
fancies himself in the new part—‘A better and a worthier part, laddie,
than the one you used to play’—can’t you hear ’em?”

Everard stroked the cuffs of his ill-fitting private’s uniform. “This is
all so stupid ...” he remarked to the ceiling, leaving it doubtful as to
whether he meant the war in general or Alan’s gibes in particular.

“I can’t say the costume suits you,” Benny taunted him, “you were
fastidious enough about the fit of your stage-clothes, and look at you
now!”

Everard, with magnificent dignity, feigned complete ignorance of his too
short sleeves and coat that had a baggy look about the waist-line; and
turning to Antoinette, wondered aloud in his beautiful mellow voice,
what effect war would have upon his psychology.

“Speaking of costumes,” said Alan, “I hear there are dozens of C.O.s at
the various camps arrayed only in blankets. When they’re handed over to
the military and commanded to put on uniform they refuse to do so. Then
their own clothes are taken away from them.... _Then_ they tear up the
nice khaki that the good kind Government gives them and wrap themselves
in the blankets off their beds.”

“As we’re in England, I suppose the authorities won’t remove the
blankets?” murmured Benny.

“Oh, hardly.... But one really ought to practise beforehand how to wear
one’s blanket in the most artistic and effective manner. You’ll look
hideous in yours, Benny, you’re the wrong shape. By next week I shall no
doubt be quite an authority on the latest fashions in bedclothes.”

“So you are passed for General Service?” said Strickland.

“Yes. I knew I hadn’t any chance of getting off entirely, and I wasn’t
playing for Non-Com.... They actually asked me what I’d do if I saw my
mother attacked by a German soldier.... I told ’em I was tired of that
old chestnut and that I’d go to the defence of the soldier!”

There was a burst of laughter, but to Antoinette it sounded rather
strained and hectic. She saw that Alan’s eyes were feverishly bright,
his cheeks flushed; and that Dennis’s gaze rested upon him with an
anxiety barely concealed by the laughter.

“Two policemen called at my rooms yesterday when I was out, waited three
hours for me, and then got fed-up and said they’d call again to-morrow
and wait till I _did_ appear, if they didn’t cop me during the day.”

“You can’t dodge them for long, though,” said Barnaby.

“I don’t intend to—’tisn’t dignified. But just for a while it is a most
stimulating experience to be Wanted by the Police, and one which may
never repeat itself in the future course of my blameless career.”

“Child ...” murmured Dennis under his breath, but Antoinette caught the
murmur, and the rueful tenderness of it.

“At any moment I may feel a heavy hand upon my shoulder—handcuffs on my
wrists! I thought I was being shadowed by a plain-clothes detective this
afternoon. I gave him a couple of hours’ healthy exercise, dodging him
up and down the Strand, and finally shook him off when I reached
sanctuary here.... Oh, I’d rather run with the hare than hunt with the
hounds, any day. There’s something so smug and self-righteous about the
hounds, and the hare has all the sport!”

“The hounds win in the end ...” said Dennis, and Everard quoted softly:

“_A la fin de l’envoi, je touche...._”

Alan threw his head back and laughed. “Well, never mind for the moment.
Let’s have cakes in vast quantities, and regardless of expense, please,
Miss Mowbray, since this may be my last meal in freedom.”

Miss Mowbray begged him not to talk like that, and expressed her
willingness to hide him from the police among the jam-jars in her
store-cupboard.

“Oh, this place of yours is bound to be raided sooner or later as it is,
Kitty,” said Barnaby, “some outsider will stray in and, overhearing our
conversation, will warn the authorities that it’s a hornet’s nest of
nihilists, anarchists, socialists, and other dangerous and seditious
elements!”

“I expect you’re right, Neil,” Miss Mowbray returned placidly, “but even
if the worst comes to the worst, I shall be glad that all you boys have
had some place where you could be together and air your views in peace.”

“And we can never be grateful enough to you for supporting the cause of
freedom as you’ve done by letting us congregate here!” cried Alan
warmly. “When this country is proclaimed a democratic republic, we’ll
erect a statue to you on what was once the site of Buckingham Palace.”

Harry Hope plunged into the group, bursting with the news that he had
got a part at last. “Round town, too, and no commission to pay!”

Benny Joseph offered him heartfelt congratulations. “You lucky beggar,
being able to take work. I daren’t settle anything till my beastly
appeal is over.... When do you open?”

Even Everard was roused to a languid display of professional interest,
and sighed: “It is a beautiful thing to have a widowed mother to
support. Her life should be very sacred to you.”

“It is. Oh, it is,” Harry assured him with husky eagerness. “I’m
thankful to say the old lady’s keeping wonderfully well.” He joined a
small group of actors seated at the table in the alcove, and proceeded
to answer more questions concerning his new part.

Barnaby asked Mrs. Mansfield if she had news of her husband, and she
replied that he had contrived to communicate with her. “It’s too
terrible, the way they’re treated; worse than ordinary criminals. He was
kept in irons for twelve hours; he drew a design of them—cruel-looking
instruments that cut into the flesh.”

“Oh, yes, we’re a civilised and cultured race, we English,” cried Alan,
“it’s only the Huns who are barbarians....”

Antoinette saw Dennis flush. Easy enough to guess that he was dreading
that barbarous things might also befall Alan. Already he seemed to be
quivering to the least shade of pain that Alan might have to undergo.
But was it nothing to him, she wondered in a sudden surge of revolt, was
it nothing to him that she should be thus compelled to watch him
suffering for Alan and because of Alan? To watch him alternately
brooding over the boy with absorbed gaze, and then averting his eyes, as
if the sight of him there, laughing and vivid, were too poignant to be
borne?

“They have to go to chapel every Sunday,” Mrs. Mansfield pursued;
“that’s the only time when the prisoners who are in solitary confinement
catch sight of each other. Maurice says there’s a perfectly hateful man
who preaches to them—it’s a degradation to call it preaching! He was
actually brute enough to say to those poor wretches: ‘God has turned His
face away from a lot like you....’”

“It’s difficult to believe that a man of God could so profane the word
of God to those dependent upon him for spiritual consolation,” said
Strickland, “but he’s not the only one of his kind. So many of the
clergy, who call themselves followers of the Prince of Peace, deny Him,
by abuse of their power—by preaching war from the pulpit and joining
hands with the misleaders of the people to exhort them to take part in
bloodshed and strife.”

“Yes, it beats me how devout Christians can believe in war,” said Benny,
“don’t they see it’s the negation of all that their Christ ever taught?”

“They don’t see now. It’s they who have turned their faces away from
God. Christ wasn’t thinking of the Germans when He told us to turn the
other cheek.... That’s a very favourite line of argument, I believe; it
tends to make the Bible seem old-fashioned and out of date; a good
excuse for going behind its teachings. If people had lived up a little
more closely to these antiquated teachings, the world wouldn’t be
plunged in darkness and misery now.”

“Well, look what they do to those who strive against the darkness and
misery,” said Barnaby. “How long has your husband got, Mrs. Mansfield?”

“Six months penal servitude. But still I’m glad he didn’t give in and
take Non-Com. It’s an unworthy compromise, and the men in the N.C.C. are
being treated in the most despicable way.”

“Yes, some of them, unarmed men, have actually been sent out to France,”
said Alan. “I’ve little sympathy with the Non-Coms., but it’s a dirty
trick all the same. It’s an easy way, of course, for the authorities to
get rid of them altogether: simpler to shoot them for disobeying
military orders out there than it is here.... Downright murder! Oh, it’s
better by far to stick out your time in quod than to compromise, Mrs.
Mansfield. It’s accepting no favours from a rotten, sneaking government
that can’t keep its word.”

“Six months is a long time, and it may be longer ...” said Dennis. And
Antoinette knew that he was thinking neither of Mansfield nor of
himself. It would be a long time—for Alan. A long time for her, if
Dennis.... And if the war went on and on.... Suddenly she hated the
whole group, working upon each other’s nerves, exhorting each other to
stand out at all costs. What did she care for pacifism if Dennis had to
go to prison for it? She cared frankly only for her man, and it seemed
appalling to her that he should thus subordinate his life to his
convictions.

... And Dennis had no eyes and no thoughts for her now. It was not
difficult to see wherein Alan’s attraction lay: he _was_ attractive, no
doubt of it, with his feverish dark eyes and sensitive well-cut mouth.
He gave her the impression of a very high-spirited race-horse. She could
quite well imagine how he would appeal to Dennis ... this terrible boy
against whom she was utterly powerless, for he seemed to possess all the
fascination of her own sex as well as of his.

“There’s a good time ahead the day the C.O.s come out of prison!” cried
Alan, “we’ll have a word to say then, in the name of freedom and
democracy, and we’ll have earned the right to say it. We’ll eat and
drink to the day! Let’s toss down one Welsh Rarebit after the other, in
the true spirit of devil-may-care recklessness....”

How much of this burlesque was genuine, Antoinette wondered, and how
much a disguise to hide real terror? With a shudder she realised that
most of those who sat here, laughing, smoking, arguing, blaspheming,
would sooner or later be in prison. Small wonder if terror lurked
beneath these spasmodic bursts of laughter. If Alan were afraid—small
blame to him. And if Dennis were afraid for Alan—small blame to him. And
if she were afraid for Dennis....

She was studying Alan carefully; and came to the conclusion that no
terror would ever be great enough to deflect him from his purpose. Alan
would never “rat”.... Perhaps his present attitude betokened an
inability to resist obeying the highly theatrical demands of the
situation. She could appreciate and understand that ... funny to have
discovered something in common with Alan. Very funny.... She must hang
on tight to her sense of humour, and not allow herself to wonder if the
world contained anything else for her to hang on to!

The men were deep in political conversation now; none of the sense of it
penetrated her mind. She only knew that Alan, in his explosive, jerky
sentences, was doing most of the talk, with occasional interruptions
from Benny Joseph and Barnaby; that Strickland sat silent and
thoughtful; and that Dennis’s troubled eyes rested ever on Alan.

No chance for her to have her talk with Dennis to-day. He had hardly
spoken to her at all. And already it was time to go.

She rose from her chair. Dennis, as if suddenly becoming aware of her
presence, said: “You’re off...? I’ll ring you up to-morrow morning.”

She nodded without looking at him, and Alan got up and held out his
hand. “Good-bye, Miss de Courcy, and in case we never meet again, which
is more than probable, don’t hate me too much, will you?”

“Why should I hate you?” she parried with ironic politeness. For a
second their eyes met ... surely thus might a victorious rival smile
down into the eyes of one whom she had beaten off the field!

“I couldn’t hate you if I tried,” said Antoinette very softly. She had
passed through the stage of incredulity, and through the stage of
growing uneasiness; and through that of raging jealousy and hatred. And
having got beyond all these, there was nothing left; no jealousy or
hatred big enough to express what she felt for this intruder with the
insolent smile, who with his every look and gesture could thrill Dennis,
as she had never been able to thrill him. Hatred was quite inadequate.

“I couldn’t hate you if I tried——” She had spoken the truth.

She felt mazed and bewildered by the traffic and the raucous shouts of
the paper-boys, as she began to make her way to the Underground station.
If at least he had accompanied her, she would have had him to herself
for a few minutes. She would not have had to say good-bye to him before
all the others, before ... Alan. Good-bye for always, in that futile,
unsatisfactory fashion. She did not believe that he would ring her up,
as he had said. It was already the end—such a miserable, dribbled-out
ending. Once before he had given her this nauseating sense of
anticlimax: only it had not really mattered then.... Perhaps he had not
accompanied her to the station for fear that she should make a scene.
Once before, at that very station——she shuddered back from pursuing that
memory any further. She must inevitably come to dwell on that moment in
the cab, when she had felt the touch of his lips again.... But this time
he need not have feared that she would provoke a scene: she was too
fully conscious of defeat; useless to fight for what was already lost.

She had not gone very far when she came face to face with Oswald
Forsyth.

“Are they all down at the tea-shop, talking as usual?” He spoke wearily
and there were great dark rings under his eyes.

Antoinette nodded. “Yes, much as usual.”

Oswald gave an impatient laugh. “Much good all their talking will do! It
can’t prevent you from being caught between the two mill-stones.” He
went on rapidly as he turned and walked along beside her: “It’s either
the war or prison—you’re caught anyhow.”

Antoinette said: “I thought you had made up your mind...?”

“Made up my mind.... Oh, I’ve made it up and unmade it a thousand times
ever since I met Barnaby and all his crew. Standing out with the C.O.s
seemed to me the finest thing in the world, and—and it meant not going
into the trenches.... You see, I’m a coward—the genuine article; not the
magazine-type, who is really only a hero in disguise. I’m just an abject
funk. The horror of pain—even when it’s more or less humane—the dentist
boring down to the exposed nerve—and then to think of pain inflicted
purposely in a hundred different hideous ways.... When you know of all
that can happen while you’re still conscious of it happening, how _can_
you go out and face it? How can all those others...? It’s marvellous,
and it’s beyond me, utterly. I can only think of what it feels like to
have your inside torn open by a jagged bit of shrapnel, or to have a
limb amputated without chloroform....”

“Oh, stop!” Antoinette implored him, but overwrought as he was, he
continued: “I thought I was getting away from all that and helping all
the others to get away by fighting for pacifism. I’ve sent in my appeal,
but Heaven knows if I’ll be able to go through with it. It
means—prison.... Doesn’t the very word convey a nightmare of being
confined in a small space, with light and air shut out, and you beating
yourself to death against stone walls...? You’ve heard them talk about
prison down at Miss Mowbray’s, haven’t you?”

“They were talking about it to-day....”

“And all the other days, when I’ve sat there listening—and imagining....
I—I just can’t go to prison any more than I can go to the Front. It
drives you mad, slowly, day by day, while you feel your reason slipping
from you. I don’t know which I dread most! And there’s the one lot of
people goading you to fight and the other lot goading you not to fight,
and I’m dead sick of it all.”

“Then why don’t you take Non-Combatant Service?” The others might well
say that she was being a traitor to the Cause, but Antoinette did not
care. She understood too well this boy’s loathing of the extremes of
pacifism and militarism alike, and a wave of thankfulness came over her
for the happy accident of having been born a woman. But for this
accident, and lacking all definite convictions, she like the rest would
have been placed between those two equally dreaded alternatives.

“Why not take Non-Com.?” she urged again, but Oswald shook his head.
“That’s no good. They’d probably send me out to France just the same—to
pick up bits of the dead, perhaps.... There’s no real escape. You’re not
meant to escape. There’s something rapacious and cruel and inevitable
waiting to torture your mind and your body and twist them out of shape
... and whichever way you take, it’s bound to get you in the end! And I
thought—I thought life was going to be so splendid.... Oh, I know I
oughtn’t to be talking to you like this, but I’ve not slept for nights,
and I’m half crazy.”

Antoinette cut him short. One did not need apologies from a human soul
_in extremis_.

“Are you going back to the tea-shop?” she said, as they reached the
station.

He looked up at her with his big, weary eyes. “Yes, I suppose so—I don’t
know”—and hovered indecisively in the entrance.

Antoinette asked with sudden irrelevance: “How old are you?”

There was a whimsical twist to his smile as he answered: “Eighteen—just
eighteen—it’s waiting for you now, when you’re eighteen....”

She saw him wander off in the direction leading away from Miss
Mowbray’s. And all the way to Cadogan Gardens, one of his phrases rang
in her ears: “And I thought life was going to be so splendid....” She
might have echoed it.

She arrived home only a few minutes before dinner-time and was met in
the hall by a wrathful grandmother. Why had she chosen to be late just
to-night? Had she, then, forgotten that Monsieur Lefèvre, from Grenoble,
was coming to dinner? Antoinette had forgotten.... Would she as quickly
as possible attire herself in the pink satin dress that Grand’mère had
given her, and in which she looked a trifle less “_outrée_” than in some
of the garments of her own choosing.

“Make yourself look nice, and above all, be amiable,” were Madame de
Courcy’s final injunctions, as Antoinette vanished into her room, and
reflected that she might have been spared the pink satin dress and
Monsieur Lefèvre just to-night. She had never seen him before, but from
Grand’mère’s attitude it was safe to infer that he was coming in the
capacity of a possible suitor. It might have been fun—if it hadn’t been
just to-night....

She appeared in the drawing-room as the gong rang, and was presented by
Grand’mère to a stout and middle-aged personage with shiny black hair, a
waxed moustache, and a pince-nez. This engaging creature bowed low over
Antoinette’s hand and warmly congratulated Madame de Courcy on the
possession of such a grand-daughter.

“She is our only one—our little treasure,” said Henriette, and laid an
arm caressingly about Antoinette’s shoulders.

“Tableau—family-life ...” muttered Antoinette under her breath, and was
almost grateful to her father for not taking part in the tableau, but
grumbling in his usual irritable manner: “You are always late: will you
never learn to be punctual?”

They went in to dinner.

“_Eh bien_, Monsieur Lefèvre, you bring us news of our family in
Grenoble?”

Monsieur Lefèvre hastened to deliver the messages which seemed to
consist mainly of: “_Saluts affectueux de la part de——_”

But he became more explicit when mentioning that in the near future an
engagement was likely to be announced between Madame de Courcy’s
grand-daughter Hélène, and the “lonely soldier,” to whom since months
she had acted as “_marraine_.”

“Letters had passed between them. Then the young man arrived _en
permission_. The young people appeared to please each other. It seems
that he is of good family. _Mais c’est tout de même un jeu bizarre...._”

Grand’mère agreed that it was very bizarre, and announced her intention
of sending a letter to her daughter and son-in-law in Grenoble,
advising, or better, commanding the rupture of these highly irregular
“_fiançailles_.”

... If only she could have caught Dennis’s eye now! How he had laughed
over that story of Sidonie’s engagement.... How he would have relished
this feat on the part of Sidonie’s youngest sister. Dennis—Dennis—would
they never laugh together again...?

M. Lefèvre was seeking to make excuses for Hélène. One must not forget
that it was war-time. The glamour of the uniform—doubtless every
patriotic daughter of France felt the same about the glamour of the
uniform. Doubtless Mademoiselle Antoinette also—“_Et il y en a de très
chics, parmi les officiers anglais...._”

Grand’mère remarked curtly that Antoinette had no interest in English
officers, and M. Lefèvre looked relieved. Since the outbreak of war,
being over military age, he had regretted his civilian clothing; but
to-day for the first time—with a beaming smile at Antoinette—he no
longer found reason to deplore it.

... In the name of freedom and democracy—ready to stand out till the
last—rights of the people—international federation—Broken phrases and
words shot through her mind. She would have liked to throw M. Lefèvre
into the tea-shop—a very timorous Daniel into the lions’ den—he was a
war-profiteer, manufacturing leather goods for the French Government;
they would make short work of him down at Miss Mowbray’s! She could hear
Alan——

Alan.... They were together to-night, she supposed. Dennis would not
leave him now till he was arrested. She found no difficulty in picturing
what might pass between them ... Alan’s provocations ... Dennis’s
battles against desire that might prove stronger than himself. Only a
few days ago her imagination had halted, incredulous, uncomprehending.
It was amazing now, the ease with which it swung forward and found its
way about in these forbidden regions. Because the taint was in herself,
too, it had needed but the slightest touch to awaken her sleeping
imagination. The awakening had been complete. There was nothing
unfamiliar now in the thought that her man should be passionately in
love with another man.

“Mademoiselle is interested in music?”

“But yes, Monsieur....”

Questions and answers ... and she knew that M. Lefèvre’s eyes rested
appraisingly on her. Perhaps he was wondering if she would make a good
wife and mother to his children.... What a pity he could not have read
her thoughts of two minutes ago! She had a great longing to speak them
aloud, to watch the effect, the stunned consternation, incredulity and
disgust spreading upon his bland, fat face. That _she_, a _jeune fille_
of good family.... And very likely her own mother would not understand
what she was talking about; and Grand’mère would scream and rave,
whether she understood or not; and her father would turn her out of the
house. It was a pity that she could not allow herself the luxury of
giving a dramatic climax, a super-climax, to the dinner-party....

“Yes ...” said Henriette, “there were two hundred persons present, I
think. It was too much. The whole audience was so _ému_ by my first
recitation that their feelings reacted upon me. _J’étais toute
bouleversée...._”

“Madame is so sensitive.”

“_Hélas_, yes.”

“And so generous, to give so much of her time and of her talent.”

Henriette endorsed this. “But I give them gladly in the great cause.
Would that I could give more, and that with impassioned rhetoric I could
fire the blood of every coward who lags behind and does not avail
himself of the glorious privilege of dying for his country!” (... And a
terrified boy had said only that afternoon: “It’s waiting for you now,
when you’re eighteen!”)

“‘_En avant, Belgique, pays martyrisée mais toujours glorieuse_’—when I
said those words my voice was strangled with sobs; and there were many
ladies in the front row who also sobbed. I noticed especially the wife
of the Spanish Secretary of State....”

M. Lefèvre made sympathetic sounds in his throat. “A well-merited
tribute to your powers, Madame. And has Mademoiselle inherited her
mother’s great gift?”

Mademoiselle replied: “Unhappily not, Monsieur.”

Henriette looked at her daughter through her lorgnon. “She lacks the
temperament.”

... Yes, but whence or from whom had she inherited the particular
temperament that was hers? The idea that it might have been the bequest
of either of her parents or her grandmother, filled her with the
hysterical desire to laugh. She was an anomaly and a freak in her
family, just as Dennis was an anomaly and a freak in his.

Grand’mère was enquiring after the welfare of her grand-daughter
Sidonie; and M. Lefèvre, by dint of arch smiles and hesitations, managed
to convey the interesting news that Sidonie was once again in a delicate
state of health. Antoinette smiled. Out of consideration for her youth
and virginity, M. Lefèvre could not mention in a natural manner, one of
the natural facts of life ... but he would probably regale her father
with stories of the usual dubious French type once they were alone in
the smoking-room. Dennis had not been so careful of her sheltered,
girlish innocence and ignorance, but suddenly M. Lefèvre, normal,
typical man that he was, struck her as being much more perverse than
Dennis! Again she longed to say so aloud. And to have Dennis here to
watch M. Lefèvre’s face.... How was she to go on living in a world
turned upside down, world in which what was usually accepted as natural
seemed to her inverted, and only the unnatural seemed natural?
Certainly, she had exulted in being led by Dennis into this inverted
world—she saw it as a kind of maze—but she had not anticipated being
left alone in it. And she would never be able to find her way out again.
Perhaps there was no way out for people like her.

And her mother would continue to calculate the dramatic effect of
strangled sobs at fashionable charity concerts; and her father would
continue to be fretful and irritable; and her grandmother would continue
to attempt periodically to get her married to suitable people, until she
was too old, and they gave her up as a hopeless case.

“Mademoiselle looks a trifle pale. Perhaps the air of London does not
agree with her.”

“Oh, I’m quite well, thank you ...” with a false sprightliness of
manner.

“She does not eat enough,” grumbled Anatole.

“She runs about too much,” supplemented her grandmother.

“The air of Grenoble is said to be famed for giving appetite. May I
express the hope that soon Mademoiselle will prove it for herself?”


                               CHAPTER IX

Would he telephone this morning? Even if it were only to make final and
absolute the severance between them? She felt that she must at all costs
speak to him once again, and then unquestioningly she would accept her
dismissal. She vowed that she would not in any way attempt to clutch at
him, but he could not expect her to be superhuman ... and it would be
superhuman to be content to drop out of his life, with never a word of
farewell.

All that morning she was on the alert to catch the sound of the
telephone, ready to run and answer it immediately, so as not to waste
the precious moments he might have set aside for her. Other sounds there
were; deceptive sounds that jerked at her taut nerves; bicycle-bells in
the streets; the whirr of the telephone in the house next door; jingle
of bells on a passing cart; bells that existed only in her imagination.
The whole world seemed to be full of bell-sounds.... The telephone alone
remained dumb, as if under an enchantment.... But later on it threw off
this spell, and rang with persistent and diabolical frequency during the
whole afternoon. And each time Antoinette was convinced that it must be
Dennis, and with her heart beating wildly, flew to take off the
receiver; and was told that she was the “wrong number,” or else lured
into chatty conversation with some friend of her mother’s.

She raged impotently against these people who kept the line engaged,
while Dennis was perhaps trying in vain to get on.... The exhausting day
wore to its finish; and after one more “Sorry you’re troubled,” and a
somewhat tactless enquiry on the part of the Exchange as to whether the
telephone was “in order,” the instrument relapsed into silence.

And no letter, no word from him next morning.

... Scorching eyeballs and aching head; the sick, hot swell of tears in
the throat, and the unremitting effort required to swallow them down, to
appear natural, to deny herself the luxury of unrestrained emotion. If
once she broke down, there would be questions ... questions that she
could not answer. How much understanding could she expect from her
environment? They were strangers to her, strangers all—her father, her
mother, her grandmother.

Even despite her really gallant efforts at self-control, it was apparent
to her relatives that she was looking ill. Grand’mère, of course, took
this to be a piece of personal cussedness on Antoinette’s part: did not
the presence of M. Lefèvre in London render it eminently desirable that
she should appear at her best?

“She is anæmic,” said Henriette.

“She smokes too much,” declared Anatole.

“We should have found her a husband when she was younger,” Grand’mère
wagged her head sagaciously.

“There is still time,” muttered Anatole; “Jean Lefèvre had quite a good
impression of her, though one must admit that she made very little
effort to please him.”

Grand’mère brightened, and expressed the hope that M. Lefèvre would soon
come to pay his “_visite de digestion_.”

“He will come soon enough,” grumbled Anatole, who discouraged enthusiasm
on principle.

Of course he would come. And more than probably he would propose to her.
Antoinette knew that type from past experience. And the family would be
indignant if she refused him—just as they had been indignant on previous
occasions. Only this time the indignation would be greater, because, as
Grand’mère had said, they should have married her off when she was
younger; they were getting uneasy about her future; wanted to see her
safely settled.... Perhaps they would make it difficult—impossible for
her to refuse him. Perhaps her own strength of resistance would give
way. She felt as if she were being slowly strangled to death.

There was no one in whom she could confide, except, perhaps, Pegeen.
Pegeen might not understand, but she would be good to her, and that, for
the moment, was all that she asked; someone to be good to her, and
before whom she could relax her wearisome pretence. She was to go to
supper at the studio that evening; and the thought of it somehow helped
her through the first part of the third day without news of Dennis.

But when she reached the studio, Pegeen was not there. The side-entrance
had been left open, and on the table she found a scrawled note from
Pegeen, saying that she had gone out to tea with Conn and would be back
soon, and in the meantime would Antoinette help herself to the
cigarettes.... Antoinette was bitterly disappointed, her nerves already
fretted with over-much waiting. She had no idea of the time. The hands
of the three clocks—an antique bronze, a little painted Bavarian one,
and a cuckoo-clock—all pointed to different hours and ticked at variance
with one another; through the window that stood open to the garden, a
flood of orange sunset-light poured in, and lit up the colours in the
gorgeous brocades and fabrics that lay strewn about. From the
vicarage-garden next door came the sound of voices, and the smart dry
crack of croquet balls in collision. Antoinette wondered if Pegeen and
Conn were at Miss Mowbray’s, and if Dennis and Alan were there too.
Perhaps Pegeen would bring her some news, some message. But why was she
so late? Perhaps, with characteristic absent-mindedness, while she
listened to the usual vehement sort of talk in the tea-shop, she had
forgotten that Antoinette was waiting for her.

Already the sunset had faded, and the skylight showed a square of dull
grey. Restlessly she went to the window and looked out. The garden with
its unkempt lawn and tangled shrubbery, had a sinister appearance:
effect heightened by a yellow-eyed cat, crouching motionless among the
bushes.

She returned to her armchair by the fireplace; selected at random a book
from one of the shelves; discovered after five minutes that she had not
taken in a single word that she had read. Why didn’t Pegeen come? Yet,
even if she came, Antoinette realised again that it would not be
possible to tell her anything. How could she tell without implicating
Dennis? Pegeen might turn away in shuddering disgust, or she might
repeat Antoinette’s story to Conn.... No, one could not tell that sort
of thing. That was law that could not be infringed, even though
infringement might bring such relief.

Terror and loneliness of the Ishmaelite, outcast among men and women....
She was coming to know by her own experience every stage of the
suffering he had foreshadowed for her, suffering that she was not big
enough, not strong enough to bear alone.

Still the noise of the croquet balls persisted. Idly she wondered how
the players could see in this dim light. It was getting cold, but she
dared not go to close the door leading into the garden. To do so she
would have to cross the whole length of the studio ... and shadows were
beginning to lurk in the corners now, shadows that it would be horrible
to know behind one. As long as one faced them, it was bearable. Just
bearable.... The square of the skylight was changing from grey to dark
blue. The primroses that Conn had brought Pegeen the other day still
filled the green bowl, but they had faded to a hideous shrivelled mass
of brown. The sounds from the next door garden had ceased entirely, but
the studio was full of strange little sounds—creakings, whisperings,
mutterings.... From the walls, the figures in the cartoons leered
grotesquely down at her. There was something sinister about the designs
and the crude, brutal colouring of the brocades, just as there was
something sinister in that neglected garden with the weed-grown paths
and the crouching cat. She could not switch on the electric lamp at her
elbow; in accordance with the Lighting Regulations, the blind had to be
drawn over the skylight before the lamp could be lit ... and she knew
that she could never get even as far as the skylight. Those shapes in
the corners would creep up behind her, padding soft-footed at her
heels.... Soon it would be quite dark, and she would be alone with her
terrible thoughts, alone with the shadows and the mutterings and
creakings.

“Pegeen, come—please—please—please....”

No possibility of getting a sane grip of herself now. If Pegeen came she
would confess to her everything—everything—not caring if she infringed
the law. Only to have sight and sound of a human being among these
inanimate things imbued suddenly with a mysterious spirit of evil.

Footsteps at last, coming down the path towards the entrance.... With a
sob of relief, she rushed to the door.

“_Dennis!_”

She was clinging to him, laughing and crying hysterically. “I—I didn’t
know you were coming here.”

“And I didn’t know I’d find you here—I came for a book that Alan lent
Conn—‘_Towards Democracy_’—he wants it,” he spoke in rapid, jerky
sentences.

“Conn’s out. Pegeen too. I’ve been waiting for her for hours and
hours.... Dennis, it was dreadful!” Still she clung to his hand,
trembling.

“Poor child.... Antoinette, I know you expected me to ring up—I’ve
behaved despicably, oh, worse than that, but what’s the use of piling on
adjectives? I couldn’t ring up because there was nothing to say. You see
how it is with me, my dear.”

“I see, Dennis....”

“And doesn’t it make you hate me?”

“Could anything do that?”

He took her by the shoulders and kissed her again and again.

With a horrible flash of insight, she cried: “You’re kissing me—and
thinking of Alan.”

He answered “Yes” ... determined that at least there should be no
deception between them. “You shouldn’t let me do this, Antoinette.”

“I love you....”

“I’m a cad and a beast to let you let me.”

She laughed a little as the pressure of his hands tightened around her.
“I love you, Dennis.”

She was aware that her self-respect, her sense of moral degradation
should have risen in revolt against his treatment of her. Yet she knew
no shame in taking and returning his kisses, would have known no shame
in giving herself to him entirely, if by so doing she could have brought
him an instant’s fleeting delight, appeased the hunger of his senses.

“The waste, the utter futile waste of you.... Oh, God, why can’t I care
for you more?”

It might have been the cry of a person drowning, and it filled her with
immense pity and despair—pity and despair beyond all consciousness of
her own suffering.

“What is it that he can give you, and that I can’t?”

“You mustn’t want to give me anything. I’m not worth it. To-morrow I’m
seeing Alan for the last time. He’s pledged his word to be ready when
the police come for him next morning. I’m ... spending the last evening
with him, Antoinette....”

A sound of pain broke from her lips as he drew her closer to him. “I’ve
done my best to make you hate me. I’m doing it now.... I shall be with
Alan to-morrow, I tell you! Don’t you hate me now, Antoinette, and now?”

Thus might a different man, the phantom lover of her school-girl dreams,
have sought to wring from her the admission that she loved him. “Don’t
you love me now, Antoinette, and now...?”

Yet in this inverted world it could still seem natural that he should
try to wring from her the assurance of her hatred, using the most cruel
weapon in his power—the name of Alan.

“Don’t you hate me, Antoinette? It would be so much better if you
could!”

Through her torture she cried, “No!”

He kissed her roughly and passionately then, in a sort of fury at her
inability to satisfy him. And she, perceiving this, was yet happy after
a distorted fashion; happy despite her sad knowledge and lack of all
illusions. While she was in his arms her terrors could still be kept at
bay; she could laugh at the menace of M. Lefèvre or of continued
existence at Cadogan Gardens. It might be the last time that she would
feel secure.... Sudden conviction came upon her, that this _was_ the
last time that his arms would be around her; and now as once before, she
knew that the moment must be held and held—even though past experience
had proved that the memory of it would be powerless to soften the
inevitable pain that was to come.

“Dennis—it’s no good, you can’t make me hate you. And I can’t make
myself hate you—I’ve tried.... And I can’t do without you. I’ve tried
that too. Seeing what it felt like.... Yes, I know you’re in love with
Alan, and that I’m nothing to you and that you’d rather be rid of me
altogether—Oh, don’t interrupt me—let me say all I have to say, for
once.... I know if I had any pride or decent feeling I shouldn’t be
saying anything at all. You called me an immoral woman once, in fun.
Perhaps you were right. I’d rather kiss you like this, knowing
everything, than be respectably married to a respectable man. I suppose
I’m not good enough to be able to care for a respectable man. But is it
immoral to care for one man only, and for him so much, that nothing he
is or does, and nothing he can make you be or do, can ever make you hate
him?”

“And all this wasted on a wretched freak who can’t take it—but who’d
give his soul to be able to take it—bear that in mind, Antoinette,
perhaps it’ll help just a little.”

“It’s undignified of me to ask you not to cut me off entirely, but I do
ask you, all the same. Dignity and pride don’t seem to convey very much
to me now. They’re just words. But I know that I can’t do without you.
That’s real.”

He bent over her and murmured: “Forgive me, dear, for hurting you so
much....”

She answered with a half smile: “Forgive me, Dennis, for loving you so
much ...” and added in a whisper: “As I forgive you for loving me so
little....”

He said after a while: “Perhaps it’s just as well that Alan came when he
did; otherwise you might not have believed me. Seeing was believing,
wasn’t it?”

“No,” she said softly, “feeling was believing.”

“It’s monstrous that I should have had to drag you through all this!”

“I went gladly, Dennis—at first, anyway. So it was just as much my
fault. And I’m still willing to go wherever you’ll lead, if only you
_will_ lead, and not leave me stranded and alone. So it’s still my fault
now.”

He said sorrowfully: “It’s not your fault—and it’s not my fault—we’re
both unfortunates....”

As they left the studio, they heard footsteps scurrying down the walled
passage between the gardens, and almost collided with Pegeen. “I’m so
sorry to have kept you waiting,” she whispered breathlessly, “but I
couldn’t help it. We had to arrange things—we’re off to-morrow, Conn and
I—so good-bye to the two of you, and all the best luck in the world!”


                               CHAPTER X

“Such decent chaps they were,” said Alan reflectively, “we had a most
delightful conversation. They don’t really want to arrest me in the
least. Not with any conviction. Still, they’re coming to discharge their
painful duty at 8 a.m. to-morrow morning. Don’t look so wretched,
Dennis. I’m glad to be really up against it at last.”

Dennis made no answer. He was mentally calculating how many hours of
freedom still remained to Alan. It was 2 a.m. now. Not many hours more.

“And they’re mistaken if they think that imprisonment can make me
forswear my creed, or declare that I believe in war as a means of
regeneration of nations, or that the duties of citizenship lie in taking
the lives of other citizens, rather than in trying to promote pacific
relations between them. Benny was complaining the other day that we’re
so few, and I know some of us have ratted on that score alone, given up
the battle because they think it’s no use against such odds. Being in
the minority doesn’t imply being in the wrong. But capitulating means
admitting that we believe that black is white, just because the majority
says so. Poor devils all over Europe are being told that black is white,
and are dying in proof of it. Dying gallantly and splendidly and
wastefully for the sake of a lie.”

“And when we try to assert our truth, we’re condemned to the
death-in-life of prison.”

“I wouldn’t call it so much death-in-life, as so many years that a
benighted State unlawfully robs out of our lives, and it’s our business
to prove that even that theft can’t daunt us.”

“You needn’t be afraid that I shall let it daunt me.” To logic and
commonsense and humanity; to every argument, reason and motive that had
hitherto impelled Dennis to take up his stand as a pacifist, was now
added the greatest of all these—love. “A couple of weeks hence I expect
I shall be safely under lock and key too.”

Alan grinned. “Locked up because we’re considered a danger to
humanity.... Almost humorous, isn’t it?”

“Well, at least we shall both be going through the same hell, Alan.”

“The same hell, and the same good fight; I think we fought side by side
before now. In ancient Greece, perhaps, or Rome. Sometimes I have dreams
... and in those dreams you are always my comrade in battle, my comrade
in love.”

“And always will be, Alan, always....”

“You’re sure, Dennis—sure that it will be, when we come out on the other
side of this infernal tunnel?” There was a note of anxious pleading in
the boy’s voice. For all his keen determination and courage, he looked
suddenly even younger than he was—as young as he had looked that night
at Crannack.

“Alan....” Dennis dug the nails into the palms of his hands as he tried
to master the choking sob that rose in his throat. But at that note in
Alan’s voice all his laboriously built-up self-control and restraint
gave way....

                   *       *       *       *       *

The Square was very still, flooded in the cold bluish light of the moon.
The two stood a moment in silence on Dennis’s door-step.

Then Alan smiled up at his friend. “Good-night, Dennis....”

“Good-night, boy....” He tightened the pressure of his hand round Alan’s
arm. “If only I could keep you safe....”

“Nothing matters now,” murmured Alan, “I’m glad it’s been like this—the
last time....”




                                PART III


                               CHAPTER I

“And do you mean to tell me,” Mrs. Ryan said severely, “that Dennis is
appealing for exemption _again_?”

Mrs. Blackwood looked troubled. “You see, the local tribunal passed him
for General Service, so he’s appealing against that at the House of
Commons.”

“I should have thought that being refused once would have brought him to
his senses,” persisted Mrs. Ryan. Mrs. Blackwood glanced helplessly
across at Antoinette. They had met at Dennis’s tribunal, for which Mrs.
Blackwood and Doreen had come up to London; and they had invited
Antoinette to England for the following week-end. Dennis had remained in
town pending his new appeal.

In answer to Mrs. Blackwood’s look, Antoinette rose in his defence.
“Naturally he’s appealing again. The local tribunal scarcely listened to
what he had to say.”

“I should think not,” snorted Mrs. Ryan.

“But surely the object of a tribunal _is_ to listen to what people have
to say...?”

Momentarily routed, Mrs. Ryan occupied herself with the sleeve of the
pyjama she was sewing. All the ladies present were either sewing or
knitting, and Doreen was busy with the tea. Antoinette found it both
amusing and stimulating to be championing Dennis’s views in his own
home-circle. Mrs. Blackwood was too worried, and also a little
shamefaced before her visitors to do much in the championing line; and
Doreen apparently shared this attitude. It therefore devolved upon
Antoinette alone to defend the conscientious objector against these
female militarists—Mrs. Ryan and Mrs. Hallard the most rabid ones; Mrs.
Griggs merely woolly and futile; little Miss Simpkins torn between
admiration of “our gallant boys,” and a reluctant personal admiration
for Dennis. Unlike Mrs. Blackwood and Doreen, Antoinette had no regard
whatever for the susceptibilities of the old ladies of Eastwold, and so
felt quite equal to her task.

Mrs. Ryan returned to the offensive. “I suppose if he appeals long
enough he will get himself put into that Non-Combatant Corps. A shame, I
call it, for a healthy young man.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t dream of accepting Non-Com,” Antoinette replied
loftily, “that’s only a compromise.” She was glad that she had picked up
enough at Miss Mowbray’s to enable her to carry on the argument—carry it
on clumsily, perhaps, but with Dennis’s own weapons.

Mrs. Hallard, biting off the end of her cotton, said with brisk
cheerfulness: “Well, there’s always Work of National Importance for him
to undertake if he won’t fight. Plenty of that going, isn’t there?”

“Dennis won’t undertake anything that means releasing another man to be
killed in his place,” said Antoinette, and Mrs. Blackwood supported her
weakly with: “You see, Dennis is a socialist.”

“One of those horrid people who wear red ties and are always having
riots ...” quavered Mrs. Griggs.

“Dennis doesn’t wear a red tie!” declared his mother.

“As he doesn’t believe in war himself, he won’t help others to wage it,”
Antoinette ignored the asides.

“So selfish ...” murmured Mrs. Griggs.

“He might at least make munitions,” was Mrs. Hallard’s next bright
suggestion.

“Isn’t that helping to kill people, just as much as going to the Front?
It’s doing it at home in comfort, instead of out there in danger.”

“But—but the Germans _have got_ to be killed,” expostulated Mrs. Ryan,
“how else are we to win the war?”

Antoinette plunged round for some of the remembered arguments.
“Pacifists don’t see why we should win it, any more than the Germans.
They think a decisive victory for either side wouldn’t mean lasting
peace, but would only be the foundation for future wars. Nothing will
move Dennis from that belief!” she added proudly.

“It’s quite a wrong-headed belief and someone ought to talk it out of
him,” said Mrs. Ryan, “I hope you’ve used all your influence, Mrs.
Blackwood?”

“Oh, I can’t argue with him,” the mother shook her head, “his brains are
so much better than mine ... and of course he must do as he thinks
right.”

“But do you realise that if he persists in upholding such nonsense, he
runs the risk of being put in prison?”

Mrs. Blackwood did realise. To anyone observing under her eyes the dark
hollows that told of many sleepless nights, the fact would have been
obvious.

“Think of the disgrace!” said Mrs. Ryan in sepulchral tones.

“Yes, the disgrace that a man _should_ be put in prison for standing by
his convictions!” Antoinette blazed out.

Mrs. Ryan glared at her. “Well, really ... these people are put in
prison for being cowards, and quite right too.”

“But the C.O.s who stand out aren’t cowards: cowards take the easy
way—they commit suicide.” She was thinking of young Oswald Forsyth, who,
maddened by fear of that which awaited him no matter in which direction
he turned, had found a solution by taking his own life. “They’re not all
cowards—there are some exceptions to the rule.”

“I always distrust the exception to the rule.”

“But you can’t have a world with everyone in it absolutely true to type,
and built upon the same model by the dozen. Think how dull and tidy it
would be—how German, in fact.”

“I trust that my ideas do not in any respect savour of the _Kultur_ of
that despicable country,” said Mrs. Ryan with dignity; “but I maintain
that anything that puts itself outside the general rule and diverges too
widely from the ordinary type, is an undesirable element, and should be
barred out.”

“That means that you’d bar out genius too, and lots of other fine
qualities that only exist in the brains of people who are exceptions to
the rule.”

“... Such a very gifted young man,” sighed Miss Simpkins, smoothing her
buttonhole with her thimble, “it seems such a pity....”

“In times like these,” pronounced Mrs. Ryan, “if he can find nothing
else to do, he should at least devote his gifts solely to composing
Battle-Hymns for our men....”

“... And she won’t be budged from her opinion any more than Dennis will
be from his,” reflected Antoinette. It suddenly made her feel tired to
think of the perpetual clash and battle of opposing belief and opposing
opinion going on all over the world now—and no party ever coming round
to see the point of view of the other.

Mrs. Ryan, by way of intimating that the discussion was at an end,
pointedly asked Doreen if she had news from Hugh, who was in the
trenches.

“I haven’t heard for some days, Mrs. Ryan. He was all right when he
wrote last, but the post comes so irregularly now....” Doreen also was
paler and thinner with the strain of waiting for letters, and dreading a
certain kind of telegram from the War Office.

There was a sympathetic murmur from all the ladies; then Mrs. Hallard
spoke with her habitual brightness: “Never mind, dear. Just think how
you and Lily will value the boys when they do come home to you for good.
I expect we shall have a double wedding, sha’n’t we, Mrs. Blackwood?
Clive and Lily, and Doreen and Hugh.”

“There’s nothing so pretty as a really pretty wedding, I always think,”
came Miss Simpkins’ gentle voice.

“Arthur was the first man to enter Combles,” said Mrs. Griggs for the
tenth time that afternoon. “He entered it at the head of his men,
although he was badly wounded in the knee, which I am sure was very
painful indeed, though he made light of it at the time.”

“Yes, he’s quite a hero, isn’t he?” said Mr. Blackwood, and Mrs. Ryan
put in: “He sent the girls a letter the other day; it had been opened by
the censor, and they were ever so proud of it.”

In imagination Antoinette could hear Amy’s excited lisp: “Fanthy the
thenthor reading all our thecreth—doethn’t it make one feel important?”

Later on Lily Hallard made her appearance. Hands plunged deep in the
pockets of her khaki coat, she greeted the assembled company with:
“Afternoon, everybody!” and helping herself to the sandwiches sat down
between her mother and Doreen.

“I’ve had a letter from Clive, so I thought I’d better toddle round with
it at once and show you. Says he’s feeling awfully fit. Killed three
Huns all on his own—sniped ’em. Good man!”

“Oh, well done, well _done_!” cried Mrs. Hallard, “that ought to mean a
decoration of some sort. Well, if he gets it or not, he’ll have deserved
it. Your boy has given you something to be proud of, Mrs. Blackwood.”

“Yes—yes, indeed....” But Mrs. Blackwood’s mind was troubled by an echo
of something her other boy had once said to her: “Do you think because
they’re Germans they love their sons less?”

“Oh, by the way,” Lily continued with her mouth full, “Tom Sanderson’s
been rather badly smashed up. I met his mother this morning. They had to
amputate both legs—the one only as far as the knee, though. They say
he’s wonderfully cheerful—learning to knit and make himself useful with
his hands, now he’ll never be able to ride or walk again. I won’t tell
Clive when I write; he’d be so cut up. He’s awfully fond of Tom. Rotten
shame, isn’t it?”

“The brutes!” exclaimed Mrs. Ryan.

... Those who had maimed Tom were brutes; but Clive, who had sniped
three of the enemy, was a hero. And to the other side Clive was the
brute, and Tom’s assailants were heroes. Antoinette marvelled that the
one-sided absurdity of it all should be apparent to no one save herself.
But she recognised that it would not even have been apparent to her were
she not seeing the world through Dennis’s eyes. And had he been a
soldier she would have collected his badges and buttons, and listened to
his stories from the Front with just as much zest as Doreen or Lily. But
while she utterly lacked convictions of her own, there was a certain
pride in taking up the attitude which she knew would have been his if he
had been here.

Mrs. Blackwood’s invitation to Eastwold had been a god-send. Ever since
Alan’s arrest, two months ago, she had felt strangely shy of Dennis; had
feared that he might think she was taking an unfair advantage over Alan.
He might hate her and recoil from her, just because she was there, and
he did not want her; and Alan, whom he did want, was inaccessible. All
she prayed for now was not that Dennis should love her, but that he
should not hate her.

And at Eastwold, surrounded by people and things that belonged to him,
she was continually being reminded of his personality. There were the
old photographs of him as a baby, as a boy ... such a serious-eyed
little boy. There were his books which she was invited to borrow if she
liked. There was in Doreen that faint family-likeness to Dennis; an
expression in the big light-brown eyes; the curve of the lips. There was
the fascination of listening to Mrs. Blackwood’s stories of him as a
child.... Antoinette felt nearer to him here than when she was actually
with him in London.

After the sewing-party had broken up, Lily, Antoinette and Doreen sat
talking in the latter’s bedroom.

Doreen appealed to Antoinette: “Can’t you do anything to make Dennis
give up his dreadful ideas?”

Antoinette smiled inwardly at the assumption that she had some influence
over Dennis; but thought it just as well to keep up the illusion before
Dennis’s sister. “Why should I, Doreen? Surely every man has a right to
his opinions, and I think it’s splendid of Dennis to stand by his, as
he’s doing.”

“Splendid!” cried Lily, “sheer theatricality, I call it. They should
never have had the chance of making such an exhibition of themselves.
I’d shoot ’em all if I had my way.”

“When so many are being shot already—and some are shooting themselves
for fear of being shot—and some are shooting themselves rather than
shoot others?”

“Oh, I like your so-called humanitarian who is so squeamish that he
won’t take the lives of his country’s enemies, and yet doesn’t scruple
to take his own, rather than let it be of service to the State.”

“Rather than use it for a purpose which he considers vile!” Antoinette
broke in. “There’s some heroism in that too, even if there isn’t in the
suicide of the person who’s just afraid. That’s only pitiful ...” she
added softly.

“Why concern yourself with such riff-raff? The C.O.s and all their like
are just a lot of contemptible weaklings.”

“You’re not very complimentary to your future brother-in-law, are you?”

“Doreen knows well enough what I think of Dennis’s behaviour; there is
no need for compliments. People of his sort are no good to the nation.
Cut ’em out I say!”

“You can’t call a man who’s ready to go to prison for his convictions a
weakling or a coward.”

“Prison’s safe. What’s prison compared with the trenches?”

“They do queer things to the C.O.s in prison—forcing food through tubes
up their noses if they won’t eat, putting them in chains and painful
irons—yes, you _shall_ listen, Doreen.... The officials have more or
less got a free hand with them, and backed up by public opinion they can
wreak their spite upon them as they please, giving them ghastly
punishments that may injure them for life.”

Lily shrugged her shoulders. “If a man disobeys orders he’s got to be
punished. The men in the trenches run other risks—real risks.”

“The men in the trenches also stand a sporting chance of escape. Those
in prison don’t. They have to undergo deliberate, cold-blooded torture.
It—it’s like atrocities!”

Lily snorted. “Well, it would be a nice thing if these precious
pacifists of yours were allowed to run loose and enjoy themselves while
all the really decent people have to suffer.”

“No, you’d like to see them punished just for having ideas that are
different from other people’s. You rampant militarists at home can’t
endure the thought of any joy or freedom being left in the world. You
seem to take a ghoulish pleasure in crushing it all out. It galls you to
think of anyone escaping with a lesser share of the general misery.”

“Frankly I don’t see why the C.O.s should escape. Why should men enjoy
the freedom and the rights of citizenship that they won’t fight for?”

“They’re not given their rights of citizenship as a free gift or a
charity; they pay for them in rates and taxes: that’s fair. But why
should they also be expected to pay in flesh and blood?”

“You’ve a very lofty idea of patriotism, I must say!”

“I hate all the talk about ‘a man’s duty to the State.’ Why should the
State have the right to claim a man’s life when it can’t _give_ him
life—when it can’t give him back as much as a finger-nail that he may
lose in the war? Why has the State the right to take more than it can
give?”

“You’re mad,” said Lily; and having thus clinched the argument,
departed.

Doreen sighed. “Dennis can’t stop the war by keeping out of it, so I do
wish he’d join in like everybody else, and help to win it.”

“Of course one man can’t stop the war by standing out, any more than one
man by joining in can win it. Each man can only answer for himself, and
do what he thinks right.”

Doreen cried impulsively, “I love you for sticking up for Denny like
that, but only because I love him too—not because I think he’s right. I
think it’s right to do what Hugh’s doing, even though I sometimes feel I
just can’t bear it a second longer—the waiting for news—and knowing he’s
in danger always—and hating the sight of a telegraph-boy.”

“Yet you wouldn’t want him not to be at the Front, would you?”

Doreen shook her head.

“And I don’t want Dennis not to stand by his views, either.”

“Oh, that’s different,” said Doreen childishly.

Antoinette smiled. “Is it...? And supposing Hugh had been a pacifist,
Doreen?”

“Oh, he never could have been ... but if he had,” Doreen softened, “if
he had, I suppose I should have tried to find excuses for him.” She
added after a moment: “But how I should have hated having to!”


                               CHAPTER II

He was adrift again now, while he waited for his tribunal, perilously
adrift: wandering down to Miss Mowbray’s and half-heartedly joining in
the talk, with his thoughts elsewhere; wandering into theatres when the
performance was nearly over, seeking in vain that which might distract
and hold him. Hold him.... Was there anything on earth that could hold
him, now that Alan had gone? And now that Alan had gone, his life was
one stupendous aching regret that what had happened that last night had
not happened sooner. The senselessness of all his repression and
self-denial stood revealed to him. Seeing at last with Alan’s eyes, and
in the light of his own experience, he recognised that herein had lain
the real perversion: in the continuous struggle between brain and body,
the continuous struggle to suppress his instincts and force them into
ways not natural to them. It had not lain in his passion for Alan. That,
and that alone, given the peculiarities of his nature, had been right,
had been beautiful, because it was truthful. He could curse himself now
for the short-sightedness, for the principle of imagined æstheticism
that had made him for so long resist his own impulses.

If only.... And now it was too late. Alan was behind the bars, and
Dennis left with the burning knowledge of all that he had missed. What,
indeed, was there that could hold him now? Yet despite his desire to be
held, at times he longed with weary irritability, to be able to sever
all ties; to break from his family; from Antoinette; perhaps, like
O’Farrell, to escape to Ireland; to live in truth the life of the outlaw
and outcast that he was.

Perpetual argument, achieving no result, and ending always in the same
inevitable deadlock, was carried on between the two conflicting strains
of his nature.

“It would break your mother’s heart.”

“She’s got the three others, and they are more satisfactory than I am.”

“She loves you more than the others—and differently.”

Dennis groaned, impatient of this wealth of affection to which he could
make no adequate return. He loved his mother—but she was not the pivot
of his existence, as he was of hers.

There was Antoinette, too, with her useless gifts, with her useless
pleading that he might accept them. Sometimes he hated her for his very
inability to accept them; and sometimes he could laugh at the futility,
the grotesque, ludicrous futility of these ties that held him—and held
him—and did not hold him. But if he broke them, he asked himself, what
then? What then?

Doubtless the Central Appeal Tribunal would in some measure furnish the
reply.


                              CHAPTER III

“Clear the court!”

The people were hustled out into one of the long stone corridors of the
House of Commons, and the door closed upon them. Behind that door the
fate of two of the applicants for exemption was being decided.
Antoinette groaned at the delay. Dennis had been called for 2.30 that
afternoon, but it was nearly 4 o’clock now, and so far only five out of
the twelve cases had been heard. The fact that one did not know in what
order they were to be heard, added to the suspense of waiting. In the
first case there had only been a brief interval between the applicant’s
statement and the delivery of judgment. The spectacled, obviously
highly-strung young man had appealed on socialistic grounds. His speech
was both virile and vehement, and he quoted Tolstoy and Wells and Karl
Marx and Philip Gibbs in a breathless Cockney voice that told of
self-education and the night-school. When he had finished, he still
stood tense and rigid, although he had the Board’s permission to be
seated. And when the blow fell—“Appeal dismissed. Applicant passed for
Foreign Service”—he crumpled up quite suddenly into his chair in a way
that made Antoinette’s throat feel tight.

The two next appeals had been decided in much the same manner; but the
last two had evidently presented greater difficulties and were now being
considered behind the closed doors.

In the corridor a crowd of men and women, friends and supporters of the
applicants, were huddled together, talking in low voices. Amongst them
there were representatives of both pacifist and militarist newspapers, a
plain-clothes detective, and two policemen. There was only one bench,
and that was occupied by a youth in khaki and three white-faced women in
black. The others had to stand, shifting restlessly to and fro, yet not
daring to move too far from those doors that might open again at any
moment. People who had never met before drifted into whispered
conversation with each other, linked together by an outlook and an
anxiety common to them all.

An elderly woman was talking to Dennis, and Antoinette was glad that his
attention was engaged. His behaviour to her had been entirely aloof and
impersonal ever since Alan’s arrest. Perhaps he thought—thus she
interpreted his mood—that if he were less aloof and impersonal he would
be guilty of treachery towards Alan. Even now, though she had
accompanied him here, and was outwardly quite in the picture—“the woman
at his side”—there was no intimacy of thought between them. She knew
well enough who it was who really “stood by” him.

She heard the woman say to Dennis: “I shall _will_ you to get total
exemption. I am a great believer in will-power, aren’t you? If they
offer you Non-Combatant Service, I do hope you won’t take it! Yes, I’ve
been to prison three times—look!” She lowered her voice to a whisper and
pointed to the suffragette badge she wore inside her jacket. Then,
turning to Antoinette: “I shall will him to get off for both your sakes,
my dear....”

Antoinette thanked her gravely.

The doors were flung open again, and the people pressed back into the
court, struggling to regain their old places on the benches that ran,
three deep, along the walls. Would it be Dennis’s turn now to face those
twenty-five men upon whom his fate depended?

Judgment was delivered upon the previous applicants. Then a name was
called: not Dennis’s. The young man in khaki stepped forward and took
his place at the desk, and a murmur of astonishment went through the
crowd at the sight of his uniform. He stated that when the military
authorities had come to remove him, he had told them that he had an
appeal pending, but they had taken no notice....

There were groans of “Shame....” “A disgrace!” which were instantly
quelled. The Chairman declared that the man must be put back into
civilian ranks before his case could be heard.

The next applicant claimed exemption on the grounds that he was the sole
support of his mother, his grandmother and a paralysed sister. His
father was dead, and his brother had been killed in the war. While the
Chairman enquired into the details of the circumstances, Antoinette
looked at the woman who had accompanied the applicant; the mother,
probably. Her hands were clenched in her lap, her eyes fixed imploringly
upon the Chairman’s face. Impossible to tell from the perfect
impartiality of his manner in which direction he was biased, if at all.
Antoinette found herself following this case, as she had followed most
of the others: not impersonally, but as if all her own hopes and
longings were centred in the desire that the man should get his
exemption. She shared the breathless painful suspense of the mother, and
the feeling that the agony was being unnecessarily prolonged, when
judgment was for the moment deferred, and the next man called.

This one stated that he had religious scruples against the taking of
life. In proof of this he had relinquished his post with a firm of
motor-tyre manufacturers on discovering that they were working for the
Government. He put his case badly, halting and stammering; but his
underlying determination seemed to be inflexible.

“The Lord said: ‘_Thou shalt not kill._’”

Here the Military Representative, to whose smooth fat face and sneering
expression Antoinette had taken an instantaneous dislike, rose to his
feet and asked the applicant with affected politeness if he were aware
that one or two of the Germans—yes, let us say one or two of them—had
already broken that commandment, and that it was his duty to his country
to retaliate?

“If the Germans do wrong, sir, I can’t help it. I can’t get beyond the
words of God.”

“You wish to interpret them in the manner most convenient to yourself.
Since you are so well up in the Bible, what about the passage that
demands ‘_An eye for an eye_’?”

“The God of vengeance may have demanded that, sir—never the God of
love.”

“Ask the Germans how much the God of love enters into their
calculations!” sneered the Military Representative; “it must be obvious
to every normal intellect that we were never meant to love hordes of
barbarians like those we have at present to combat.”

The man hesitated; fumbled for words; opened his mouth once or twice;
then: “But the laws of the Almighty weren’t meant to hold good only in
times of peace, sir!”

A ripple of laughter and applause ran through the crowd and was severely
repressed. The applicant was told that exemption would be granted him if
he returned to his employment with the Government-firm, or took up other
work of national importance. He shook his head in answer to both
suggestions, and his appeal was dismissed.

And then Dennis’s name was called.... They were both actually to go
through it now, he and she; no longer mere spectators of other people’s
anguish and suspense. She would have liked to touch his hand and whisper
“Good luck ...” as the other women did to their men, but he did not even
glance down at her as he passed by, with sombre, preoccupied gaze and
furrowed brow. He took his place. She could see him in profile—if she
looked. But at first she could not bear to look, knowing him there
before the twenty-five, defenceless and at bay. Nor did she take in the
meaning of his words, when he began to speak.

With all her faculties and thoughts concentrated upon the final issue,
she sat tense and rigid—as Dennis must have sat through Alan’s tribunal.
Alan had been in prison for three months already. If they offered him
release now, at the price of abandonment of his principles, she wondered
if he would accept it. Gladly, perhaps how gladly.... Always at Miss
Mowbray’s one heard tales of the things that were being done to the
conscientious objectors in prison. Could those fat, bald-headed old
gentlemen who sat there in judgment really be callous enough to condemn
Dennis to things of that sort?

The Chairman was saying: “So you think all warfare is wrong: I daresay a
good many people share that view, but most of them are fighting all the
same, realising that that is the only way to end this particular war.”

Dennis replied: “It is my firm belief that I should not in any way be
benefiting humanity by taking part in this war, as I am convinced that
there is no such thing as a ‘war to end war,’ and that victory would
only lead to successive wars, each more terrible than the last; also
that the solution of international disputes should be sought in
arbitration and diplomacy, rather than in bloodshed.”

The old gentleman sitting nearest to Dennis truculently demanded if he
had held these views previous to August, 1914.

“Certainly,” he answered.

“How can you prove that? Have you ever written or stated in public
anything of the sort before 1914?”

“No; but most of my friends were acquainted with my views. I’m afraid I
can’t offer you any more definite proof. You must take my word for it.”

The old gentleman grunted, and relapsed into silence. Antoinette hoped
and thought that this was the end, but immediately another interlocutor
rose in place of the first.

“Does the applicant not differentiate between a righteous war, a war of
self-defence—and one waged for gain and greed, with the sole object of
crushing smaller nations?”

“I’m afraid I can’t think of any war as a righteous war—war in all its
essentials being so profoundly unrighteous. And as to the comparison of
the respective war-aims of the Allies and of Germany—who can say at this
stage that England is only fighting to avenge Belgium, and with no view
to the conquest of enemy territory or the extension of power? What about
the conquest of German colonies in East Africa? The French say they
won’t make peace till they’ve got Alsace-Lorraine back. Have they the
right to it? Alsace-Lorraine was German territory before ever it became
French—before they got it back again in 1870.”

“Yes, yes, young man, you’re not here to teach us history,” the first
speaker cut him short, and the second rejoined: “Nor to give us your
highly unpatriotic views of your country’s war-aims. It’s your business
to fight for your country, not to criticise it.”

“If I am sent out to kill, surely I have the right to question the cause
that requires me to convert myself into a murderer.”

“‘Right or wrong, my country’—that’s the line for every true Briton to
take up.”

“I am a humanitarian before I am a ‘true Briton,’ then, if either the
‘right’ or the ‘wrong’ of my country involves the deliberate slaughter
of human beings.”

The suffragette who had spoken to them in the passage signified her
approval of this by nodding and smiling across at Antoinette. The girl
flushed. Her man was making a good fight, and she was proud of him, even
while she knew that she had no right to think of him as her man, and
hence no right to her pride. But she could almost have wished that he
were being just a little less vehement: it was obvious that the general
attitude was hostile towards him; only the Chairman still appeared
impartial, as he said: “You categorically refuse in any way to help to
carry on the war?”

“I do. I want to help to stop the war, and all possibility of future
wars. My justification for being here is my confirmed belief that I am
doing more towards that end by adhering to my refusal to fight than by
unthinkingly and unquestioningly going out to kill.”

Again there was a murmur of applause; and a moment’s silence followed.
Antoinette glanced from one to the other of the men’s faces; she longed
to tackle each of the twenty-five separately, to beseech and implore him
to be merciful. She tried to pick out at least one, whose physiognomy
held a promise of tolerance or understanding; but there seemed to be an
absurd family-likeness between them: they all looked pompous,
comfortable, overfed; and at the present moment, righteously indignant.
These old men had lived their lives; they would neither be called upon
to shed their blood for their country, nor to go to prison, if they
upheld opposing views; they had probably sent their sons to the war, but
of themselves no personal sacrifice would be demanded. They were
old—they were safe—and what right had they to send out the young men to
kill each other? What right to sit in judgment upon one with all the
potentialities of life still before him? To decree whether he was to be
allowed to act according to his principles, or faced with the
alternative of being forced to violate them or cast into prison?

Like the suffragette, Antoinette tried to “will” them into the required
frame of mind. Perhaps some of her “willing” was having its effect. That
moment’s silence could surely be taken as a good sign?

But already the unctuous tones of the Military Representative had
terminated the silence.

“The applicant is so very anxious to end the war at all costs: does he
realise that there are not two ways but only one way in which he can
help to do so?”

“I’ve declared the reasons for my unwillingness to take that one way,”
returned Dennis.

Another endless-seeming pause; looks and inaudible remarks exchanged
between the old gentlemen.

Antoinette held her breath.

“_Total exemption granted_”—could not all her wishing or “willing” force
the Chairman to speak those words? He was about to speak now:

“Clear the court!”

With sighs of exasperation at the renewed delay, the people rose and
crowded into the passage again. The young man’s mother was crying. The
reporters scribbled ceaselessly in their notebooks.

The suffragette was congratulating Dennis. “You made a splendid stand,
splendid, but they’re prejudiced against the ‘conscience’ men; it’s easy
to see that.”

Yes, he had made a splendid stand, but Antoinette would have liked him
to come to her for reassurance ... to whisper to her in the crowd: “I
was all right, wasn’t I?”

He evidently had no need of her reassurance. With an abstracted smile,
he thanked the suffragette for her congratulations, and stood gazing out
of the window, as if determined to keep unshared whatever turmoil of
fear and hope might be passing in his mind. But perhaps if the words
were spoken, that they both longed to hear, and the appalling strain
snapped, he would turn to her....

The bank-clerk’s mother was moaning: “If only they’d be quick and tell
us—can’t they see we need him more than the army does?”

But at present the Board showed no signs of “being quick.” A man
carrying a tray laden with tea-things had just unceremoniously jostled
aside the crowd and entered the court. He was followed by a boy with a
very large cherry cake. The old gentlemen were going to have tea....
Antoinette suddenly understood some of the feelings that had given rise
to the French Revolution! Soon the sound of hearty laughter mingled with
the rattle of cups. The old gentlemen were apparently telling each other
funny stories, while the people waited outside in suspense and agony of
mind.

For a weary half-hour they were still kept in the passage. Then at last
the doors were flung open again.

The Chairman stated that in the case of the bank-clerk who was the sole
support of his family, the Board had decided to grant three months’
exemption, with leave to appeal again. The decision was cheered, and the
mother cried hysterically: “Oh, thank you—thank you so much ...” and was
led out on her son’s arm.

“In the case of Mr. Dennis Blackwood—Non-Combatant Service.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

In dead silence they walked to the Charing Cross Tube station, the
strain between them almost intolerable. If only he were to break down,
so that she might comfort him....

Non-Combatant Service—that, as far as Dennis was concerned, amounted to
a sentence to penal servitude. Quite shamelessly she wished that he
would compromise now; hated with all her might the principles and
convictions that would not allow him to do so.

He said at last: “Good girl, to have stood by me.”

“I’d stand by you through worse than that,” she cried, “if only you
wanted me to.”

Another long silence. Then: “I’ll let you know when I get my notice to
join up—I suppose it’ll be in a day or two. I won’t go without saying
good-bye to you.”

“Dennis.”

“Well?”

“Dennis ... must you—are you really going to...?”

He laughed drearily. “You ask that now? Why, what would Alan say, if I
ratted at the eleventh hour?”

“Alan wouldn’t know ...” was her thought. But she was glad that she
cared enough for Dennis to keep it to herself.

                   *       *       *       *       *

From day to day he waited now, expecting his call. Alan’s had come
within four days of the rejection of his appeal, but there seemed to be
no definite rule as to the length of time that might elapse. He might be
left in peace for a week, or the call might come to-morrow. The
uncertainty seemed an additional and superfluous refinement of cruelty,
a veritable sword of Damocles, the presence of which sometimes preyed on
his nerves to such an extent that he felt inclined to precipitate its
fall by giving himself up to the police without further delay....

Abysmal terror dogged his heels by day and by night; terror of being
held, actually held to one place, when he had longed to throw off all
bonds, tangible and intangible; terror of monotony and brutality, and
the depths to which his own mind, thrust back upon itself, might sink.
Day after day went by, and still the call did not come. But he was too
heavily oppressed to be able to appreciate this added span of freedom.
It might be ended at any moment. The uncertainty precluded all
possibility of enjoyment.

Day after day he waited; and waited....

And then the creative impulse which had temporarily lain dormant stirred
in him anew. At first he struggled against it, knowing the futility of
starting upon any great composition now; but as usual the power within
him proved stronger than himself. He was its slave, and he had to obey.

His opera, “Karen and the Red Shoes,” was still unfinished, but he
recognised that the ideas which crowded his brain now could not be used
to complete it; they were too big, too heavy for the subject. Almost
independent of his own volition, they began to build themselves into a
great symphonic poem: “War.”

A chaos of conflicting motives bewildered him; he could hear each
instrument clamouring at cross-purposes with all the others in the
orchestra; clashing rhythms and counter-rhythms battled for supremacy.
It seemed at first a labour for giants to bring order into this chaos,
to select and reject wisely among the dissonant themes. Then he began to
perceive that he must eliminate none, reject none; each must have its
place in the scheme, for each stood for one of the innumerable beliefs
and reasons, ideals and madnesses that had led the peoples into war ...
all must be woven in until, in the final solution and climax, he had
succeeded in showing their fundamental unity, converting strife and
turmoil and the sorrows of all the nations into the transcendent harmony
of peace.

And throughout, the image of Alan stood to him for inspiration. Into his
work he poured all the love and the tenderness and the passion that the
boy had kindled in him. Feverishly he worked now, fearing that in the
space of time that remained—and it could not possibly be long—he would
not be able to accomplish his task. It was of necessity written for a
very large orchestra, and many months, if not years, might go to the
scoring of it.

He perceived his goal ahead, knowing that he would not be able to reach
it in time; not before that steadily-approaching shadow entirely blotted
out the light.... He could have prayed for more days, and more in which
to work: and awoke every morning to the knowledge that this might be his
last day of freedom.

                   *       *       *       *       *

And for Antoinette, also, this knowledge.


                               CHAPTER IV

“Hallo, Dennis, still at large? That’s one’s habitual form of greeting
nowadays, isn’t it?” Benny Joseph joined Dennis and Antoinette at their
table in the tea-shop.

“Still at large, thanks for kind enquiries. I think they must have
forgotten all about me. It’s nearly two months now ... what about you?”

“I’ve just had my appeal dismissed by the local tribunal,” replied Benny
with an affectation of indifference.

“We all share the same fate, apparently. What happened, Benny?”

“I started off, of course, by telling them that I was a Jew, but that I
wasn’t claiming exemption on religious, but on socialistic grounds. I
really didn’t get much further than that. The Chairman said he didn’t
think my case worthy of a moment’s consideration as I had admitted
myself to be an atheist, and could therefore scarcely lay claim to have
a conscience!”

“Well, if that isn’t the limit!” cried Dennis, and Antoinette asked:
“Are you going to appeal again?”

“Oh, yes. Same old programme of delights for all of us. Local
tribunal—Central Court of Appeal—arrival of police—prison! By the way,
they refused to renew Harry Hope’s exemption when he appealed the second
time.”

“What—has his widowed mother died in the meantime?”

“No, I don’t think so, but the Board seemed to think that he had
supported her long enough, and that it was time he devoted his efforts
to work of greater importance than keeping a harmless old lady in
Chiswick from starvation. He’ll look simply fantastic in uniform, like
poor Everard, do you remember?”

The impersonator of many cardinals had been killed during his first
month at the Front. Antoinette could not but help wondering in what
manner he had died. She was haunted by memory of a languid voice,
saying: “This is all—so—stupid....” Haunted by memory of other voices,
too; Alan’s vigorous speech; the youthful bombast with which Oswald used
to mask his terror; the heavy lilt of Pegeen’s and Conn’s tones. And
Conn had been shot down in the streets of Dublin during Easter week,
proclaiming with his last breath, that Ireland would never bend the knee
“to England’s bloody red”.... And of Pegeen, no one had heard; perhaps
she had shared her man’s fate—but no one knew for certain.

“Our ranks are getting sadly depleted,” said Benny, “I see your friend
Crispin has deserted us.”

Dennis laughed and Antoinette exclaimed: “Has Crispin ratted, then? I
didn’t know.” She saw Dennis so rarely now, that it was small wonder
that she was not quite _au courant_.

“Crispin, yes, he ratted some time ago. Of course, not a word of his
appeal at the local tribunal was audible, only a wild gurgling and
spluttering. But they thought it quite safe to dismiss the appeal though
they hadn’t heard it; and he didn’t like the idea of going through it
all again, so he just drifted into the army, and now guards
railway-bridges or stands drearily at the end of a pier, reciting long
Beethoven symphonies to himself.”

Benny murmured: “‘_Lieb Vaterland, kannst ruhig sein_’—while Crispin
guards our coasts.”

“You’re right. All the Zeppelins and submarines in the world wouldn’t
disturb him when he’s listening to classical music played inside his own
head.”

“Poor Crispin,” said Antoinette, “I suppose he never gets anywhere near
a piano now.” She had a quite absurd sentimental regard for Crispin:
Crispin had played the Waldstein Sonata during her first talk with
Dennis at Amberhurst; Crispin had figured throughout those letters from
Devonshire....

Dennis replied: “Oh, don’t make any mistake, he’s amply provided for in
that respect. He spends all his time getting himself adopted by old
ladies possessing pianos—grand pianos only, of course, he won’t touch an
upright.... And each of the old ladies thinks that this marvellously
gifted Tommy is her own special discovery, and cherishes him
accordingly. Crispin lets them cherish. It gives them pleasure, and
doesn’t hurt him. He merely walks into the room, sits down at the piano,
and plays for the full extent of his leave, with intervals for meals.”

Antoinette glanced surreptitiously at Dennis. Whence arose this rather
hectic animation on his part? There was about his whole manner to-day an
air of suppressed excitement for which she was at a loss to account. A
few minutes later, it was explained to her.

Benny said: “Mansfield’s doing hard labour; he shared the common lot at
his tribunal. I really don’t know why they go through the farce of
offering a man Non-Com., they might just as well arrest him straight
away.... What about Rutherford, Dennis: have you heard anything of him?”

“He’s coming out for a few days next week,” said Dennis, “I shall see
him then....”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Four weeks had elapsed for Antoinette without sign or sound from Dennis.
She scarcely thought that he had been arrested, as he had promised to
let her know when he received his call; but she dared not attempt to
make sure by writing or telephoning, lest he should think her
importunate. On the rare occasions when she was with him, he seemed to
keep her both mentally and physically at a distance. She chafed at the
waste of the days drifting by.

If he had cared for her the least bit in the world; if he had shared
with her his terrors, how good those days might have been, even while
they knew that each day might be his last. But he would not share with
her, terrors that were for another as much as for himself. Dennis had
kept staunch faith with Alan, as far as Antoinette was concerned.

But though she might have Dennis perpetually before an imaginary
tribunal of her own; though she might hurl the bitterest accusations at
him—“You’ve ruined my life ... you’ve made it impossible for me to care
about ordinary people ... you’ve forced me to live in a crazy inverted
world that I didn’t know existed, till you led me into it—” neither
these accusations, nor his confessed love for Alan, nor his aloof
treatment of her, could call forth the least flicker of hatred or
condemnation. His defence was always ready to hand: how could she hate
or condemn the only man for whom, with her peculiar temperament, she was
capable of feeling love? Love without any of its usual corollaries;
without faith, without glamour, without illusion; without the slenderest
hope of fulfilment; just love alone, all the stronger, perhaps, for
being stripped to its barest essentials.

                   *       *       *       *       *

She was surprised one day by a telephone-call from Doreen
Blackwood—Doreen agitated and incoherent. Clive was at Denmark Hill
Hospital, seriously wounded, and had Antoinette any idea where Dennis
was?

“Mummy and I came up yesterday to be with Clive, and we wired Dennis
that we were staying at the Grosvenor Hotel, and he never turned up
there, so Mummy went to his lodgings this morning, and the landlady said
he hadn’t been there for nearly three weeks. We thought perhaps you
might know something about him.”

“I don’t, Doreen, I’ve not seen him for ages.”

“Oh, you don’t think he’s been put in prison, do you? Surely he’d have
had time to let us know. He hasn’t written home for ever so long, but
then he often does that. Antoinette, what _can_ have happened to him...?
As if it wasn’t bad enough, having Clive like this....”

They arranged finally that whichever of them first succeeded in
discovering Dennis’s whereabouts, should inform the other. When she had
rung off, it struck Antoinette that Barnaby might know; she therefore
dashed off to Fleet Street, glad that she had at last a valid excuse for
trying to ascertain what had become of Dennis. But on arriving at the
office of “The Dove,” she was told that Mr. Barnaby had gone to
Manchester to attend a socialist meeting, and would not be back for a
few days. Antoinette determined to try Miss Mowbray’s next; perhaps Miss
Mowbray herself, or one of the _habitués_ could shed some light upon the
mystery. It was three o’clock, the hour at which the tea-shop was
usually empty. If Miss Mowbray could tell her nothing, she would have to
wait till the others began to straggle in.

As she had anticipated, the tea-room was deserted save for one man who
sat at a table with his back to the door, head buried in his hands.

“Dennis!”

At her cry, he slowly raised his head, looked at her with a dazed
stupefied expression.

Involuntarily she drew back from him. “Dennis—what’s the matter?”

Still he sat looking at her.

“Is it—have you had your call?” But even while she asked, she knew that
it was not that—not that alone.

“I’ve seen him,” Dennis said at last, “in the prison hospital. They
moved him there from the cells because he had a bad attack of fever. And
when he’s better, he’s got to go back again—back to that hell....”

He went on, as if unable to stop, now that he had begun: “He’s been in
solitary confinement—think what that means to an active brain like his!
The gnawing everlasting boredom and terror, the helpless exasperation at
it all.... He tries to draw on the walls of his cell with his
finger-nails—or counts the flies crawling up the bars of the
windows—invents foolish games just to keep his mind from giving
way—talks aloud to himself for fear of losing the use of his voice. Then
there are senseless cruel punishments—sleep made impossible by having
his bed removed; nothing but bread and water to eat; hours in a dark
underground cell infested by rats—this in a country that calls itself
civilised! Sometimes they ask him if he’ll join the army if he’s let
out—rather like using thumb-screws to force a man into confession. He
kicked one of the men who asked him, and was given twenty-four hours in
the strait-jacket. The militarist papers declare that the strait-jacket
doesn’t injure the man, and is merely good discipline. Good discipline,
Oh, God.... Do you know what it’s like, Antoinette? It’s a narrow strip
of canvas as long as a man’s body, but not as wide, and it’s laced
tightly round him with cords, usually with one of the warders digging a
knee into his back, so as to prevent him from holding his breath and so
gaining an extra inch of space. Then he’s left, trussed up like that,
alone on the floor of his cell, gasping for breath, the cords cutting
into his flesh, all the organs of his body being squeezed and
tortured——”

“Dennis, Dennis, don’t—I can’t bear it....”

“Alan’s had to bear it—more than once. The governor of the prison seems
to have a special spite against him. There’s no escape unless he
promises to give in. And he won’t do that. He’s an emaciated wreck, but
he’s determined that they sha’n’t crush him, even though he’s going
through things more devilish than any your imagination could have
devised for him, Antoinette, when you hated him most!”

She was stung to reply: “I never hated him like that. You’re unjust and
cruel to think that I should.”

“Yes, I daresay I am ... I’m sorry.... But I’m at the end, just at the
end of everything, and I hardly know what I’m saying.”

And at the utter misery of him, she knew only one longing: to break down
all the artificial barriers that had arisen between them, and to take
his head between her hands.... “Say what you like, my dear, go on
telling me, if it helps at all.”

“I’d heard some weeks ago that he’d got special permission to go and see
his mother, who was ill, and I’d arranged to meet him and spend all his
spare time with him. He never turned up, and I discovered that his
permission had been withdrawn—for goodness knows what petty breach of
the regulations—and that he was in the punishment-cells. The next thing
I heard was that he and nine others were being removed to Princetown.
Through miles and miles of red tape I tried to get permission to see
him. I stayed down there waiting and waiting for it. Well, it came at
last ...” his voice sank almost to a whisper; “I can’t sleep at night,
for thinking of the look in his eyes, and knowing that when his brief
respite is over, they’ll send him back to go through all their vile
indignities and privations and cruelties again. It’s the idea of his
going back, Antoinette——!”

“Oh, don’t—don’t ...” she was sobbing outright now, in an agony of pity
for that vivid, brilliant boy, in an agony of fear for the man before
her. Helplessly she cast about in her mind for something that might
bring comfort to Dennis.

“Even if they make him endure all that, they’re not winning really—not
succeeding in making him give himself to the army. So he’s winning in
the end, Dennis, he’s beating them.”

He gave her a look of gratitude. “But what a price to pay for
victory.... And he’ll have to go on paying as long as this cursed war
lasts. We shall all have to go on paying. I’ve had my call, too, you
know, for the day after to-morrow. I ought to see mother.”

She told him then the reason that had sent her to look for him here.

“Clive wounded? What’s happened, did they say?”

“Doreen wasn’t very explicit over the telephone. He’s got a poisoned
arm, I think, and a wound in the face.”

“Poor mother—I’m sorry for her.... But Clive will have his family and
his girl at his bedside, and every possible care and attention....” He
fell into brooding silence, thinking of a bare prison hospital, and an
unsympathetic prison doctor. “Well, as they’re in town I’ll spend
to-morrow with them. And I’ll say good-bye to you now, Antoinette.”

“Yes....”

He looked at her with great unhappy eyes. “There’s nothing we can either
of us say, is there?”

“Nothing....”

Of all that she longed to say to him—nothing, now that this moment of
parting had been thrust upon her with such suddenness. Useless to make
any attempt to say anything. But because it was the last time, she
wondered, would he at least leave her memory of his lips on hers—just
for the last time?

Already his thoughts had rushed many miles away from her. “It’s as if
some particularly terrible fate were always reserved for the people I
love most. There was Eric—he had his hell to go through. And now
Alan....” Almost inaudibly he added: “And he’s such a kid....”

His voice held the pain and tenderness of a mother whose child has been
stricken to death.

“Good-bye, Dennis....” She turned quickly away so that he might not see
the tears that blinded her, and left him standing there, gazing fixedly
at the walls that had once echoed with Alan’s rhetoric.

And at the top of the stairs she was met by an insolent smiling wraith.

“In case we never meet again ... don’t hate me too much....”

She acknowledged the completeness of her rival’s victory. Alan could
triumph over her still.


                               CHAPTER V

“_Chérie_, it is most inconsiderate of you always to go out without
telling anyone where you are going. Madame la Comtesse de Froment rang
you up on the telephone—doubtless she wished to invite you to her big
concert in aid of the French Red Cross—and I could not tell her where
you were, nor when you would be in, because I did not know. I agree for
once with your father and your grandmother, that it is not _convenable_
for a _jeune fille_ to run about London as you do.”

“You allow yourself more freedom than I as a young man was allowed at
your age.”

“It is that young Blackwood who has taught you these Bohemian manners.”

“After all, we never knew his family.”

“As I have always said, you cultivate the wrong people.”

“Yes, if you would try to make yourself a little more amiable to my
friends....”

“Your behaviour towards M. Lefèvre was disgraceful. No wonder he did not
press his suit more ardently. You are spoiling your life. It will be
your own fault if you remain an old maid.”

“Till now one has let you do as you pleased. But it is agreed that in
future one will have to be more severe.”


                               CHAPTER VI

It was pouring with rain when Antoinette reached Haywards Heath, where
she had to change for Eastwold. She had had considerable difficulty with
her people before being allowed to undertake this journey. They were by
now quite convinced that the Blackwoods were a bad influence for her,
and that sooner or later she would contrive to become engaged to that
very eccentric young man....

Antoinette did not think it necessary to mention that the very eccentric
young man was in prison, but pleaded her friendship with Doreen, and her
need of a change of air ... pleaded very gently, for these were not the
days when she felt capable of facing a hard conflict of wills.

In the old days she had relished a good up-hill fight; the harder the
battle the more valuable the victory. So she had thought years ago when
she had met Hester. Hester....

“Sing before breakfast—cry before night”—Hester had been wise. Those
early years had held enough song and laughter and sunshine. But now the
years seemed drained for her of all song and laughter and sunshine, just
as she herself felt drained of all the exuberant vitality that had once
led her to rejoice in battle. She was tired now, and there was nothing
left in all the world worth fighting for.

The train for Eastwold drew up at the platform, its windows so blurred
with the rain that it was impossible to see into the compartments.
Gripping her suit-case with one hand, Antoinette struggled to open the
door nearest to her, and immediately a soldier from the far end of the
compartment sprang forward, helped her to lift the suit-case on to the
rack, and then resumed his seat beside the girl who sat huddled by the
window. Antoinette wished that she could have drawn back and chosen a
different compartment. It was a shame that she should have obtruded
herself upon their solitude. But already the guard was blowing his
whistle, and several other Tommies had entered the compartment too, so
that in any case the couple in the corner would not have remained
undisturbed. They sat without speaking, arms interlaced, occasionally
looking at each other. And the girl had a pretty, pasty, tear-sodden
face under a gaudy hat with red roses on it; and he had round boyish
eyes and a rather stupid expression....

The other Tommies had disposed themselves and their kit about the
compartment. Above the rattle of the wheels Antoinette caught scraps of
their conversation.

“When we were way over home, we thought this war was a grand fine thing,
and not one of us wanted to be left out of it,” a dapper young Canadian
spoke, running his fingers through his upstanding brush of hair, “but
now I’ve been out there a year, I tell you straight, _next_ time my King
and Country call, I’m going to be lame, blind, dumb, _and deaf_. Yes,
when you’ve bin out and seen some of the sights and smelt some of the
smells, and lived in a trench full of ver-_mine_, you find war isn’t the
gala garden-party you thought it was, with the band and the music and
the flags flying.”

One of his companions, a long-limbed Irishman, grunted assent. “I’ve
lost an eye in this bloody war, but do you think they’d be afther givin’
me my discharge? ‘Ho,’ sez the docthor, ‘you’re still plenty of use to
your counthry’....”

“Guess they won’t be satisfied till you’ve lost the other eye to match,”
remarked the Canadian cheerfully.

“And fwhat’s ut all for, that’s fwhat I’m askin’, fwhat’s ut all for?
I’m no revolutionist; I’m only askin’ fwhy.... Divil a bit did we care
about the _Sinn Féin_ rebellion out there in the thrinches as long as we
had enough cigarettes to smoke. Which we had not....” The melancholy
cadence of his voice reminded Antoinette poignantly of Pegeen and Conn.

The third man, a little Cockney chap, tilted his cap to a rakish angle.
“They say as it’ll all be over in the spring.”

“_Which_ spring?” demanded the Canadian, and the Cockney embarked
irrelevantly upon a personal reminiscence: “It was near Am-an-tears, we
got to a village that the ’Uns ’ad evacuated. Least-ways, they’d
evacuated wot was left of it, and that’s not sayin’ much. Bin up to some
o’ their usual tricks, they ’ad, with wimmen and kids and wot-not....
One o’ their snipers got left be’ind—swarmed up a tree, and four of us
yanked ’im dahn; and first we said a few things to ’im ... and then we
did a few things to ’im, just for luck, as you might say, and because of
wot ’e and ’is pals ’ad bin up to in that village. War’s a funny thing
...” he continued musing, “you could ’ave knocked me dahn with a feather
two years ago if you’d told me I’d ’elp to cut aht that bloomin’ ’Un’s
’eart with my bloomin’ jack-knife!”

“Yes, war’s a funny thing,” the Irishman broke out again, “and they
don’t want ut to end—them that make the war. ‘Your pals in the thrinches
are callin’ to you’—’tis a lie! Your pals in the thrinches would say:
‘Keep out of this if you can, we’d never have gone into it if we’d
known.’ We know well enough _who_ calls to us and _who_ sends us out to
ut. ’Tis the Government sitting at home, and never your pals out
there.... And ’tis the same on the other side. I took a prisoner once.
The man was wounded and I looked after him a bit; got quite fond of him,
too. I was sorry when he died.... He said that their men are as dead
fed-up with it as we are.”

The couple in the corner seemed quite oblivious of the conversation.
They might have been deaf to it. Only the silent fervour with which they
gazed into each other’s eyes increased....

At the next station the man opened the door of the compartment and
helped the girl out; then he kissed her, and got into the train again.

She said: “Good-bye, Gawd bless you, Dickie,” and he answered: “So long!
See you again when the war’s over—perhaps....”

The train moved on. Alone in his corner the man sat staring straight
before him, inarticulate misery incarnate. “When the war’s
over—perhaps....”

Antoinette choked, and wished again that he and the girl who had been
left on the platform could have had this last journey to themselves. In
the circumstances he might have been forgiven for showing less
willingness to help her in with her suit-case.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Arthur Griggs, home on leave, had come with his _fiancée_, Millie Ryan,
to call upon the Blackwoods; and Antoinette, on her arrival, fell
straight into the tea-party, as she had once fallen into the nursery
party held in Reggie’s honour the day of the dance. Reggie was home from
school now, and sat at the foot of the couch on which Clive was
reclining.... Clive with one empty sleeve and a badly scarred face and
mouth.

“Well, well, you’ve at least got plenty to show for it, plenty to show
for it,” Griggs rallied him. “I’m often sorry that my honourable scars
aren’t—ah—on exhibition.”

“I’m sure Millie isn’t sorry,” smiled Mrs. Blackwood.

Millie looked coy, and Lily who was sitting at Clive’s side, and helping
him to manipulate his teacup, exclaimed: “What does it matter what they
look like when they come back to us, as long as we know they’ve done
their bit? I’d rather have Clive as he is than the greatest Adonis in
the world.”

Clive smiled wryly up at her with his twisted lip. “I could do with the
other arm all the same, you know, Lil.”

“Never mind, my boy,” cried Mr. Blackwood, “when your children ask you
what you did in the great war, they won’t have far to look.”

“And one can really say here that your wife will be your right hand,”
said Griggs, “I can only hope that you and Miss Hallard will be as happy
as Millie and I intend to be.”

“And we hope you’ll be as happy as _we’re_ jolly well going to be!”
returned Lily, boisterously.

“Quite a competithion of happineth, ithn’t it?” giggled Amy.

“I think there can be no doubt that where there is sympathy there is
happiness,” mused Griggs; “sympathy is a beautiful thing, don’t you
agree?” His audience assented collectively, and he went on: “Millie, of
course, calls forth sympathy as naturally as the sun draws out the scent
of the flowers....”

There was a murmur of approval, and Millie said: “Why, Arthur, you’re
quite a poet this afternoon.”

“Not a poet, Millie, not a poet. Just an ordinary man. But might not
even an ordinary man turn poet for your sake?”

Millie blushed. “Oh, you’re flattering me.”

“You doubt my sincerity?” exclaimed Griggs, very injured. “I assure you
that I place sincerity on the same high level as sympathy. Sincerity and
sympathy—my twin ideals....”

Millie, quite embarrassed by now, turned to ask Clive how he had
received his wounds, but Reggie interrupted with: “Clive hates talking
about them—it looks like swank.”

“Clive doesn’t need to swank,” said Lily, “we all know what he’s done.
Those three Huns—not bad, that, not bad!”

Griggs beamed upon the assembled company. “Who would have thought two
years ago when we were getting ready for the fancy dress dance that we
should all come together again like this? Seeing you here, Miss
Antoinette, reminded me of that happy occasion. Little Miss Ottilie was
there too—but I suppose the least said about her the better; Reggie’s
looking at me so fiercely....”

“Her _fiancée_ has been killed,” said Doreen, “I got such a sad, funny
letter from her through Switzerland. She said that her ‘truest-loved
Joachim for his Fatherland has died, and that her heart broken was’....”

“Poor little Britannia,” cried Antoinette, “I wonder if he was one of
the three whom Clive sniped?”

“Good job,” muttered Reggie.

“War’s war,” said Lily tersely, shrugging her shoulders.

“All I can hope is,” the irrepressible Griggs continued, “that two years
hence we shall be as complete as we are now.”

Clive grunted, and Griggs strove to cheer him. “Come—come—come—we all
know you don’t really mind having lost your arm. Not a bit. Proud of it.
And quite right too! When I said ‘complete,’ I meant as far as numbers
go. Here we all are—” Suddenly he recollected himself; floundered;
coughed behind his hand, and repeated rather feebly: “I mean here we
are....”

“Yes, of course, we are, Mr. Griggs.” With admirable tact Mrs. Blackwood
came to his assistance ... and Antoinette wondered if it could bring
Dennis’s mother the slightest degree of comfort to know that her
thoughts also were with the one who was not included in the “all.”

She could not rid herself of the impression that Dennis might be
expected at any moment to enter with dramatic suddenness, as he had
entered the night of the dance. It seemed as if they were all laughing
and talking here, just to mark time in anticipation of his arrival. And
when, sharply, the drawing-room door was flung open, her heart gave a
great leap.

“The maid from Dr. Clavering’s would like to speak to you, please,
sir....” The parlour-maid addressed Mr. Blackwood in an undertone, but
already Doreen was on her feet.

“What is it? Where is she? Is there any news?” She freed herself from
her father’s detaining hand, and rushed to the door. “Oh, what is it?
What is it?”

The little servant who had been told to “break it gently” to Mr.
Blackwood, completely lost her head on seeing Doreen, and sobbed out:
“It’s Mr. Hugh, Miss—killed in action. Oh, the poor young master....”

                   *       *       *       *       *

It seemed to be the general impulse to rush towards Doreen, as if by
actual contact, by stroking, patting, embracing, to draw nearer to her
in her isolation of grief. But there was something in the way she stood
there, her back to the door, her eyes dead, mouth and hands twitching,
that forbade further approach ... and Antoinette remembered on whose
face she had seen just that same baffling expression. For a second, but
it might have been an eternity, the group stood poised, alert, watching
the rigid, dry-eyed little figure in the doorway.

Then at last Doreen’s voice, a woman’s voice and yet piteously childish,
cut into the stillness.

“And I—I loved him so....”

She turned and broke from the room.

Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood followed her. The others remained as they were,
talking in low voices.

“Thall I go and thee if they want anything?”

“No, better leave them alone together now.”

“A good cry, you know, will do her all the world of good ...” this from
Griggs.

“Ithn’t thith war dreadful? You never know from one minute to the other,
do you?”

“Poor old Hugh, I wonder how it happened. I expect some of his men will
be able to give details. I think I ought to go to Doreen. Mrs. Blackwood
will only encourage her to give way.” Thus the sternly practical Lily.

Clive muttered: “Poor little kid ...” and Reggie, still sitting
motionless on the end of the couch, looked at his boots and scowled
heavily.

“And to think that only two years ago—what a handsome couple at your
dance, eh, Millie? The Black Knight and the Dresden Shepherdess....”

Millie collapsed into tears. “I can’t bear it, Arthur, I can’t bear
it....”

Arthur patted her hand. “There, there, little woman, there, there.”

“Doreen’s got plenty of grit,” said Lily, “she’ll pull round all right.
I’m sure he died game and she’ll be able to be proud of him. That’ll
stiffen her backbone right enough.”

But Clive only repeated: “Poor little kid....”

Griggs said: “Well, I suppose we’d better be going,” and followed by
Amy, led his weeping bride away. Reggie, even at this juncture mindful
of “good form,” went to see them to the gate.

As Antoinette turned to go up to her room, she heard Clive say: “Lily
...” and saw him put out his remaining hand to draw her down to his
level.

“Dear old man....”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Late that evening Antoinette sat at the window of her room, and watched
the last of the sunset fading behind the dark ridge of the Downs. The
crimson light still stained the white walls, and danced upon the gay
flowered chintz ... a room in which to feel very girlish and happy, so
she had reflected on her first arrival here, so she had reflected as she
donned her “Bacchante” costume....

She shuddered and turned from the window to face Mrs. Blackwood.

“My dear child, I am so sorry that it should have happened just during
your visit.” Still obedient to the instincts of the good hostess, she
was apologising to her guest for an unfortunate _contretemps_ that had
marred her stay....

Antoinette said: “Oh, don’t ...” and got no further.

Mrs. Blackwood sat down and wiped her eyes.

“Poor little Doreen—and they were to have been married next time he got
leave—we’d begun to get one or two things together, though I always
thought that was wrong, my family were always inclined to be
superstitious—but of course Daddy laughed me out of it.... Poor Hugh, he
would have made her so happy—I feel as if I’d lost a son, too.” She
paused a moment, then went on in a lower voice: “Antoinette, do you
think he’ll be all right? He’s in solitary confinement now, but that’s
better than being together with a lot of other horrid people, isn’t it?”

“Much better,” Antoinette assented without looking at her.

“I can talk to you about him, because you were always such good friends,
and of course I daren’t mention him before Clive or Daddy. Dennis was a
great disappointment to his father, even as a little chap, when he
wouldn’t go out shooting with him, because he couldn’t bear to see the
animals hurt.... And now—it’s dreadful, my dear: Daddy has struck his
name out of the Family Bible, where we’ve got all the children’s names
and the date of their birth written down....”

“Oh, what does that matter?” cried Antoinette, “that can’t make him your
boy any the less, can it?”

Mrs. Blackwood shook her head. “Nothing could ever do that. Denny would
just be my boy, whatever he’d done, but his father has such high
principles.... Lily keeps on saying that the people in prison are safe.
You do think he’s safe, don’t you, Antoinette, although I lie awake
sometimes wondering if they give them enough blankets on their beds.”

Safe ... in solitary confinement!

Oh, well, it was fortunate at least that Dennis’s mother did not seem
quite to realise. Did she suffer, perhaps, from a providential lack of
imagination?

Antoinette gave the assurance required of her. “Yes, of course he’s
safe—quite safe.”

But Mrs. Blackwood was uneasy. “If one knew for certain—how they are
treated....”

Antoinette was grateful to the increasing darkness that hid her face.

Mrs. Blackwood repeated: “If only one knew....”

“He’ll be quite safe,” she could only trust herself to speak in a very
low voice.

“Of course Daddy says they’re well treated, and you do think so, too,
don’t you—really?”

Antoinette made a final effort. “He’ll come out all right ... when the
war’s over——”

Her voice snapped.


                              CHAPTER VII

At the table in the alcove at Miss Mowbray’s, Antoinette sat with
Barnaby a few weeks later. He had let her know that he had heard from
Dennis, and would pass on the news if she cared to meet him at the usual
haunt.

“He’s doing hard labour now, breaking stones in a quarry, but he says
even that’s a relief after solitary confinement. They put them into that
at first, as if they were wild animals that had to be tamed.”

“Does he—say anything else?” she asked tentatively, hoping that Dennis
might have sent her some word or message.

Barnaby shook his head. “No, he doesn’t say much, except that his hands
will never be fit to play the piano again, and that one of the greatest
torments is not being able to write down his music. You know what he was
like over that—directly he’d got an idea, down it had to go, or he was
afraid of losing it. He must be losing a good many now. Rather a waste.”
He pulled at his pipe, and continued more vehemently: “The silly waste
of it all.... That boy Alan—hot-headed young devil he was, but he had
the right stuff in him, and the personality and the understanding to
make him a good leader of the people. Only instead of utilising his
brains they have to let them rot!”

Antoinette sighed. “The utter futility of hoping that anyone from the
other side will ever see our point of view.... When I was in the country
with Dennis’s people, I did try to make them see, but I couldn’t budge
one of them; not an inch. And then his little sister’s _fiancé_ was
killed at the Front—gassed—such a good-looking, golden-haired boy—and it
was too ghastly ... and suddenly I felt—I mean, I understood how they
might feel towards pacifists. They don’t seem to realise that going to
prison isn’t fun.... ‘Prison’s safe,’ that’s their argument. Or ‘What
are their sufferings compared with what the men in the trenches have to
go through?’ They almost made one feel—as if one hadn’t the right....”

Barnaby broke in: “It’s not a case of measuring the sufferings of the
men in the trenches with those of the men in prison. No one can be
childish enough to pretend that shrapnel-wounds and poison-gas aren’t a
hundred times worse than whatever the conscientious objectors may have
to endure in prison. The point is, that men who genuinely objected to
take part in warfare, because they could see no possible good that would
result therefrom; men who refused to shelter themselves by enabling
others to go in their place, and who exposed themselves to ridicule and
vilification, loss of friends and loss of financial position, rather
than be faithless to their principles, should be flung into prison, and
in some cases treated worse than ordinary criminals. This, mark you, in
spite of the assertion that they would be given a fair hearing! The
Government regretted that clause relating to the conscience-men in the
Military Service Act, as soon as it was out. They realised the folly of
giving a loophole of escape to any man, when the need of cannon-fodder
was so great. So the whole business became a mockery—mock trials at
which the men, having been invited to state their views, stood condemned
before their cases were heard. How many of them were given the total
exemption to which they had the right, according to the clause? And
England is said to be fighting to uphold justice...! Look at the uproar
created by the so-called murder of Edith Cavell: the woman was a spy,
and they were strictly within their military rights to shoot her. But it
doesn’t seem to strike people that shutting up some of these C.O.s in
prison is deliberate, wilful murder of brains that were fine, sensitive
instruments which might have brought some lasting beauty, some lasting
wonder into the world. These men might be rendering far greater service
to their country by following their natural bent than by doing navvies’
work or performing silly brutalising tasks in prison.

“Of course the press is eager enough to make the public believe that
prison is a sort of slacker’s paradise, where they have quite a
delightful time of it.... We know differently. Alan’s isn’t the only
case of systematic brutality wreaked upon a defenceless victim. Only
that kind of thing is carefully kept out of the papers. However
magnificently England may think to figure in the world’s history after
the war, the gross stupidity and cruelty of the way she has treated the
genuine pacifists should stand as an eternal blot upon her honour.”

Antoinette did not interrupt him. She sat watching the bodiless legs
that passed and passed in front of the blurred window, remembering the
many different moods in which she had watched them. The tea-room was
empty, save for the ghosts that sat grouped at the tables; almost she
could have expected them to take part in the conversation.... Dennis;
Alan; Everard, with his languid drawl; Crispin’s stammer; O’Farrell’s
Irish phrasing; the whole chorus of familiar voices. But the chorus was
silent now.

“And the war goes on, and day by day the torture of those at the Front
and those in the prisons goes on; and the schoolboys, the striplings of
sixteen and seventeen, are growing up to face the choice of the two
alternatives—children cherished and carefully reared, so that when they
are still little more than children they may be ready for this....”

“Oh, I know, I know,” cried Antoinette, “there was poor little
Oswald.... He talked to me once in a queer burst of confidence, and he
said almost the same thing: ‘It’s waiting for you now, when you’re
eighteen....’ And I’m glad he’s dead,” she passed her hand over her
eyes, as if to shut out some horror. “He took the cowards’ way out, if
you like, but I’d rather know him dead than think of him like the
others, going on, and on....”

Suddenly the door to the street was opened and banged. Footsteps came
pelting down the crooked stairs, and Benny Joseph hurled himself into
the tea-room.

“I’ve been turned down!” he cried incoherently, “turned down by the
doctor after I was arrested. I’m a free man, Barnaby, do you hear?
Totally exempt.... And I’ve got a part—this is my lucky day—I just
walked into it—I’m going on tour in musical comedy for eighteen weeks!”

Benny was radiant and breathless, but he spoke to an audience of ghosts;
ghost of Everard, long dead on the field in Flanders; ghost of Harry
Hope, drilling drearily on Salisbury Plain; ghosts of the many
professionals of all grades who had once frequented Miss Mowbray’s, and
been gradually sucked into the army, and who would have overwhelmed him
with a flood of questions. Which towns was he doing? Who was in the
company? Did he want addresses of rooms?

“I’m so awfully glad, Benny ...” Antoinette said warmly; she could not
bear that he should shout his joyful tidings into unresponsive space;
“do let me know if you’re anywhere near London; I’d love to see you in
your show.”

“Thanks ever so much. Yes, I’ll let you know. I say, I wish the others
could have been as lucky.... Well, I must be off now—millions of things
to do—letters to write—we start rehearsing next week. Lord, it’s a queer
sensation not to have it hanging over you any more.... And when the
war’s over, I’ll be able to go to Vienna and Paris and Berlin and
Budapest again, without feeling I’ve helped to muck up any of the
countries I’m staying in. I _must_ be off. Good-bye....”

He was gone.

Barnaby smiled. “So Benny’s aunts in the various parts of Europe will at
least be safe from Benny’s ridiculously inadequate shooting.”

But Antoinette was not thinking of Benny’s aunts: she was thinking of
the girl whose existence she had once heard rumoured—the little Jewish
girl, somewhere in Hampstead, to whom he would ultimately turn.
Antoinette envied that girl the moment when she heard Benny’s news.

“So they’ve all found their destiny,” mused Barnaby; then he bent his
shaggy brows to a kindlier scrutiny of Antoinette herself. “And what
about you...?”

She did not answer. Her thoughts were with the couples, the many couples
who had the right to each other: Lily, who had the right to cherish her
battered, broken Clive; Doreen, who through all her pain, still had the
right to cling to her memory of Hugh; Millie, who could actually cling
to Griggs; Pegeen, who had probably died at her man’s side; little Mrs.
Mansfield, staunchly awaiting her husband’s release from prison; even
the pasty-faced girl in the train ... her man would write her illiterate
love-letters from the Front, for a little while, perhaps....

And all these women had the right to stand by their men, in prison or at
the Front; in the cause of rebellion or in the cause of stamping out
rebellion; wounded or even after death, they had this right because
their men loved or had loved them.

Doreen, by virtue of being on the popular, the militarist side, had had
the right to an official joy and an official sorrow; to official
congratulation and official condolence. Antoinette’s joy and sorrow had
alike been “unofficial.” Not that she minded being on the unpopular
side. She could have enjoyed being an Ishmaelite outside the gates of
Eastwold, enjoyed the rebel-sense of her unofficial right to stand by
him, if only he had loved her. But—by his lack of love, he debarred her
from this right, just as she had been debarred from official
congratulation and condolence. She was an outcast in a double sense; an
Ishmaelite twice over.

“Well?” said Barnaby.

“I? Oh, I don’t know where I come in. I think I don’t come in at
all....”

He nodded. “I understand. May I say I’m sorry for you? You know I don’t
mean it as an insult.... What is to become of you, though?”

She smiled wearily. “I suppose I too—just go on....”

“Yes. I’m afraid you’re the symbol of what has to be sacrificed to the
love between man and man.”

“He couldn’t have done otherwise”—loyally she was prepared to defend
Dennis against anything that even his friend might have to say about
him. “He was made like that, and he made things more difficult for
himself by bottling up all his thoughts and feelings, and being terribly
afraid of them, and never telling anyone about them—till he told me.”

“He never told me,” said Barnaby, “at least not in so many words. But I
could see for myself. He’s got a queer strain of the maternal in him.
It’s obvious in the way he looks upon his work, and in the way he looks
upon that boy.... It’s a woman’s passion as well as a man’s that he
feels for Alan; virile and yet tender; stronger even than death or
madness; a wonderful motive-force that might accomplish much ... only
the world would condemn it as an evil, vicious growth that should be
stamped out! We want more light, more breathing-space, more tolerance
and understanding: not this narrow-minded wholesale condemnation and
covering-up; this instinctive shuddering and turning away from a side of
nature that, like every other side, has its right to a hearing, its
right to open discussion.”

“Everybody seems to imagine that you’re abnormal because you _like_
being abnormal,” Antoinette burst out, “just as they imagine that men go
to prison because they like it better than going to the Front. As if
being different from normal people weren’t curse enough in itself,
without having them think it’s your own choice, and that you enjoy being
different!”

“Of course there are those who enjoy it—who wallow in the perverted
sensations of their abnormality, as normal sensualists wallow in their
own ‘permissible’ lusts. And by these, the worst types—or perhaps the
most to be pitied—the multitude judges them all, just as they judge the
whole class of conscientious objectors by those actuated only by fear
for their own skins. They don’t attempt to separate the grain from the
chaff: the innocent have to suffer with the guilty.”

“It’s a pity no one thinks of saving the guilty for the sake of the
innocent!” she cried.

“Christ thought of it, my dear girl, many long years ago; and look what
a mess they’re making of His teachings now.... But perhaps these men who
stand mid-way between the extremes of the two sexes are the
advance-guard of a more enlightened civilisation. They’re despised and
rejected of their fellow-men to-day. What they suffer in a world not yet
ready to admit their right to existence, their right to love, no normal
person can realise; but I believe that the time is not so far distant
when we shall recognise in the best of our intermediate types the
leaders and masters of the race.”

He paused, and went on: “They _do_ wander through dark ways at present,
there’s no denying it; and some of them understand themselves and the
eternal conflicts of their nature as little as others understand them.
The normal person cries: ‘Don’t encourage them—stamp them out—imprison
them—crush them——’ You can’t crush them; you can’t stamp them out;
they’ve got to be reckoned with. From them a new humanity is being
evolved, and in the process of evolution Nature produces all sorts of
poor little deformities and abnormalities as samples. They’re necessary
to the production of the higher type, though, the bad specimens put out
from every factory or workshop. Bad specimens—and yet forerunners! For
out of their suffering, out of pain and confusion and darkness, will
arise something great—something God-given: the human soul complete in
itself, perfectly balanced, not limited by the psychological bounds of
one sex, but combining the power and the intellect of the one with the
subtlety and intuition of the other; a dual nature, possessing the
extended range, the attributes of both sides, and therefore loving and
beloved of both alike.”

With brimming eyes she listened to him; and then she put the question
that Mrs. Blackwood had so often put to her:

“Do you ... think Dennis will be all right?”

“I think he’ll keep his reason, if that’s what you mean, even if he’s
never able to write a note of music again. But even so—one can’t say
that it is all for nothing: those train-loads and boat-loads of cheery
boys taken from the land, the workshops, the universities, who go out
singing and joking to their death; who never did anything remarkable in
their life before, and yet who do incredibly plucky things on the
battlefield; the patient heroes on both sides who do their bit and much
more than their bit, because it’s been instilled into their faithful
hearts that it’s right that they should do it—it is for love of these,
and to save these and such as these in the generations to come that Alan
and Dennis and others like them are making their sacrifice! And then to
label the lot of them cowards——” He broke off, and sat a while silently
brooding. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, well: people don’t
think....”


                                THE END.




                          Transcriber’s Notes


New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public
domain.

The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical
and punctuation errors as well as variations in hyphenation were
silently amended. All other changes are shown here (before/after):

   [p. 59]:
   ... At least, so though Antoinette, who from childhood ...
   ... At least, so thought Antoinette, who from childhood ...

   [p. 83]:
   ... I’d got to be musician, even if it did mean being ...
   ... I’d got to be a musician, even if it did mean being ...

   [p. 116]:
   ... it’th nithe to thart booking up before the danthe ...
   ... it’th nithe to thtart booking up before the danthe ...

   [p. 118]:
   ... be a drug upon the market,” exclaimed Griggs with ...
   ... be a drag upon the market,” exclaimed Griggs with ...

   [p. 237]:
   ... she’s takes Belgium’s name in vain to hide her ...
   ... she takes Belgium’s name in vain to hide her ...

   [p. 273]:
   ... “Letters has passed between them. Then the ...
   ... “Letters had passed between them. Then the ...

   [p. 321]:
   ... him accordingly. Crispin led them cherish. It ...
   ... him accordingly. Crispin lets them cherish. It ...

   [p. 339]:
   ... her so happy—I feel is if I’d lost a son, too.” She ...
   ... her so happy—I feel as if I’d lost a son, too.” She ...




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