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| author | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-08-06 15:10:06 -0700 |
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| committer | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-08-06 15:10:06 -0700 |
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diff --git a/79286-h/79286-h.htm b/79286-h/79286-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7742a11 --- /dev/null +++ b/79286-h/79286-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,17869 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> +<meta charset="UTF-8"> +<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> +<title>Despised and rejected | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <!-- TITLE="Despised and rejected" --> + <!-- AUTHOR="A. T. Fitzroy" --> + <!-- LANGUAGE="en" --> + <!-- PUBLISHER="C. W. Daniel" --> + <!-- DATE="1918" --> + <!-- COVER="images/cover.jpg" --> + +<style> + +body { margin-left:15%; margin-right:15%; } +div.frontmatter { margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; max-width:30em; } +div.frontmatter h1.title { text-indent:0; text-align:center; padding-top:2em; + margin-top:0; margin-bottom:2em; } +div.frontmatter .aut { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-bottom:6em; } +div.frontmatter .aut .line1 { font-size:0.8em; } +div.frontmatter .pub { text-indent:0; text-align:center; } +div.frontmatter .ded { text-indent:0; text-align:center; padding-top:4em; } + +div.chapter{ page-break-before:always; } +h2 { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-top:4em; margin-bottom:2em; } +h3 { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:1em; } +div.chapter h2 { margin-top:0; padding-top:4em; } +div.chapter h3 { margin-top:0; padding-top:2em; } + +p { margin:0; text-align:justify; text-indent:1em; } +p.noindent { text-indent:0; } +p.first { text-indent:0; } +p.tb { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin:1em; } +p.date { text-indent:0; text-align:right; margin-right:1em; } +div.letter { margin-top:1em; } +p.end { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-top:2em; font-size:0.8em; } + +/* spans */ +span.lang { font-style:italic; } +span.scall { font-size:0.8em; } +.underline { text-decoration:underline; } +.hidden { display:none; } + +/* poetry */ +div.poem-container { text-align:center; } +div.poem-container div.poem { display:inline-block; } +div.stanza { text-align:left; text-indent:0; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; } +.stanza .verse { text-align:left; text-indent:-2em; margin-left:2em; } + +a:link { text-decoration: none; color: rgb(10%,30%,60%); } +a:visited { text-decoration: none; color: rgb(10%,30%,60%); } +a:hover { text-decoration: underline; } +a:active { text-decoration: underline; } + +/* Transcriber's note */ +.trnote { font-size:0.8em; line-height:1.2em; background-color: #ccc; + color: #000; border: black 1px dotted; margin: 2em; padding: 1em; + page-break-before:always; margin-top:3em; } +.trnote p { text-indent:0; margin-bottom:1em; } +.trnote ul { margin-left: 0; padding-left: 0; } +.trnote li { text-align: left; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 1em; } +.trnote ul li { list-style-type: square; } +.trnote .transnote { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-weight:bold; } + +/* page numbers */ +a[title].pagenum { position: absolute; right: 1%; } +a[title].pagenum:after { content: attr(title); color: gray; background-color: inherit; + letter-spacing: 0; text-indent: 0; text-align: right; font-style: normal; + font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: x-small; + border: 1px solid silver; padding: 1px 4px 1px 4px; + display: inline; } +a.pagenum { text-decoration:none; } + +div.centerpic { text-align:center; text-indent:0; display:block; } +img { max-width:100%; } + +body.x-ebookmaker { margin-left:0; margin-right:0; } + .x-ebookmaker div.frontmatter { max-width:inherit; } + .x-ebookmaker div.poem-container div.poem { display:block; margin-left:2em; } + .x-ebookmaker a.pagenum { display:none; } + .x-ebookmaker a.pagenum:after { display:none; } + .x-ebookmaker .trnote { margin:0; } + +</style> +</head> + + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79286 ***</div> + + +<div class="frontmatter chapter"> +<h1 class="title"> +DESPISED &<br> +REJECTED +</h1> + +<p class="aut"> +<span class="line1">BY</span><br> +<span class="line2">A. T. FITZROY</span> +</p> + +<p class="pub"> +LONDON: C. W. DANIEL, LTD.<br> +Graham House, Tudor Street, <span class="scall">E.C.</span>4. +</p> + +</div> + +<div class="frontmatter chapter"> +<p class="ded"> +TO YOU<br> +WHO MADE ME UNDERSTAND +</p> + +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2 class="part" id="chapter-0-1"> +<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a> +PART I. +</h2> + +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-1-1"> +<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a> +CHAPTER I +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve only been here a short while?” +</p> + +<p> +“Comparatively speaking.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that the little German girl who is staying +with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. It’s an exchange, you see. Herr +Baumgartner is a business-connection of my +<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He must be a very indulgent stage-manager.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a> +Marry Anto’nett guillotined without a soft musical +accompaniment. It makes all the difference, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it <em>is</em> mouldy,” insisted the boy, “there’s +no tune in it, however hard you listen for one.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got to have it. I’m the Mob—in the +French Revolution, you know,” he added for +Hester’s edification. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, darling,” exclaimed Mrs. Blackwood, “I +thought you were to be the little Dauphin.” +</p> + +<p> +Reggie shook his head in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“<em>Aren’t</em> you going to be the Dauphin?” his +mother persisted. “I thought it would be such a +nice part for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was a mouldy part, so I chucked it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but who’s going to play it, if you’re not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Doreen. She’s got to be both the Queen’s +children rolled into one. <em>I</em> wasn’t going to have Miss +<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Reggie grew pink about the ears and muttered: +“She’s a sport, and anyway <em>she</em> chucked the +Queen’s part, because she wanted to be Charlotte +Corday, and have the bathroom bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Opposing temperaments?” suggested Hester. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>manly</em> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“More his mother’s son than his father’s, +perhaps?” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a> +well help noticing the most vivid and striking +personality in the whole hotel. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What about Clive?” laughed Hester. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a> +something which suggested that the love she bore +him was more poignant, and therefore more secret. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how can you speak of ‘trouble,’ Mrs. +Blackwood?” he expostulated, “it has only been a +pleasure to work with them.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a> +it! There’s something about theatricals, an <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">esprit +de corps</span>, as you might say.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a> +was equally divided between Antoinette de +Courcy and the “Unhappy Queen.” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette laughed now. “You make an excellent +Queen, Rosabel, and the Charlotte Corday part +was really too tempting....” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Ottilie, whose tartan blouse, fair basket plaits +wound round her head, and sentimental blue eyes +proclaimed her unmistakably a member of the +Fatherland, exclaimed “<span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Augenblick!</span>” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ottilie, you ought to know your words by +now,” protested Doreen. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You knew them well enough just now,” Doreen +strove to cheer her, but Ottilie refused to be cheered. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a> +“<span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Ausgeschlossen</span> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But little slips like that don’t matter, do they, +Mr. Griggs?” Doreen appealed to the stage-manager. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And everybody will make allowances for you, +dear,” Mrs. Blackwood put in, “knowing that +you’re a foreigner.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am Madame Roland, governess of ze children +of ze Qveen, and for my <span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Auffassung</span> of ze char<em>ac</em>ter—how +do you say ‘<span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Auffassung</span>’ in English, +Doreen?” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Conception,’” translated Antoinette, who had +travelled. +</p> + +<p> +“For my conception, zen, it is <span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">unbedingt</span> 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— +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Lebt wohl, Ihr Berge, Ihr geliebten Triften</span>—” +or most of all Elisabeth in “Don Carlos”.... Yes, +how she had longed to act that great scene with +<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a> +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 “<span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Schwärmerei</span>,” say to +her: +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">... Elisabeth, ich halte dich in meinen +Armen und wanke nicht....</span>” +</p> + +<p> +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”.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Greene—now I wonder if you would—no? +Miss Harris—of course <em>you</em> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<em>soulful</em> touch as Miss Wright had—we’re +spoilt, aren’t we? In fact, dance-music is really +Mother’s strong point.” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette gave a joyous laugh. “Well, why +not, why not? By all means let us have the ‘Merry +<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a> +Widow’ waltz, while Marie Antoinette is being +beheaded.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Miss Antoinette!” exclaimed Griggs in an +injured voice, “you’re making fun of us. This is +a most serious matter.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cendré</span> curls that clustered +about the nape of her neck, and looked away +again. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you youngsters, getting ready for to-night?” +Jovially Mr. Blackwood addressed the +company in general. “No one’s offered <em>me</em> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a> +bag, and retiring towards one of the windows, extracted +the mashie and began vigorously polishing +it with emery-paper. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dennis not here yet? When’s he coming?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Blackwood became apologetic. “I don’t +quite know; he didn’t say definitely. I expect he’ll +be here by dinner-time, though.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +A painful flush mounted to Mrs. Blackwood’s +cheeks, and Antoinette wished that she were not +witnessing this little scene. +</p> + +<p> +“He doesn’t mean to be inconsiderate, Daddy +dear,” said Dennis’s mother gently, “it’s just—that +he doesn’t think.” +</p> + +<p> +“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: “<em>I</em> 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.... +</p> + +<p> +Reggie, from the window, suddenly cried: “Here +they are!” and let the golf-clubs slide to the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, is it really...?” Doreen rushed towards +the door. Antoinette reflected that the eldest son +<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. <em>Oh</em>, yes.... <em>You</em>, Mr. +<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a> +Burgess,” shaking a finger at the bemused Crispin, +“are going to play the piano for us, Ah-ha!” +</p> + +<p> +Griggs gave a triumphant chuckle, and with arms +folded, stood back to view the effects of his speech. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Rosabel burst out: “Oh, Mr. Burgess, <em>won’t</em> +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 <em>feeling</em> +in it.... Puccini, or—or anything of that kind.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Ottilie brightened at the mention of the two +familiar names. “Zey are ze biggest componistors +zat ze world has!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a> +w-wouldn’t have c-come ...” and in an attitude +of profound dejection, sat down upon his suit-case. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, be a sport, sir, be a sport! How can you +refuse anything to such a fair petitioner?” Griggs +strove to goad Crispin’s <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">amour propre</span>. But +Crispin remained entirely unmoved. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, we shall have to ask our celebrated +composer here to oblige us. No use hiding away +there in the corner, Dennis, <em>I</em> 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. +</p> + +<p> +Doreen whispered: “Oh, <em>do</em>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a> +felt that he wanted to protect it now.... “I’m very +sorry, Griggs, but I honestly don’t know anything +suitable to the occasion.” +</p> + +<p> +His mother said tentatively: “But you know +so many pieces, darling; can’t you think of any?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +Griggs, in an agitated aside, whispered to Mrs. +Blackwood: “Do you think he’s offended because +I asked Mr. Burgess before him?” +</p> + +<p> +Dennis said again: “I’m sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +And before Dennis Blackwood’s look of gratitude +could reach her, Antoinette had swung through the +door to waylay Mrs. Fayne. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-1-2"> +<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a> +CHAPTER II +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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, <span class="lang" lang="la" xml:lang="la">ad lib.</span> with variations.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s the girl, Mother?” Dennis in the +entr’acte questioned Mrs. Blackwood, who launched +into voluble descriptions of Antoinette’s psychology +and parentage. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think she’s remarkable, Denny?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a> +remain secret even from the mother who loved him +as perhaps no other woman on earth would ever +love him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Och, was Sie nicht sagen</span> ...” Ottilie, for +sheer joy, relapsed into her native tongue. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“A wonderful stage-manager, Mr. Griggs, if I +may say so, a <em>born</em> stage-manager....” +</p> + +<p> +“You should have been an actor, sir, you’re quite +a loss to the profession....” +</p> + +<p> +Griggs laid his hand upon his tricolor waistcoat, +and smilingly assured the audience in general that +<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a> +to the great artistic value of his performance, no +one dared suggest that he should terminate it. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“On the contrary, I want to be kept from it—to-night. +I should like to say that I’m very grateful +to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t <em>really</em> want to get it off, because it’s so +<em>awfully</em> thrilling to have it on, but I s’pose I can’t +come down to breakfast like this ...” the flapper +cried excitedly. +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette went upstairs with her. +</p> + +<p> +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 “<span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Heimweh</span>” 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 +<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Crispin looked round at her and blew hard. “I +d-didn’t even know you were here....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Hester’s smile was half ironic, half bitter. +“Tired?” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette shook her head. She was feeling +violently alive again now; strung up; ready for anything. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve never seen anything like the vitality of +you,” said Hester; and passed on. +</p> + +<p> +So Antoinette, also, went to bed happy.... +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a> +thus pacified. There must be—something. But +what? What...? +</p> + +<p> +The snoring of her husband at her side was not +conducive to the elucidation of psychological +mysteries. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-1-3"> +<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a> +CHAPTER III +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +Hester’s sullen mouth curved into a smile. +“Why should I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I—I want you to.” +</p> + +<p> +“You seem to consider that an adequate reason!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That child has such a way with her, she gets +round everybody,” murmured Mrs. Blackwood, +hoping that Dennis would take notice. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And now—what do you want?” Hester’s +question, breaking the silence, was abrupt but not +discourteous. +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette laughed. “To tell the truth, I don’t +know. ‘<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Je ne sais pas ce que je veux, mais je le +veux absolument.</span>’” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, believe me, you won’t get it.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can you say that, when you don’t know—when +I don’t even know—what it is I want?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll catch sun-stroke, child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not I!” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t you anything to put on your head?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so, somewhere in my pocket,” Antoinette +drew out a crumpled red silk cap and swung it +in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Put it on,” commanded Hester curtly. Antoinette +obeyed, enjoying the sensation of being +ordered about by Hester. +</p> + +<p> +“Even if you do happen to be possessed of extraordinary +vitality,” the latter continued, “there’s +no need to squander it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I squandering it?” Antoinette asked innocently. +She was not introspective, but she was +always interested when people told her things about +herself. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m so sorry! Is it too hot for you? Shall we +go back?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’ve no objection to it. But then I’ve not +been wearing myself out with emotional acting every +night this week.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a> +with: ‘Antoinette darling, I’m writing a tragedy +about <em>her</em>—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....’” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re too brilliant, my young friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I? Why?” +</p> + +<p> +Hester smiled inscrutably and was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Why am I too brilliant?” Antoinette was suddenly +overwhelmed by the fear of disapproval. “I—I +wasn’t trying to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!’” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, do you mean that I shall—‘cry before +night’?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></a> +“But you think I shall eventually? Can you +tell the future, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most people’s futures are written on their faces, +aren’t they?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en attendant</span>.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve no doubt you will,” said Hester. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m doing it now—simply having the time of +my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +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 <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">jeune +fille</span> should do and shouldn’t do, even though she’s +lived over here for twenty-five years.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you born in England, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. And I feel quite English. The others—Grand’mère +<a id="page-44" class="pagenum" title="44"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never sit down with a ‘set of faces’ at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you? Not ever? Not even at home?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +After a while, Hester said with quiet bitterness: +“I have no home....” +</p> + +<p> +Impulsively Antoinette put out her hand to +touch her arm. “I’m sorry—so dreadfully sorry—you +must be lonely.” +</p> + +<p> +Hester made no movement in response, but replied +coldly, “You make a mistake: I am not +lonely.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a> +was tired of them; but the prospect of difficulties +only stimulated the fighting-instinct in her. +</p> + +<p> +Hester, with an air of detached amusement, was +watching her absorbed face. “I warned you, didn’t +I...?” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette flashed out: “If you think I’m frightened +of your prickliness——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall always be alone,” said Hester. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re fantastic,” Hester smiled, but not unkindly, +<a id="page-46" class="pagenum" title="46"></a> +and then, without interrupting her, she let +Antoinette have her say. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“This sort of thing...?” Antoinette repeated +with a puzzled frown. +</p> + +<p> +Hester looked at her sharply for a moment, then +gave a curt laugh. “Never mind.... Do as I +say. Stick to young Blackwood.” +</p> + +<p> +“To Clive?” Antoinette exclaimed contemptuously. +“Why, he’s engaged, Doreen says, to a +girl who studies economics and won’t powder her +nose.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette was not interested. Hester continued: +“He’s quite a character-study. I should like to +hear how the affair progresses.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-47" class="pagenum" title="47"></a> +“I’ll leave you my address,” said Hester. +</p> + +<p> +“Your address? But you’re not going away +yet, surely?” +</p> + +<p> +“Going this very evening.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t look so bewildered: it can’t possibly +matter to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-48" class="pagenum" title="48"></a> +Hester said with that curious dignity that was +hers: “Thank you....” +</p> + +<p> +They walked back then. After some time, +Antoinette ventured to ask, “Where is it you’re +going to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Her offer to help Hester with her packing was +declined; but she obtained permission to see her to +the station. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I’m only letting you imagine that you +could....” Antoinette pondered on this; then: +<a id="page-49" class="pagenum" title="49"></a> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Honest and sincere—I should just think you +are! I’d follow your lead blindly through anything, +and feel that I could trust you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall do as you wish,” said Hester. +</p> + +<p> +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—— +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette hastily shook back her curls and +<a id="page-50" class="pagenum" title="50"></a> +smiled, as the train came in. The door of the +compartment was slammed between them. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, good-bye,” said Antoinette lightly, enjoying +the self-imposed necessity of acting up to +Hester, “good luck to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Hester leant out of the window, and, just as the +train started, bent down and kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +The Faynes were half-way through dinner when +she joined them at their table. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Fayne said, “Why, you’ve been out with +that Miss Cawthorn nearly all day? So morose +and unsociable, I always think her.” +</p> + +<p> +“She looks as if she had a secret sorrow,” Rosabel +murmured soulfully, “did she tell you about it, +Antoinette?” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette smiled. “No, she didn’t tell me +about it....” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-51" class="pagenum" title="51"></a> +“Then whatever did you talk about, such a long +time?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—books ...” Antoinette replied at random. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you come for a stroll?” Dennis Blackwood +was beside her now, looking down upon her +from his superior height. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-52" class="pagenum" title="52"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +The complex scale passages of the Waldstein +Sonata drifted out to them on the breeze. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said Antoinette, “is he so very unhappy +here, then?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“So you, too, are a square peg?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll be all right to-morrow. We’re off, you +know, to Devon.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-53" class="pagenum" title="53"></a> +“Don’t I wish I were going too!” she breathed +fervently. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Her answer was not to the point. “I was thinking +for the moment that Bristol was in Devon—my +geography is shockingly hazy.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>is</em> odd, knowing that you’re probably +longing to play.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course I am; but I can’t here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because of the people?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-54" class="pagenum" title="54"></a> +“Yes. I can’t bear showing off; making an exhibition +of myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why not do as your friend has done: lock +the door?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your acting last night—that was a sort of +safety-valve, wasn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Those songs of yours, and the pieces you’ve +published—what about them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, they were written, as you might say, +with the top layer of my brain. But how did you +know of them?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-55" class="pagenum" title="55"></a> +“Your mother showed them to me. She’s got +them with her.” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled tenderly. “Poor darling ... fancy +travelling my stuff around with her like that, and +she doesn’t even know one note from another.” +</p> + +<p> +“She just adores you, doesn’t she?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I could almost wish she didn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—but why...?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m so afraid of hurting her,” he mused, “you +see, from her point of view, I’m not very satisfactory.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you imagine that it’ll satisfy her even +if I <em>am</em> famous—just famous? She wants something +more for me than fame.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is——?” +</p> + +<p> +“Happiness....” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and why shouldn’t you have happiness +too? I’m not foolish enough to imagine that it +comes <em>through</em> fame, but can’t you have it as well +as fame?” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +Another train flew past, enveloping them for a +<a id="page-56" class="pagenum" title="56"></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.... +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +The lawn was deserted now; they went straight +into the lounge, and stood blinking in the sudden +light. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-57" class="pagenum" title="57"></a> +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 +<em>thoroughly understands</em> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette said hastily, “I’m afraid my golf will +never be good enough for that, Reggie....” +</p> + +<p> +But Reggie responded with mingled impatience +and gallantry, “You don’t expect a fellow to +swallow such tosh, do you?” +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-1-4"> +<a id="page-58" class="pagenum" title="58"></a> +CHAPTER IV +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-59" class="pagenum" title="59"></a> +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 <span class="lang" lang="la" xml:lang="la">fortissimo</span> 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 “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">aimait bien sa petite grand’mère</span>,” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <a id="corr-4"></a>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. +</p> + +<p> +Grand’mère’s chief hobbies and interests in life +<a id="page-60" class="pagenum" title="60"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-61" class="pagenum" title="61"></a> +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 <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tragédiennes</span> 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 +<a id="page-62" class="pagenum" title="62"></a> +into the righteous indignation of the conventional +<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">bourgeoise</span>, if ever it were put to the test. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-63" class="pagenum" title="63"></a> +on to the other. “Go on, <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chérie</span>,” 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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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....” +</p> + +<p> +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.” “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tant pis</span>,” 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: “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Eh bien, ma petite</span>, he has not yet +spoken to you of marriage?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-64" class="pagenum" title="64"></a> +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 <em>did</em> get +engaged to the “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">parti</span>,” the “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">parti</span>” 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 <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fiancée</span>.... +</p> + +<p> +Hence Grand’mère’s flood of questions on +Antoinette’s return. +</p> + +<p> +As the family sat down to dinner that night, the +old lady greeted her son as usual with: “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Eh bien, +mon fils, comment vont les affaires?</span>” And he, +also as usual, replied impatiently: “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Mal, mal</span> ...” +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Very demurely, with dark lashes sweeping her +white cheeks, Antoinette launched forth into +<a id="page-65" class="pagenum" title="65"></a> +descriptions of Mr. Griggs and Clive Blackwood. +She drew a particularly beautiful imaginary +portrait of Griggs, and Grand’mère pricked up her +ears. +</p> + +<p> +“He lives in the country, that one? He has +estates? He has asked you to visit his family?” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“You waste your time with the wrong people,” +her father declared irritably, “people who can be +of no use to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“She lacks the commercial instinct,” Henriette +spoke very slowly and beautifully, and putting up +her lorgnon, surveyed Antoinette through it. +“<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">C’est bien ma fille....</span>” +</p> + +<p> +Anatole banged his fist upon the table. “It is +the nonsense you put into her head, that makes +her so difficult.” +</p> + +<p> +Henriette smiled her best smile of martyrdom +and patient endurance. +</p> + +<p> +... 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 +<a id="page-66" class="pagenum" title="66"></a> +feel wonderfully secure, invulnerable, almost: as +if no irritation or annoyance could touch her, while +she wrapped herself around with her memories of +Hester. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 +<a id="page-67" class="pagenum" title="67"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And then, some time later, there was the Russian +girl, Natasha. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-68" class="pagenum" title="68"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-69" class="pagenum" title="69"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Hester wrote, giving her address at Bristol; +<a id="page-70" class="pagenum" title="70"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Hereupon Antoinette wrote despairingly: “Won’t +you for once write me a <em>real</em> letter?” And Hester +wrote back: “I never write what you call <em>real</em> +letters....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-71" class="pagenum" title="71"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Hein, hein</span>, an artist? That does not please +me at all. He has doubtless not a farthing, and +you know very well that <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">la vie de bohème</span> is nothing +for you,” with a warning glance at Henriette, from +whom Antoinette was assumed to have inherited all +her immoral tendencies. +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette continued gleefully to foster in her +grandmother’s mind the vision of Dennis as an +impecunious artist with short nails and long hair, +<a id="page-72" class="pagenum" title="72"></a> +who would encourage her to dance upon tables, drink +champagne for breakfast, associate with people who +posed for “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">L’ensemble</span>”—even if she did not +actually pose for “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">L’ensemble</span>” herself—and +generally behave in a manner incompatible with +Cadogan Gardens and the dignity of the de +Courcys. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-1-5"> +<a id="page-73" class="pagenum" title="73"></a> +CHAPTER V +</h3> + +</div> + +<div class="letter"> +<p class="date"> +June 29th, 1914. +</p> + +<p class="first"> +“... 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 +<a id="page-74" class="pagenum" title="74"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-75" class="pagenum" title="75"></a> +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?” +</p> + +</div> + +<div class="letter"> +<p class="date"> +July 5th. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +“... 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 +<a id="page-76" class="pagenum" title="76"></a> +away, and for the sake of tradition let us hope that +his morals are infamous and his jowl unshaven and +blue. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +I’m afraid we shall have to push on very quickly +<a id="page-77" class="pagenum" title="77"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +</div> + +<div class="letter"> +<p class="date"> +July 7th. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +“... It’s nice of you to ask about my opera. +I haven’t worked at it much lately. I’ve been so +<a id="page-78" class="pagenum" title="78"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-79" class="pagenum" title="79"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-80" class="pagenum" title="80"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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?’ +</p> + +<p> +Eric blazed out: ‘My religion’s as good as +yours!’ and then relapsed into his usual attitude +of defence. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-81" class="pagenum" title="81"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, yes, you do,’ he persisted, ‘you <em>know</em>.... +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 +<a id="page-82" class="pagenum" title="82"></a> +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——’ +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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 +<em>was</em> 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 +<a id="page-83" class="pagenum" title="83"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>it</em> 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 id="corr-6"></a>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 +<a id="page-84" class="pagenum" title="84"></a> +me, should be Eric. I looked forward to being able +to be decent to him at last.... +</p> + +<p> +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—<em>scream</em>—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 <em>it</em>—away...?’ +</p> + +<p> +That was the end of Eric, who dreaded the idea of +pain. +</p> + +<p> +... 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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>do</em> +understand. +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, dear. I’ve enjoyed talking to +you....” +</p> + +</div> + +<div class="letter"> +<a id="page-85" class="pagenum" title="85"></a> +<p class="date"> +July 12th. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +“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 +<a id="page-86" class="pagenum" title="86"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Good-night....” +</p> + +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-1-6"> +<a id="page-87" class="pagenum" title="87"></a> +CHAPTER VI +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-88" class="pagenum" title="88"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-89" class="pagenum" title="89"></a> +“It was nice of you to come,” smiled Hester. +</p> + +<p> +“It was nice of you to let me,” responded +Antoinette. +</p> + +<p> +They made their way through the crowd and out +into the street. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll lunch with me at my lodgings, won’t +you?” said Hester. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks very much.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We can stop here for the present,” said Hester; +“everybody seems to be out.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you—do you live here?” she began at last +tentatively. +</p> + +<p> +“For the moment, yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“But ... do you like it?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-90" class="pagenum" title="90"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Are they always bad—the odd fifty?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-91" class="pagenum" title="91"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +<a id="page-92" class="pagenum" title="92"></a> +“You’re disappointed—but remember, I warned +you....” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m <em>not</em>!” cried Antoinette, in a last +attempt to delude herself even more than Hester. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How d’you mean—people like you?” stammered +Antoinette. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not...?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +... 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 +<a id="page-93" class="pagenum" title="93"></a> +yesterday, Antoinette’s adoration would have been +proof against such trivialities—would have deepened +at the thought of Hester in that depressing environment. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +But that night there was no letter from Dennis; +neither the next night; nor the one after. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-1-7"> +<a id="page-94" class="pagenum" title="94"></a> +CHAPTER VII +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +“And what now?” queried Dennis Blackwood, as +they got out of the train, and stood upon the dripping +wet platform at Crannack. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-95" class="pagenum" title="95"></a> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-96" class="pagenum" title="96"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-97" class="pagenum" title="97"></a> +muscular-looking giant was holding by the bridle +a great cart-horse, that impatiently pawed the +ground and shook back its mane. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He caught snatches. “Coomin’ on fine, that be.” +</p> + +<p> +“What d’ I tell ee, la-ad? Slowly does ut—slowly.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-98" class="pagenum" title="98"></a> +my mother were here to ‘kiss the place and make +it well’....” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Several more or less grimy rags were produced +simultaneously, and Dennis came forward across +the road. “Here, take mine. Are you badly +hurt?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“A fresh emotion, at any rate,” Dennis smiled. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Inspector?” Dennis repeated blankly, “inspector +of what?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +<a id="page-99" class="pagenum" title="99"></a> +No one comes to Crannack who isn’t somehow +or other connected with coal.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God at least for that! Well, if it isn’t +coal that has brought you here, what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +There was so much boyish eagerness in the tone, +that Dennis laughed. “Of course I will. Come +along.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” said Dennis, “whatever are <em>you</em> doing +<a id="page-100" class="pagenum" title="100"></a> +here, in this place that you hate, and among these +people to whom you don’t belong?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s socialist-talk, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not only talk; I’m going to <em>do</em>....” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-101" class="pagenum" title="101"></a> +“What can you do—what is there to be done +about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what I’m trying to find out; and the +only way to find out is to do what I’m doing now.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got your work cut out! Forgive me +for saying so, but you seem so young to be attempting +so much.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you will achieve them,” murmured +Dennis. He was suddenly lost in admiration of the +earnestness, the virility and the steadfastness of +<a id="page-102" class="pagenum" title="102"></a> +purpose on the part of one who still seemed—he +could not help coming back to it—such a child. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you ever let yourself play?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are those yours?” asked Dennis, and Alan replied: +“Yes; that’s how I keep myself from going +crazy with depression.” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re good, by Jove,” said Dennis; the +drawings, indeed, some of them only half-finished, +<a id="page-103" class="pagenum" title="103"></a> +were exceptionally strong. “Living in the wilds +doesn’t seem to have spoilt your technique.” +</p> + +<p> +Alan looked pleased. “Greatest effect in the +fewest possible lines—that’s what I tried to get.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Dennis smiled. “You’re right. I know nothing +<a id="page-104" class="pagenum" title="104"></a> +whatever about mining, and not much about any +trade or profession outside my own. You make me +feel fearfully narrow and selfish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rot! What is your line?” +</p> + +<p> +“Music.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor kid,” said Dennis. +</p> + +<p> +Alan went on: “Do you come from London?” +</p> + +<p> +“Near enough to be there as often as I want to.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and the opera. Chaliapine is just beyond +all powers of description. I heard him in ‘Boris’ +before I left.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“We’re going to Penzance to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what’ll you do at Penzance?” Alan exclaimed +impatiently, “it’s an awful hole, not much +<a id="page-105" class="pagenum" title="105"></a> +better than this—and without even me in it, as a +redeeming feature....” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-106" class="pagenum" title="106"></a> +from a danger doubly dangerous, because, far from +wishing to avoid it, he longed to succumb to it. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll turn up all right,” said Alan. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Alan came round to the hotel early next morning, +and burst into Dennis’s room. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what have you decided? Where’s your +pal? I’ll murder him, if he doesn’t agree to your +stopping.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy said after a moment’s silence: “Why...?” +Then hotly, almost pitifully he began to +<a id="page-107" class="pagenum" title="107"></a> +plead: “When I’ve only just found you—and when +I needed you most.... Why must you go? +Why?” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-108" class="pagenum" title="108"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-1-8"> +<a id="page-109" class="pagenum" title="109"></a> +CHAPTER VIII +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +“... 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-110" class="pagenum" title="110"></a> +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 <span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">ist noch +nicht dagewesen</span>!” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-111" class="pagenum" title="111"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>kind</em> of her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very kind,” assented Mrs. Blackwood. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-112" class="pagenum" title="112"></a> +with a wreath of daisies round it, instead of a +feather. +</p> + +<p> +“I expect you are all getting very excited about +the dance,” Mrs. Blackwood began, “I’m sure my +young people are.” +</p> + +<p> +“We won’t ask you what they’re wearing,” said +Millie, “the costumes are all to be surprises. It +adds to the fun.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure <em>you</em> never suffer from lack of partners, +Millie,” her mother interposed, and Millie quickly +took her cue. +</p> + +<p> +“No—no, of course not; I’m always all right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tho am I!” giggled Amy. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-113" class="pagenum" title="113"></a> +“That was my dance-programme you saw, +Mamma....” Millie had listened to the foregoing +with a gradually stiffening face. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he’s playing tennis with the girls +now ...” said Mrs. Blackwood, making her point. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Little Miss Simpkins sighed sentimentally. +“Yes, a young girl’s bloom is her chief charm, +isn’t it? Her freshness....” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-114" class="pagenum" title="114"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, young people, have you had a nice game?” +Mrs. Blackwood beamed upon the quartette. +</p> + +<p> +“Splendid!” cried Hugh Clavering, looking at +Doreen, “hot work, though, when you’ve got to live +up to a partner like mine.” +</p> + +<p> +Doreen blushed and murmured: “Oh, Hugh ...” +as she shook hands with the Ryans. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you really find dancing such hard work, +Tom?” queried Mrs. Ryan with some acerbity. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I trust you won’t find much difficulty +with your partners on the 24th....” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Amy nodded vigorously. “Yeth, all decorated +with fairy-lighth and Chinethe lanternth and +thingth.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Ryan turned to her hostess. “Dennis is +sure to be here for the dance, isn’t he? One likes +<a id="page-115" class="pagenum" title="115"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, Dennis will be back,” replied Mrs. +Blackwood, “but you can’t count on him as a +dancing-man, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Non-starter, eh?” said Tom with his mouth +full. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thpothe that’th when he geth hith +inthpirathionth—early in the morning,” suggested +Amy. +</p> + +<p> +“How wonderful the artistic temperament is ...” +sighed Miss Simpkins, “don’t you sometimes feel +quite <em>overawed</em>, Mrs. Blackwood, to think that +you’ve got such a clever composer for your own +son?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +But before the words were out of her mouth, and +<a id="page-116" class="pagenum" title="116"></a> +before she had time to dangle Susan and the cutlery +in front of Mrs. Ryan’s eyes, the door opened to +admit Mr. Griggs. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course we’re relying on you, as one of our +best dancers, to make things go,” said Mrs. Ryan +graciously. +</p> + +<p> +Griggs sat down beside Amy, who was looking +very animated. “You can trust me for that, Mrs. +Ryan.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll come early, won’t you?” pleaded Amy, +“it thayth nine o’clock on the invitathionth, but +it’th nithe to <a id="corr-11"></a>thtart booking up before the danthe +really beginth, tho we athk all our thpethial +friendth to come at ten <em>to</em> nine.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“But the waiters and the orchestra won’t be in +fancy dress, as I hope <em>you</em> will be, Mr. Griggs,” said +Mrs. Ryan, very benign. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t tell, don’t tell,” Amy broke in excitedly, +“let it be a thurprithe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Miss Amy, I will be mute as the +grave.... What about starting the advance-booking +<a id="page-117" class="pagenum" title="117"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“... Such a dear girl,” Mrs. Blackwood +started for the second time, “Doreen is so fond of +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Could she be otherwise, Mrs. Ryan...?” +Griggs’ voice vibrated with emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Ach, I shall remain sitting all ze night,” said +Ottilie in accents of gloom. +</p> + +<p> +Tom chuckled irrepressibly. “How will you +manage that?” +</p> + +<p> +Ottilie repeated with conviction: “I shall remain +sitting—I know it <span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">ganz gewiss</span>.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Simpkins blushed and giggled. “Why, +Mr. Griggs, I shan’t be there—what do you +imagine? An old woman like me....” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Miss <em>Simpkins</em> ...” with gallant indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-118" class="pagenum" title="118"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>my</em> girls won’t +mind sitting out a dance now and then, if it’s to +give a visitor a chance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you needn’t fear that Miss de Courcy will +be a <a id="corr-12"></a>drag upon the market,” exclaimed Griggs with +less tact than enthusiasm, “there’ll be no difficulty +in getting partners for <em>her</em>!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-119" class="pagenum" title="119"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And now his mother had invited her to Eastwold—asked +her to bring a fancy dress for the dance—<em>good!</em> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-120" class="pagenum" title="120"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-121" class="pagenum" title="121"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>and</em> jam in the holidays....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Reggie said: “Some of our fellows did rifle-practice +this term.” +</p> + +<p> +Clive said: “Daresay we could fix up a target in +the garden.” +</p> + +<p> +Reggie said: “Daresay we could.” +</p> + +<p> +After a pause, Clive re-opened: “Your last term +at the prep. school, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +Reggie nodded with his mouth full. +</p> + +<p> +“Like to have that old bat of mine to take to +Westborough?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-122" class="pagenum" title="122"></a> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-123" class="pagenum" title="123"></a> +her first dance.... But she did wish that Dennis +were here: she wondered how he fitted into the +picture. +</p> + +<p> +Ottilie, for the hundredth time that week, was +expressing the conviction that she would “remain +sitting.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when my dancers see I cannot dance in ze +English vay, zey vill bow zemselves and leave me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not?” queried Ottilie doubtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not.” +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Verrückt</span> ...” muttered Ottilie. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Ottilie looked puzzled. “And to supper? In +Heidelberg sometimes sree and four dancers have +me to supper engaged.” +</p> + +<p> +“In Eastwold, Ottilie,” Clive spoke with +authority from his end of the table, “you will have +one supper-partner, and one only.” +</p> + +<p> +“And lucky if you get him ...” muttered +Reggie. Ottilie as a type did not appeal to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be rude, Reg,” cried Doreen, but he +continued irrepressibly: “Ottilie’s going as +‘Britannia’ ... what a rag!” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-124" class="pagenum" title="124"></a> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-125" class="pagenum" title="125"></a> +you were coming, and it would have been so +awkward if you hadn’t turned up.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. “No—or perhaps I did, and—and +forgot. I don’t know....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a fancy dress dance ...” she faltered +with stiff lips. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-126" class="pagenum" title="126"></a> +the nursery with the others. Won’t you go up to +them?” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +<em>Antoinette</em>.... If at least he had been spared—that. +</p> + +<p> +The shouts of the party in the nursery fell upon +his ears, as he went upstairs.... +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-1-9"> +<a id="page-127" class="pagenum" title="127"></a> +CHAPTER IX +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Dinner had been an awkward meal. Mr. Blackwood +had insisted on telling Antoinette stories that +made Mrs. Blackwood say reproachfully: “Oh, +Daddy <em>dear</em> ...” 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.... +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-128" class="pagenum" title="128"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid not, Ottilie. I left him up in town +this morning. Wild horses wouldn’t drag Crispin +to a dance, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Schade</span> ...” sighed Ottilie, regretting the +wasted opportunities which her costume, and Crispin’s +appreciation of Wagner might have offered. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +Tom having booked his dance with Antoinette, +she was handed on to Millie, who wore a composite +“national” costume, of which the main ingredients +<a id="page-129" class="pagenum" title="129"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, and—Mr. Griggs!” his hostess recalled +<a id="page-130" class="pagenum" title="130"></a> +him, “you will see they don’t lift the girls off their +feet in the third figure of the lancers, won’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your commands shall be obeyed, dear lady,” +declared Griggs, and promptly fell down the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +She answered demurely: “Yes, I think I have +one or two dances to spare.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I see?”—he scanned her programme—“I’m +not a dancer, but perhaps you’ll sit out the +lancers with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be delighted,” murmured Antoinette. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Ryan tapped Dennis’s arm with the end of +<a id="page-131" class="pagenum" title="131"></a> +her ostrich feather fan. “Naughty boy, not to +have come in fancy dress.” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled. “I didn’t know in time, Mrs. +Ryan.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very pleasant, thanks.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad ... but I thought your mother had +written to tell you it was a <em>fancy dress</em> dance?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think her letter must have been lost,” he +lied piously. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-132" class="pagenum" title="132"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-133" class="pagenum" title="133"></a> +daren’t? That it isn’t because I don’t love you +enough...?” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Voices reached him where he sat in the shadow +of a clump of trees. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, just drop it here, and the crowd who call +themselves Harvesters can use it as a hay-fork. I +<a id="page-134" class="pagenum" title="134"></a> +wish to goodness I could leave this ghastly beard +behind too....” +</p> + +<p> +They strolled off into the more secluded portions +of the garden, grotesque figures moving across the +background of Dennis’s nightmare. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I, Kid?” He smiled up at her radiant face. +</p> + +<p> +She breathed “Yes ...” and young Hugh, a +slim and golden-haired Black Knight from “Ivanhoe,” +came and joined them. +</p> + +<p> +“Doreen and I both agree that it’s top-hole, +being grown-up.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s rotten luck, your having to go there,” said +Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“The insularity of your views is something appalling, +my child,” teased Dennis. +</p> + +<p> +Doreen pouted. “Well, it’s not the same, is +it?” she appealed to Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-135" class="pagenum" title="135"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Hugh gave his hearty, boyish laugh, and Doreen +said, “I think Antoinette’s costume is one of the +prettiest, don’t you, Denny?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And ‘Hearthrug’s’ father is in the fur trade,” +Doreen giggled delightedly. “I heard Daddy say +that she was a very bad advertisement....” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah well, I daresay there wasn’t enough tiger-skin +to go round,” mused Dennis, “let us not be +uncharitable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s go across to the arbour, Doreen,” suggested +the Black Knight, “I’ll carry you, because +you’ll get your shoes damp.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-136" class="pagenum" title="136"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we stay here for a little while, Miss +Millie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I should like to, Mr. Griggs. I’m sure +you deserve a rest after all your hard work.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything that I do in your service, is pleasure, +Miss Millie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mr. Griggs....” +</p> + +<p> +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——’” +</p> + +<p> +Little Boy Blue snatched away the programme: +“Not there, man, not there—here!” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-137" class="pagenum" title="137"></a> +“Oh, <em>here</em> ... why, that’s Miss Baumgartner, +surely—Britannia—or is it the Queen of +Sheba?” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t know we’d got the next one together +too,” Little Boy Blue stared reproachfully at his +partner. +</p> + +<p> +“We haven’t,” retorted she coldly, “I’m engaged +to Neptune.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Neptune’s dancing with Dolly Dickson, +the other Queen of Sheba—I just saw them go in,” +said Millie. +</p> + +<p> +“If two people <em>will</em> come as the same thing——” +began Little Boy Blue with resentment. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Mr. Griggs,” cooed Millie, “how tired +you must be.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, national.” +</p> + +<p> +The voices became inaudible for a space, then—“I +<a id="page-138" class="pagenum" title="138"></a> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be a labour of love, Miss Millie.” +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +“<em>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....</em>” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +Obediently the vision faded. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-139" class="pagenum" title="139"></a> +“No, it’s not mine; it’s yours, isn’t it, Neptune?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Ryan’s opulent aigrette appeared upon the +balcony. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, M’m, it’s the freezing-salt,” Susan announced +in sepulchral tones. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s got into the strawberry ice, M’m.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me, how very careless. What can we do?” +</p> + +<p> +“We can’t do anything, M’m, the ices’ll just +have to taste salt, only I thought I’d better tell +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan withdrew and there was a burst of laughter +from the group on the lawn. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, Mrs. Ryan, they’ll be cold even +if they are salt,” cried Tom Sanderson. +</p> + +<p> +“Some people like them better that way—more +piquant,” from Hugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Yeth, quite a novelty, ithn’t it?” from Amy. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, rather ...” from the chorus. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Ryan was very distressed. “You’re dear, +<a id="page-140" class="pagenum" title="140"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t boast,” snapped Mr. Ryan, “your +gout is as bad as mine any day, isn’t it, Clavering?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-141" class="pagenum" title="141"></a> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +“One is only young once,” smiled Clavering. +</p> + +<p> +“... 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed with easy response to his mood. +“Isn’t it rather a waste of Amy’s forethought?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-142" class="pagenum" title="142"></a> +“You shouldn’t let it, then!” she cried, “surely +it’s in your power to prevent it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not always.” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +He was fully aware of her decorative value; admitted +<a id="page-143" class="pagenum" title="143"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-144" class="pagenum" title="144"></a> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“They might have let her have her Pierrot as +well—what would it have hurt?” +</p> + +<p> +But Antoinette made no answer. She was possessed +by a dull fury, her nerves strained to snapping-point. +</p> + +<p> +He had cheated her of a sensation. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2 class="part" id="chapter-0-2"> +<a id="page-145" class="pagenum" title="145"></a> +PART II +</h2> + +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-2-1"> +<a id="page-147" class="pagenum" title="147"></a> +CHAPTER I +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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: “<span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Glückliche Reise</span>”.... 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.... <span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Jammerschade</span>!” 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, +<a id="page-148" class="pagenum" title="148"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Only a simple Tommy—but ready to do his bit +<a id="page-149" class="pagenum" title="149"></a> +with the best of ’em. We’ll show Fritz the stuff +Old England is made of!” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We women of England must give <em>all</em> 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....” +</p> + +<p> +The war had run the course of four horror-stricken +months, and still the Blackwoods’ eldest son had +<a id="page-150" class="pagenum" title="150"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +He would not enlist. And Eastwold might do its +worst.... Eastwold was, in fact, already growing +restive. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-151" class="pagenum" title="151"></a> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Presumably there would be no war at all,” he +returned gently. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense! The Germans would have been +here long ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not if <em>everyone</em> thought like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now the English want it every bit as much +as they do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now they’ve started it, we’ve got to go +on with it—we didn’t want war.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Ryan reported that conversation to Mrs. +Clavering who reported it back to Mrs. Blackwood; +and Mrs. Blackwood, half uneasily, told Dennis that +<a id="page-152" class="pagenum" title="152"></a> +it had been reported. “Of course Mrs. Ryan +thinks you ought to go, Denny.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everybody does, Mother,” he smiled at her. +</p> + +<p> +“And—shall you...?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think I ought to, Mother?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +He ignored this, being already acquainted with +his father’s views on the subject. “And you +Mother?” he persisted. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Dennis laughed, and took her in his arms. +“You dear....” +</p> + +<p> +She returned his kiss, but repeated: “Mind you, +I know it’s wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent, disconcerted by a point of view +unfamiliar to Eastwold. +</p> + +<p> +“Or do you think that because they’re Germans, +they love their sons less?” he teased her, and she +pretended to be indignant. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re trying to make fun of me, and to muddle +me, and I—I’m sure you ought to go, really....” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all right,” laughed Dennis. +</p> + +<p> +But all the same, life at “The Hermitage” was +far from ideal just now. Mr. Blackwood reading +<a id="page-153" class="pagenum" title="153"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Blackwood turned purple. “Your views are +disgraceful, sir. Why, to hear you, anyone would +think you were pro-Hun.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s as you please....” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +<a id="page-154" class="pagenum" title="154"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then, very tentatively, she said: “Will you see +anything of Antoinette when you’re in London?” +</p> + +<p> +He answered without looking at her: “I daresay +I shall.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll give you her address.” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled. “I know it, thanks.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-155" class="pagenum" title="155"></a> +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—— +</p> + +<p> +Dennis certainly went to London with his +mother’s blessing.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He took a room in Tavistock Square, and went +the next day to see his friend Neil Barnaby. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo?” responded Dennis. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Barnaby grunted. “Nevertheless you might +have had the decency to report upon the progress of +<a id="page-156" class="pagenum" title="156"></a> +your opera, considering that the libretto is mine. +Have you finished it yet?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t work at home, eh?” Barnaby fixed him +with a critical glance. “What is it—white +feathers?” +</p> + +<p> +Dennis nodded. “More or less.” +</p> + +<p> +“H’m,” reflected Barnaby, “I at least am +immune from that delicate sort of attention.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Dennis said: “Supposing you hadn’t been +immune—that way?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think I’m right in refusing to go, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“If only they’d all refuse....” The concentrated +fierceness of despair was in Barnaby’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Then,’” Dennis parodied Mrs. Ryan, +“‘where would the war be?’” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-157" class="pagenum" title="157"></a> +“Nowhere! That’s the obvious answer to that +riddle.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it’s the answer. I’ve given it myself +over and over again.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>can</em> do.... Let’s at least preserve +art from the general wreckage.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He plunged into his work, taking it up where he +<a id="page-158" class="pagenum" title="158"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +As a child, some haunting phrase of music, +suddenly remembered; or the sound of a coach-horn +<a id="page-159" class="pagenum" title="159"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +<a id="page-160" class="pagenum" title="160"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-2-2"> +<a id="page-161" class="pagenum" title="161"></a> +CHAPTER II +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Dennis laughed. “Is she at home?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-162" class="pagenum" title="162"></a> +“No, but she will be soon, don’t fret. You shall +be introduced to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t she be shocked at your receiving the +visit of a gentleman not in khaki?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You can contradict as much as you please,” he +said, “but you <em>are</em> a square peg in a round hole.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I should just think so—here!” she assented +quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it very bad?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will she dance with me, I wonder”—Dennis +began, then burst out laughing. “Metaphorically, +<a id="page-163" class="pagenum" title="163"></a> +of course. I wouldn’t dream of really inflicting on +you a sample of my terpsichorean art.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on,” said Dennis. +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>you</em> doing?’ I could fling them my mufflers or +<a id="page-164" class="pagenum" title="164"></a> +my dish-washing or my entirely superfluous secretaryship +as a sop. And that’s not quite good +enough, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +“So you’re a rebel too, Antoinette.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you haven’t any genuine patriotism?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My cousins Sidonie, Jeanne and Hélène from +Grenoble,” Antoinette introduced them, “and +<a id="page-165" class="pagenum" title="165"></a> +Grand’mère would tell you that the lack of resemblance +between us is much to be regretted.” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely even grandmothers—even your +grandmother, Antoinette—has eyes in her head?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“However did she do that?” murmured Dennis, +still intent upon the photograph. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +<a id="page-166" class="pagenum" title="166"></a> +They’re the happiest couple in Grenoble now, +I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is, of course, also Adèle’s point of view +to be considered.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>good</em> +financial position, had no need to be reticent +about it. “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Il doit y avoir quelque chose de louche</span>,” +as she had suspiciously remarked to Anatole, who +agreed with her. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-167" class="pagenum" title="167"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I see, Monsieur, that you are not in uniform.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Madame,” Dennis replied superfluously. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not specifying if the latter is necessitated by +<a id="page-168" class="pagenum" title="168"></a> +the former,” murmured Antoinette, who was on the +old lady’s deafer side. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette hastily changed the subject by asking +Dennis what had become of Crispin. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame de Courcy broke in again: “I hear you +are an artist, Monsieur, a sculptor, is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, a musician,” Antoinette corrected her, and +the old lady nodded her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, he visits the museums? But that is indeed +interesting.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is a musician, I tell you!” shouted +Antoinette. +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Comment</span>—he gives piano-lessons?” cried +<a id="page-169" class="pagenum" title="169"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Dennis was sorrier than ever for Antoinette. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Antoinette felt stimulated by Dennis’s visit. She +<a id="page-170" class="pagenum" title="170"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 <em>did</em> want it—but still +the oppression remained. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you, Antoinette...?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-171" class="pagenum" title="171"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you must have always known that it was +bound to come,” he pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +“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...?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette, rather dazed, rather irritated, and +<a id="page-172" class="pagenum" title="172"></a> +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. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-2-3"> +<a id="page-173" class="pagenum" title="173"></a> +CHAPTER III +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +“... 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....” +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-174" class="pagenum" title="174"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“But there’s no need to keep it a secret,” he protested, +<a id="page-175" class="pagenum" title="175"></a> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He said sadly, “But don’t you, Antoinette?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t talk like that,” Dennis begged her. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-176" class="pagenum" title="176"></a> +know the difference between the real thing, and +what isn’t the real thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“And this—isn’t the real thing?” He spoke +without looking at her. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve told you it isn’t—yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it may be? You think it will be?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>was</em> the real thing, he assured himself +over and over again, as he held her in his arms +and kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +All the same it would have been safer to make +withdrawal absolutely out of the question.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-177" class="pagenum" title="177"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t feel that it was,” she argued uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +“You will—in time.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-178" class="pagenum" title="178"></a> +“And ... if I don’t?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t let’s think of that.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why do you wilfully blind yourself like +this?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +He said mournfully, “Because life is so full of +cruelties, that the less one sees of them the better.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s cowardly, just to pretend that they aren’t +there!” +</p> + +<p> +He flushed and started at that; and she hoped it +might lead to some further explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“Much better to face them out.” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. “No ...” and relapsed +into silence. +</p> + +<p> +Exasperated, she gave it up. +</p> + +<p> +Often she wondered what his relations with other +women had been, and tried to sound him on the +subject. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-179" class="pagenum" title="179"></a> +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— +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Once, in one of his more clear-sighted moments, +he cried out to her: “Oh, why can’t you care for +me more?” +</p> + +<p> +And all the longing of her soul was in her voice, +as she replied: “My dear—if only I could....” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-180" class="pagenum" title="180"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 id="page-181" class="pagenum" title="181"></a> +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...? +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>is</em> all right now....” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-182" class="pagenum" title="182"></a> +touching her. And she was well pleased with his +behaviour that showed a fine appreciation of a mood +for once shared. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, but she was looking forward to seeing him +to-morrow! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Grand’mère, who had of course recognised the +handwriting, looked inquisitively over the tops of +her spectacles. +</p> + +<p> +“What has he to tell you, the young Blackwood? +Would it not be time to ask him to lunch again?” +And aside to Henriette: “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Cela lui donnerait peut-être +l’entrain qui lui manque....</span>” +</p> + +<p> +... One of his perfect letters: Antoinette’s +heart fluttered wildly—and then stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“... 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Eh bien</span>,” persisted Grand’mère, “he has at +last made you his declaration...?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-183" class="pagenum" title="183"></a> +“For your sake I tried to go on pretending——” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“So I’m afraid it must be good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“For your sake I tried to go on pretending, long +after I knew it was useless.” +</p> + +<p> +That was the answer; and it stung. Between the +lines, she thought she read contempt of herself; +contempt and dislike. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She folded up the letter, and put it away with the +one he had written the night he had asked her to +marry him. +</p> + +<p> +“I know now that nothing else matters, and that +nothing can ever come between us....” +</p> + +<p> +As contrasts, she reflected, the two letters were +quite effective. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-2-4"> +<a id="page-184" class="pagenum" title="184"></a> +CHAPTER IV +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We must go on, dear—or go back.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-185" class="pagenum" title="185"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +<a id="page-186" class="pagenum" title="186"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-187" class="pagenum" title="187"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>his</em> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-188" class="pagenum" title="188"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How you can bear to sit at home, while other +men—while your own brother is in the trenches!” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re doing what they think is right—or +rather, they don’t think at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think it’s right to let others go out +and be killed for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Killed for me.... Good Lord, do you think +I <em>want</em> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not unless you can believe, with all your intellect +and soul, that you’re doing some good by taking +part in that wholesale butchery.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If they did—if people talked and thought about +it more, there might be some hope of ending the +war altogether.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-189" class="pagenum" title="189"></a> +“We don’t want the war ended that way!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It must go on till we win. Oh, if only I were +a man! I’d give anything to lead a fine cavalry +charge....” +</p> + +<p> +Dennis did not doubt that she was quite competent +to do so. +</p> + +<p> +Altogether, he suffered no lack of attempts to convert +him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Even Doreen, gentlest of sisters, did her best with +Dennis. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think you ought to go, Denny dear, +now that everybody else has gone?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-190" class="pagenum" title="190"></a> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +A letter from Ottilie had come through <em>via</em> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“But the Army’s so big, Denny: they’re not +likely to meet.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Y-yes, of course I do, but ... everybody’s +going, Denny.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>three</em> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-191" class="pagenum" title="191"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“They say conscription’s coming in,” Mr. Ryan +wheezed hopefully. +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll be the end of all our slackers and shirkers, +and a good job too. What’ll you do then, my +son?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-192" class="pagenum" title="192"></a> +“Precisely what I’m doing now.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Refuse to fight.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you can’t,” cried Mr. Blackwood, “they’ll +put you in prison, or shoot you as a deserter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Prove it,” muttered his father, “prove it....” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tommy-rot!” snorted Mr. Blackwood, “when +a man’s blood is up, he kills.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-193" class="pagenum" title="193"></a> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“There can be no doubt that every Englishman +knows what he’s fighting for,” declared Mr. Blackwood. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, yes,” said Mr. Ryan testily, “we all +know that war is very dreadful——” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-194" class="pagenum" title="194"></a> +in heaven’s name won’t you try to stamp out the +blaze?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll allow a man to conquer nature with his +ships and his railways—you’ll allow him to widen +<a id="page-195" class="pagenum" title="195"></a> +as much as possible the gulf that separates him +from the beast; but when it comes to rooting out +the war-instinct—<em>No!</em> 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 <em>himself</em>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you and your artist friends, I daresay you +talk a lot of twaddle, but you won’t convince <em>me</em>.” +Mr. Blackwood drained his glass of port, and rose +from the table. Mr. Ryan followed him. Dr. +Clavering remained where he was. +</p> + +<p> +Dennis smiled at him across the table. “Well, +Doctor, you’ve been very silent all through this.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was umpiring.” +</p> + +<p> +“They were two to one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you were quite capable of holding your +own. But you’ll never convince them, Dennis, my +boy.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you, Doctor?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t say that you’ve convinced me, but I can +understand why, as an artist, you take that point +of view.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-196" class="pagenum" title="196"></a> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>we</em>, 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I still maintain that that’s better than fighting +<a id="page-197" class="pagenum" title="197"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well: and if it’s a draw?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-198" class="pagenum" title="198"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-199" class="pagenum" title="199"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It must come to that for him too. For months, +the Harmsworth press had been agitating for conscription; +the Bill would be passed that <em>ordered</em> +every man to go out and shed the blood of his +fellow-men. And then.... +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-200" class="pagenum" title="200"></a> +and civilisation arise once more in place of murder +and barbarity. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Dennis smiled as he answered the question: +“It’s worth more than that; it’s worth—<em>not</em> fighting +for!” +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-2-5"> +<a id="page-201" class="pagenum" title="201"></a> +CHAPTER V +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Rosabel ended their indecision for them. “Oh, +<a id="page-202" class="pagenum" title="202"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Dennis, very embarrassed, glanced at Antoinette, +but her eyes were obstinately downcast, and she +gave him no assistance whatever. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +They turned up a stone-flagged passage between +<a id="page-203" class="pagenum" title="203"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-204" class="pagenum" title="204"></a> +longed for, almost prayed for during six weary +months. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +(Thus he had played up to Grand’mère, when he +had lunched at Cadogan Gardens, giving his audience +what it wanted!) +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how <em>exquisite</em>,” 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-205" class="pagenum" title="205"></a> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-206" class="pagenum" title="206"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Mowbray entered with the tea. +</p> + +<p> +“Has O’Farrell been here to-day, Kitty?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell him all right,” smiled Miss Mowbray. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The Dove’ is the name of the pacifist paper +Barnaby is editing,” Dennis explained for Rosabel’s +benefit. +</p> + +<p> +Rosabel clasped her hands ecstatically. “‘The +Dove’—Oh, what a <em>sweet</em> name!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-207" class="pagenum" title="207"></a> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“There, there, what’s the matter now?” Miss +Mowbray, who had come to take his order for tea, +tried to soothe him. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who wouldn’t have what in the house any +more?” queried Rosabel, quite bewildered, but very +interested. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-208" class="pagenum" title="208"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Dennis and Antoinette were left standing at the +foot of the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“I must go, too,” she said, hoping that he would +give some sign at last, or make some attempt to +detain her. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-209" class="pagenum" title="209"></a> +flushed scarlet as she answered: “I have almost +forgotten how to lie to Grand’mère.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +She said in reply to his remark: “You see, +there has been no need to keep in practice.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-210" class="pagenum" title="210"></a> +“<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Eh bien, il était aimable, le jeune Blackwood?</span>” +</p> + +<p> +And for pride’s sake: “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Oui, Grand’mère, très +aimable</span>.” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” She smiled in memory of the innumerable +times that he had seen her home by that route. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +“She recites patriotic poems—the ‘<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Carillon</span>’ +<a id="page-211" class="pagenum" title="211"></a> +and ‘<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Belgique meurtrie</span>’ at all the fashionable +charity performances.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“From conviction?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +She had been so absorbed in the conflicting sensations +<a id="page-212" class="pagenum" title="212"></a> +of the moment that she had not realised +what might be in store for Dennis if he stood by his +convictions. +</p> + +<p> +“What—what is going to happen to you?” she +asked tentatively. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He took her ticket at the booking-office and presented +it to her. “Well—good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +Something of her desperate anguish pierced at +last through his assumption that all she wanted of +<a id="page-213" class="pagenum" title="213"></a> +him was a fresh sensation. He looked at her white +face and quivering mouth. “Why, Antoinette, +what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head, not daring to speak, lest the +tears that scorched her downcast eyelids should fall. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he repeated gently. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We can’t very well leave things like this, can +we? There’s a great deal to be talked about.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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? +<a id="page-214" class="pagenum" title="214"></a> +And it’ll cover all emergencies in case we’re late.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +They left the station, and walked down towards +the Embankment. +</p> + +<p> +“Have I been a brute to you, Antoinette?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She said: “Yes, I know....” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure?” he persisted, as if he very +much wanted her to be sure. +</p> + +<p> +And again she repeated: “Yes ...” and +<a id="page-215" class="pagenum" title="215"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just the same,” she murmured, still utterly +ignorant of his meaning. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“It might have been all right if you’d said ‘yes’ +at once,” he resumed, “only you hung back.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-216" class="pagenum" title="216"></a> +“I’m sorry, Dennis.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I always thought that one day I’d be able to +tell you all about myself——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, if you had, if only you had.... I tried +so often to make you tell me, and you never would.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-217" class="pagenum" title="217"></a> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You understand well enough now,” he cried, +“I was a fool ever to doubt that you would.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“My child, the way you looked at that woman, +was quite enough.” +</p> + +<p> +Hester.... So that was it! +</p> + +<p> +“You were in love with her, weren’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes....” +</p> + +<p> +“And there had been others, hadn’t there? Other +women?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-218" class="pagenum" title="218"></a> +women, instead of by members of the opposite sex. +</p> + +<p> +“And you were thinking of them, weren’t you, +when you said you’d known what the real thing was +like?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes....” This, at all events, was the truth. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve never known it with a man, have you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never, Dennis....” Never until now. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-219" class="pagenum" title="219"></a> +that every pang he had suffered, every tortured desire +that had been his, found its reflection and +counterpart in her. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No ...” she added under her breath: “Not +until it was too late.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-220" class="pagenum" title="220"></a> +“Not quite the right <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mise-en-scène</span> for a psychological +dissertation,” Dennis smiled as they seated +themselves at a small corner table. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She felt suddenly compelled to honesty. “I +haven’t suffered—because I didn’t quite realise +... about myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I’ve made you realise...? Oh, I’m +sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Yet she had been happy, blissfully happy during +<a id="page-221" class="pagenum" title="221"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-222" class="pagenum" title="222"></a> +“I’m glad you’re telling me now....” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, whom should I tell, if not you?” +</p> + +<p> +Swiftly she raised her eyes to his and dropped +them again. “Thank you, Dennis....” +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She stirred a little in his arms, and he kissed her +again. +</p> + +<p> +“Dennis—I love you....” +</p> + +<p> +Strange for him also, to hear this from a woman. +“My dear....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-223" class="pagenum" title="223"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’m glad I’m like that.” Glad of anything +that enabled her to love him so well. +</p> + +<p> +“You mustn’t be glad; it’s a curse, a terrible +curse. You’ll know some day!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tired, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +She asked no questions of the future; scarcely +allowed herself to wonder into what strange channels +<a id="page-224" class="pagenum" title="224"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re an immoral woman,” he teased her. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t care if I am!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but what’s going to become of us, Antoinette?” +</p> + +<p> +With fast-beating heart, she yet managed to say +lightly: “I’m sure I don’t know, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +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. <em>Marry</em> 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 +<a id="page-225" class="pagenum" title="225"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Idiot-child,” he laughed and kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-226" class="pagenum" title="226"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that someone you know?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +He started, like a person awakened from heavy +slumbers. “Someone I—thought I knew....” +</p> + +<p> +He said nothing more, but all that evening remained +abstracted and curiously restless. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-2-6"> +<a id="page-227" class="pagenum" title="227"></a> +CHAPTER VI +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +Some days later, Dennis and Antoinette, on their +way to Miss Mowbray’s, fetched Barnaby from his +office. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve got a new acquisition at the tea-shop,” +he said, “a man called Rutherford. He’s an +absolute firebrand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pacifist?” queried Dennis. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Dennis laughed. “How is the O’Farrell <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ménage</span> +progressing?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-228" class="pagenum" title="228"></a> +mad, and a bit of a genius into the bargain.... +Well, you can do the rest in your head, can’t +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Some of it, perhaps,” laughed Antoinette, +“but not all.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>she</em> doesn’t love him any more. And so +on <span class="lang" lang="la" xml:lang="la">ad infinitum</span>. If Benny has succeeded in +snatching them both back simultaneously from the +brink of suicide, I expect they’ll be there to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>is</em> on the stage.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see why a family in Hampstead should +render me entirely innocuous,” protested the young +Jew. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-229" class="pagenum" title="229"></a> +of your own people, and forget that you ever knew +the smell of grease-paint.” +</p> + +<p> +Benny looked hurt, and Antoinette said: “Never +mind; I’ll talk to you, even if you are respectable.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s nice of you!” Benny turned to Dennis: +“Is the lady a sympathiser?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-230" class="pagenum" title="230"></a> +midst of them, devouring the last muffin in the +establishment!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Mowbray bustled in with a heavily-laden +tray. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. +O’Farrell. Here’s your Welsh Rarebit.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s m-my Welsh Rarebit,” declared +Crispin Burgess, sitting in lonely grandeur at a +table all by himself, “I ordered it y-yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t care if you ordered it last year,” +returned Conn, “I’ll keep it in pawn till our tea +and cakes appear.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll be s-stone-cold by then.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-231" class="pagenum" title="231"></a> +tangle of black hair, but something more subtle +than beauty; fascination, perhaps. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette smiled. “Well, you’re going through +with it too, aren’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Me? Oh, rather! None of your half-and-half +<a id="page-232" class="pagenum" title="232"></a> +for this child....” He added with a +slightly wistful expression: “But it is splendid, +isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +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: “<em>Everard</em>—<em>Benny</em>—I’ve +got it, actually got it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Got what?” Everard enquired languidly. +</p> + +<p> +“My exemption, you ass, three months’ +exemption.” +</p> + +<p> +“And on whatever grounds did you appeal?” +demanded Barnaby, “you haven’t any convictions +that I’m aware of.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>me</em>!” +</p> + +<p> +“A pity they’ve only allowed her three months +of existence,” mused Everard. +</p> + +<p> +Harry looked perturbed. He was fond of his +mother. +</p> + +<p> +“I expect he can appeal again,” said Benny. +</p> + +<p> +“I can—they said I could—but that won’t prolong +the old lady’s life.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is you who will have to seek to prolong it +with every care and attention in your power.” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +The flappers looked over at him and giggled, and +wearily Everard shrugged his shoulders. During +<a id="page-233" class="pagenum" title="233"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t wish to compete with the deity, +Mrs. Taylor,” murmured Benny. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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——” +</p> + +<p> +“D-didn’t know he was d-dead,” pronounced +Crispin. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-234" class="pagenum" title="234"></a> +drawing of her, perhaps, and she getting a bit of +supper for the two of us.” +</p> + +<p> +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?’” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette, convulsed with laughter, could not +resist the temptation to ask: “Whatever made you +marry him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought I might be able to do him good,” +Pegeen replied simply, “but that man is past doing +good to.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is that ...” O’Farrell concurred. +</p> + +<p> +“But now we know what true happiness is, +thanks to that ungrateful Jew-boy, who won’t even +let me kiss him!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">risqué</span> 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 +<a id="page-235" class="pagenum" title="235"></a> +very delightful and unconventional and unlike +Cadogan Gardens. And Dennis was being nice to +her. And she was very happy. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“This is the man I was telling you about, +Dennis, I wanted you to meet——” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember,” said Dennis, and Alan grinned +at Conn and Pegeen, flung off his hat, and seated +himself between Everard and Barnaby. +</p> + +<p> +“What about your tribunal?” asked the journalist. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-236" class="pagenum" title="236"></a> +and take my share in murdering peasant-boys and +students and labourers.... And the same sort of +old men on their side, egging <em>them</em> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Barnaby answered for the company in general: +“Yes, they’re all appealing on different grounds. +Everard, I forget what yours are?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve not had the honour of being called up +yet,” the actor replied evasively. +</p> + +<p> +“And yours, Crispin?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m appealing on racial and personal grounds,” +declared Benny, “I won’t be made to fight the Jews +<a id="page-237" class="pagenum" title="237"></a> +of other countries, even to avenge Brave Little +Belgium, or prove myself a true patriot!” +</p> + +<p> +Oswald began: +</p> + +<div class="poem-container"> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="verse">“‘Breathes there a man with soul so dead</p> + <p class="verse">Who never to himself has said——’”</p> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="corr-18"></a>she takes Belgium’s name in vain to hide her +desire for gain.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And may I be the first to fly the <em>Sinn Féin</em> +flag in the streets of Dublin that day!” +</p> + +<p> +“What about you, Dennis?” said Alan. +</p> + +<p> +“Humanitarian grounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-238" class="pagenum" title="238"></a> +leant back in his chair and listened to Alan’s voice—and +was aware that Antoinette’s gaze rested +always on himself. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The pity of it is, that we’re so few,” said +Benny, “such a small and unpopular minority.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-239" class="pagenum" title="239"></a> +Alan returned impatiently: “We’re not out for +laurels.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it’s more likely to be the broad arrow,” +said Oswald. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>their</em> factories; railwaymen, schoolmasters, +farmers—what do they want with war? Nothing +... until the idea is drilled into them by those +<a id="page-240" class="pagenum" title="240"></a> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“The khaki-clad females who say they wish they +were men, so that they could kill a few Huns themselves,” +Dennis put in. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if only that small handful who started +the war, and are continuing it, could finish it up +amongst themselves, without implicating the +masses!” +</p> + +<p> +“Without the masses, there would be no war,” +said Barnaby. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly!” cried Alan, “without the masses, +there <em>could</em> 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! +</p> + +<p> +“And you’re expected to take your share in the +<a id="page-241" class="pagenum" title="241"></a> +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 <em>we must stand firm</em>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>can</em> 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 +<a id="page-242" class="pagenum" title="242"></a> +the requirements of the army or of carrying out his +own ideas?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how much does the general public care +about art or the artist these days?” exclaimed +Dennis. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the sight of all those war-shrines makes +me sick!” cried Alan. “‘<em>Greater love hath no +man</em>——’ 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 ‘<em>Thou +shalt not kill</em>?’” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Alan asked eagerly: “Are you appealing on religious +grounds, then?” +</p> + +<p> +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. ‘<em>Thou shalt not kill</em>’—they +think they’re obeying the letter of the law if they +don’t bear arms and go to the fighting-line; but +<a id="page-243" class="pagenum" title="243"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-244" class="pagenum" title="244"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At the top of the stairs she faced him. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that—is that the boy we saw the other +night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the one you told me about?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes....” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re still in love with him...?” +</p> + +<p> +And again: “Yes....” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, it’s for you to say.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-245" class="pagenum" title="245"></a> +determined that nothing should be visible to him of +the pain he might choose to inflict. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s for you to say.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“Meet me down here one day, and we’ll talk it +all out,” he whispered hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +She nodded and turned away. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-2-7"> +<a id="page-246" class="pagenum" title="246"></a> +CHAPTER VII +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all a bloody shame,” he said aloud, “such +a bloody shame....” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-247" class="pagenum" title="247"></a> +“And how did you contrive to get into a munition-factory?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-248" class="pagenum" title="248"></a> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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—‘<em>Every tree +that can be of service to the country must come +down!</em>’ 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!’” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-249" class="pagenum" title="249"></a> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Alan said: “You were a coward to run away that +time at Crannack, Dennis.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know why I had to run away—why I had +to make myself run away. It wasn’t easy, Alan.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no use running away. Because you’ll never +<em>get</em> away. We’re made like that; why not look +things straight in the face?” +</p> + +<p> +“Antoinette said something of that kind a long +while ago, without having the vaguest idea what she +was talking about.” +</p> + +<p> +“Antoinette?” +</p> + +<p> +“The girl who was with me at the tea-shop to-day. +The girl with whom I sought safety from +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did you find it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you need to ask?” +</p> + +<p> +Alan sat down on the floor, and with hands +clasped round his knees, gazed into the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Then what do you want with the girl now?” +</p> + +<p> +Dennis shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Dennis answered sadly: “She is out altogether, +poor Antoinette, to all intents and purposes.” +</p> + +<p> +Alan turned his head with a slow smile. “Good +...” he murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am intolerant of other favourites. And +<a id="page-250" class="pagenum" title="250"></a> +they’re no good to you, no earthly good ... are +they?” +</p> + +<p> +“No ...” said Dennis dully. +</p> + +<p> +“You admit it! Then why continue to strive +after what can’t really satisfy you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I mustn’t take what would really satisfy +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Unnatural, good Lord! Isn’t it that already?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then in God’s name, Dennis, why deny yourself +and torture yourself like this?” +</p> + +<p> +Dennis flung out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. +</p> + +<p> +Alan looked at him.... +</p> + +<p> +Then, very softly, he spoke. “All right, Dennis, +<a id="page-251" class="pagenum" title="251"></a> +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....” +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +<a id="page-252" class="pagenum" title="252"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“So they do their duty by you!” laughed Antoinette. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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, +<a id="page-253" class="pagenum" title="253"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“But aren’t you afraid that someone will see +them and find out?” said Antoinette. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette looked, and as the panel slid back beheld +a cavity some six feet deep. “A trap-door, +Pegeen, a real trap-door?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +... This was more lurid even than anything +Antoinette had anticipated from Barnaby’s descriptions. +Pegeen replaced the rug, offered her the +<a id="page-254" class="pagenum" title="254"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you meet Conn?” queried Antoinette, +and was rewarded with the entire history of +Pegeen’s life. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +<a id="page-255" class="pagenum" title="255"></a> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette suggested that in the course of +Pegeen’s married life she might have heard that +remark of Mr. Taylor’s once too often. +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +“When Irish meets Irish,” murmured Antoinette, +“it must have been rather wonderful.” +</p> + +<p> +Pegeen’s greenish eyes shone. “It was that....” +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 +<a id="page-256" class="pagenum" title="256"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Wouldn’t you rather I went?” Antoinette suggested +to Pegeen, “I’m sure you want to have him +all to yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Pegeen made a grimace. “I hate that person.” +</p> + +<p> +Conn said warmly: “You’ve no need to say that +now, Pegeen, love....” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette asked, “Is anyone else at the tribunal, +Mr. O’Farrell?” +</p> + +<p> +“Barnaby’s there and Dennis Blackwood. Will +I give him your love, Miss de Courcy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, never mind about it ...” she laughed; +but the thought of Dennis as a spectator at Alan’s +<a id="page-257" class="pagenum" title="257"></a> +tribunal made her heart give a sudden painful jump. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Pegeen; it’s William’s night on +duty, isn’t it? Will I leave the side-door open...?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll have to carry you”—Conn’s eyes +rested fondly on her—“that’ll only make one lot.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-258" class="pagenum" title="258"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette said softly: “I am....” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid not, Pegeen.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why, my dear?” Pegeen came and sat on +the arm of Antoinette’s chair. “Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“It—it’s difficult to say....” Incredibly difficult. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-259" class="pagenum" title="259"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not another woman, it’s——” +</p> + +<p> +But that was the sort of thing one could not say. +Not to anyone. Not ever. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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—<em>one could not +tell that sort of thing</em>. However much one longed +to. However frightened one was. However lonely. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-2-8"> +<a id="page-260" class="pagenum" title="260"></a> +CHAPTER VIII +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-261" class="pagenum" title="261"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.... <em>Then</em> they tear up +the nice khaki that the good kind Government gives +them and wrap themselves in the blankets off their +beds.” +</p> + +<p> +“As we’re in England, I suppose the authorities +won’t remove the blankets?” murmured Benny. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-262" class="pagenum" title="262"></a> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you are passed for General Service?” said +Strickland. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>did</em> appear, if they didn’t cop me during +the day.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t dodge them for long, though,” said +Barnaby. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Child ...” murmured Dennis under his +breath, but Antoinette caught the murmur, and the +rueful tenderness of it. +</p> + +<p> +“At any moment I may feel a heavy hand upon +<a id="page-263" class="pagenum" title="263"></a> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“The hounds win in the end ...” said +Dennis, and Everard quoted softly: +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">A la fin de l’envoi, je touche....</span>” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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, +<a id="page-264" class="pagenum" title="264"></a> +we’ll erect a statue to you on what was once +the site of Buckingham Palace.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, we’re a civilised and cultured race, we +English,” cried Alan, “it’s only the Huns who are +barbarians....” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-265" class="pagenum" title="265"></a> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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....’” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-266" class="pagenum" title="266"></a> +“Well, look what they do to those who strive +against the darkness and misery,” said Barnaby. +“How long has your husband got, Mrs. Mansfield?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +... And Dennis had no eyes and no thoughts +for her now. It was not difficult to see wherein +Alan’s attraction lay: he <em>was</em> attractive, no doubt of +it, with his feverish dark eyes and sensitive well-cut +<a id="page-267" class="pagenum" title="267"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-268" class="pagenum" title="268"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t hate you if I tried——” She had +spoken the truth. +</p> + +<p> +She felt mazed and bewildered by the traffic and +<a id="page-269" class="pagenum" title="269"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She had not gone very far when she came face +to face with Oswald Forsyth. +</p> + +<p> +“Are they all down at the tea-shop, talking as +usual?” He spoke wearily and there were great +dark rings under his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette nodded. “Yes, much as usual.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette said: “I thought you had made up +your mind...?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-270" class="pagenum" title="270"></a> +“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 <em>can</em> 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....” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“They were talking about it to-day....” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-271" class="pagenum" title="271"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette cut him short. One did not need +apologies from a human soul <span class="lang" lang="la" xml:lang="la">in extremis</span>. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going back to the tea-shop?” she said, +as they reached the station. +</p> + +<p> +He looked up at her with his big, weary eyes. +“Yes, I suppose so—I don’t know”—and hovered +indecisively in the entrance. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-272" class="pagenum" title="272"></a> +Antoinette asked with sudden irrelevance: “How +old are you?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a whimsical twist to his smile as he +answered: “Eighteen—just eighteen—it’s waiting +for you now, when you’re eighteen....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">outrée</span>” than in some of the garments +of her own choosing. +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-273" class="pagenum" title="273"></a> +warmly congratulated Madame de Courcy on the +possession of such a grand-daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“She is our only one—our little treasure,” said +Henriette, and laid an arm caressingly about Antoinette’s +shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +They went in to dinner. +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Eh bien</span>, Monsieur Lefèvre, you bring us news +of our family in Grenoble?” +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur Lefèvre hastened to deliver the messages +which seemed to consist mainly of: “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Saluts +affectueux de la part de——</span>” +</p> + +<p> +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 “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">marraine</span>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Letters <a id="corr-22"></a>had passed between them. Then the +young man arrived <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en permission</span>. The young +people appeared to please each other. It seems that +he is of good family. <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Mais c’est tout de même un +jeu bizarre....</span>” +</p> + +<p> +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 “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fiançailles</span>.” +</p> + +<p> +... 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 +<a id="page-274" class="pagenum" title="274"></a> +relished this feat on the part of Sidonie’s youngest +sister. Dennis—Dennis—would they never laugh +together again...? +</p> + +<p> +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—“<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Et il y en a de très chics, parmi +les officiers anglais....</span>” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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—— +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-275" class="pagenum" title="275"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle is interested in music?” +</p> + +<p> +“But yes, Monsieur....” +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>she</em>, a <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">jeune fille</span> 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.... +</p> + +<p> +“Yes ...” said Henriette, “there were two +hundred persons present, I think. It was too much. +The whole audience was so <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ému</span> by my first recitation +that their feelings reacted upon me. <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">J’étais +toute bouleversée....</span>” +</p> + +<p> +“Madame is so sensitive.” +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Hélas</span>, yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so generous, to give so much of her time +and of her talent.” +</p> + +<p> +Henriette endorsed this. “But I give them gladly +<a id="page-276" class="pagenum" title="276"></a> +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!”) +</p> + +<p> +“‘<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">En avant, Belgique, pays martyrisée mais +toujours glorieuse</span>’—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....” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Mademoiselle replied: “Unhappily not, Monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +Henriette looked at her daughter through her +lorgnon. “She lacks the temperament.” +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-277" class="pagenum" title="277"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle looks a trifle pale. Perhaps the +air of London does not agree with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m quite well, thank you ...” with a +false sprightliness of manner. +</p> + +<p> +“She does not eat enough,” grumbled Anatole. +</p> + +<p> +“She runs about too much,” supplemented her +grandmother. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-2-9"> +<a id="page-278" class="pagenum" title="278"></a> +CHAPTER IX +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She raged impotently against these people who +kept the line engaged, while Dennis was perhaps +trying in vain to get on.... The exhausting day +<a id="page-279" class="pagenum" title="279"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And no letter, no word from him next morning. +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“She is anæmic,” said Henriette. +</p> + +<p> +“She smokes too much,” declared Anatole. +</p> + +<p> +“We should have found her a husband when she +was younger,” Grand’mère wagged her head +sagaciously. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Grand’mère brightened, and expressed the hope +that M. Lefèvre would soon come to pay his “<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">visite +de digestion</span>.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-280" class="pagenum" title="280"></a> +“He will come soon enough,” grumbled Anatole, +who discouraged enthusiasm on principle. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-281" class="pagenum" title="281"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Terror and loneliness of the Ishmaelite, outcast +among men and women.... She was coming to +know by her own experience every stage of the +<a id="page-282" class="pagenum" title="282"></a> +suffering he had foreshadowed for her, suffering that +she was not big enough, not strong enough to bear +alone. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-283" class="pagenum" title="283"></a> +“Pegeen, come—please—please—please....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Footsteps at last, coming down the path towards +the entrance.... With a sob of relief, she rushed +to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“<em>Dennis!</em>” +</p> + +<p> +She was clinging to him, laughing and crying +hysterically. “I—I didn’t know you were coming +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I didn’t know I’d find you here—I came +for a book that Alan lent Conn—‘<em>Towards Democracy</em>’—he +wants it,” he spoke in rapid, jerky +sentences. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see, Dennis....” +</p> + +<p> +“And doesn’t it make you hate me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Could anything do that?” +</p> + +<p> +He took her by the shoulders and kissed her again +and again. +</p> + +<p> +With a horrible flash of insight, she cried: +“You’re kissing me—and thinking of Alan.” +</p> + +<p> +He answered “Yes” ... determined that at +<a id="page-284" class="pagenum" title="284"></a> +least there should be no deception between them. +“You shouldn’t let me do this, Antoinette.” +</p> + +<p> +“I love you....” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m a cad and a beast to let you let me.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed a little as the pressure of his hands +tightened around her. “I love you, Dennis.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The waste, the utter futile waste of you.... +Oh, God, why can’t I care for you more?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it that he can give you, and that I +can’t?” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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...?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-285" class="pagenum" title="285"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you hate me, Antoinette? It would be so +much better if you could!” +</p> + +<p> +Through her torture she cried, “No!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <em>was</em> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-286" class="pagenum" title="286"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He bent over her and murmured: “Forgive me, +dear, for hurting you so much....” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said softly, “feeling was believing.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s monstrous that I should have had to drag +you through all this!” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>will</em> lead, and +not leave me stranded and alone. So it’s still my +fault now.” +</p> + +<p> +He said sorrowfully: “It’s not your fault—and +it’s not my fault—we’re both unfortunates....” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-287" class="pagenum" title="287"></a> +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!” +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-2-10"> +<a id="page-288" class="pagenum" title="288"></a> +CHAPTER X +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when we try to assert our truth, we’re +condemned to the death-in-life of prison.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t call it so much death-in-life, as so +<a id="page-289" class="pagenum" title="289"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Alan grinned. “Locked up because we’re considered +a danger to humanity.... Almost +humorous, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, at least we shall both be going through +the same hell, Alan.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And always will be, Alan, always....” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The Square was very still, flooded in the cold +<a id="page-290" class="pagenum" title="290"></a> +bluish light of the moon. The two stood a moment +in silence on Dennis’s door-step. +</p> + +<p> +Then Alan smiled up at his friend. “Good-night, +Dennis....” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, boy....” He tightened the +pressure of his hand round Alan’s arm. “If only +I could keep you safe....” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing matters now,” murmured Alan, “I’m +glad it’s been like this—the last time....” +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2 class="part" id="chapter-0-3"> +<a id="page-291" class="pagenum" title="291"></a> +PART III +</h2> + +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-3-1"> +<a id="page-293" class="pagenum" title="293"></a> +CHAPTER I +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +“And do you mean to tell me,” Mrs. Ryan said +severely, “that Dennis is appealing for exemption +<em>again</em>?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think not,” snorted Mrs. Ryan. +</p> + +<p> +“But surely the object of a tribunal <em>is</em> to listen +to what people have to say...?” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-294" class="pagenum" title="294"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“One of those horrid people who wear red ties +and are always having riots ...” quavered Mrs. +Griggs. +</p> + +<p> +“Dennis doesn’t wear a red tie!” declared his +mother. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-295" class="pagenum" title="295"></a> +“As he doesn’t believe in war himself, he won’t +help others to wage it,” Antoinette ignored the +asides. +</p> + +<p> +“So selfish ...” murmured Mrs. Griggs. +</p> + +<p> +“He might at least make munitions,” was Mrs. +Hallard’s next bright suggestion. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but the Germans <em>have got</em> to be killed,” +expostulated Mrs. Ryan, “how else are we to win +the war?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But do you realise that if he persists in upholding +such nonsense, he runs the risk of being put in +prison?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Think of the disgrace!” said Mrs. Ryan in +sepulchral tones. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-296" class="pagenum" title="296"></a> +“Yes, the disgrace that a man <em>should</em> be put in +prison for standing by his convictions!” Antoinette +blazed out. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Ryan glared at her. “Well, really ... +these people are put in prison for being cowards, +and quite right too.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I always distrust the exception to the rule.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I trust that my ideas do not in any respect +savour of the <span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Kultur</span> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“... Such a very gifted young man,” sighed +Miss Simpkins, smoothing her buttonhole with her +thimble, “it seems such a pity....” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +“... And she won’t be budged from her +<a id="page-297" class="pagenum" title="297"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing so pretty as a really pretty +wedding, I always think,” came Miss Simpkins’ +gentle voice. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-298" class="pagenum" title="298"></a> +In imagination Antoinette could hear Amy’s +excited lisp: “Fanthy the thenthor reading all our +thecreth—doethn’t it make one feel important?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well done, well <em>done</em>!” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“The brutes!” exclaimed Mrs. Ryan. +</p> + +<p> +... Those who had maimed Tom were +brutes; but Clive, who had sniped three of the +<a id="page-299" class="pagenum" title="299"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-300" class="pagenum" title="300"></a> +After the sewing-party had broken up, Lily, +Antoinette and Doreen sat talking in the latter’s +bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +Doreen appealed to Antoinette: “Can’t you do +anything to make Dennis give up his dreadful +ideas?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why concern yourself with such riff-raff? The +C.O.s and all their like are just a lot of contemptible +weaklings.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re not very complimentary to your future +brother-in-law, are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Doreen knows well enough what I think of +<a id="page-301" class="pagenum" title="301"></a> +Dennis’s behaviour; there is no need for compliments. +People of his sort are no good to the +nation. Cut ’em out I say!” +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t call a man who’s ready to go to prison +for his convictions a weakling or a coward.” +</p> + +<p> +“Prison’s safe. What’s prison compared with +the trenches?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>shall</em> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Frankly I don’t see why the C.O.s should +<a id="page-302" class="pagenum" title="302"></a> +escape. Why should men enjoy the freedom and +the rights of citizenship that they won’t fight for?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve a very lofty idea of patriotism, I must +say!” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>give</em> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re mad,” said Lily; and having thus +clinched the argument, departed. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet you wouldn’t want him not to be at the +Front, would you?” +</p> + +<p> +Doreen shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-303" class="pagenum" title="303"></a> +“And I don’t want Dennis not to stand by his +views, either.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that’s different,” said Doreen childishly. +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette smiled. “Is it...? And supposing +Hugh had been a pacifist, Doreen?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-3-2"> +<a id="page-304" class="pagenum" title="304"></a> +CHAPTER II +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +<a id="page-305" class="pagenum" title="305"></a> +like O’Farrell, to escape to Ireland; to live in truth +the life of the outlaw and outcast that he was. +</p> + +<p> +Perpetual argument, achieving no result, and ending +always in the same inevitable deadlock, was +carried on between the two conflicting strains of his +nature. +</p> + +<p> +“It would break your mother’s heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s got the three others, and they are more +satisfactory than I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“She loves you more than the others—and differently.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Doubtless the Central Appeal Tribunal would in +some measure furnish the reply. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-3-3"> +<a id="page-306" class="pagenum" title="306"></a> +CHAPTER III +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +“Clear the court!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In the corridor a crowd of men and women, +friends and supporters of the applicants, were +<a id="page-307" class="pagenum" title="307"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She heard the woman say to Dennis: “I shall +<em>will</em> 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....” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette thanked her gravely. +</p> + +<p> +The doors were flung open again, and the people +<a id="page-308" class="pagenum" title="308"></a> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-309" class="pagenum" title="309"></a> +judgment was for the moment deferred, and the next +man called. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The Lord said: ‘<em>Thou shalt not kill.</em>’” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“If the Germans do wrong, sir, I can’t help it. +I can’t get beyond the words of God.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +‘<em>An eye for an eye</em>’?” +</p> + +<p> +“The God of vengeance may have demanded that, +sir—never the God of love.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The man hesitated; fumbled for words; opened +his mouth once or twice; then: “But the laws of +<a id="page-310" class="pagenum" title="310"></a> +the Almighty weren’t meant to hold good only in +times of peace, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +The Chairman was saying: “So you think all +<a id="page-311" class="pagenum" title="311"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman sitting nearest to Dennis truculently +demanded if he had held these views previous +to August, 1914. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“How can you prove that? Have you ever +written or stated in public anything of the sort before +1914?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-312" class="pagenum" title="312"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Right or wrong, my country’—that’s the line +for every true Briton to take up.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-313" class="pagenum" title="313"></a> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-314" class="pagenum" title="314"></a> +But already the unctuous tones of the Military +Representative had terminated the silence. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve declared the reasons for my unwillingness +to take that one way,” returned Dennis. +</p> + +<p> +Another endless-seeming pause; looks and inaudible +remarks exchanged between the old gentlemen. +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette held her breath. +</p> + +<p> +“<em>Total exemption granted</em>”—could not all her +wishing or “willing” force the Chairman to speak +those words? He was about to speak now: +</p> + +<p> +“Clear the court!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-315" class="pagenum" title="315"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +For a weary half-hour they were still kept in the +passage. Then at last the doors were flung open +again. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“In the case of Mr. Dennis Blackwood—Non-Combatant +Service.” +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Non-Combatant Service—that, as far as Dennis +was concerned, amounted to a sentence to penal servitude. +Quite shamelessly she wished that he would +<a id="page-316" class="pagenum" title="316"></a> +compromise now; hated with all her might the principles +and convictions that would not allow him to +do so. +</p> + +<p> +He said at last: “Good girl, to have stood by +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d stand by you through worse than that,” she +cried, “if only you wanted me to.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dennis.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dennis ... must you—are you really going +to...?” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed drearily. “You ask that now? Why, +what would Alan say, if I ratted at the eleventh +hour?” +</p> + +<p> +“Alan wouldn’t know ...” was her thought. +But she was glad that she cared enough for Dennis +to keep it to herself. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Abysmal terror dogged his heels by day and by +<a id="page-317" class="pagenum" title="317"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Day after day he waited; and waited.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-318" class="pagenum" title="318"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And for Antoinette, also, this knowledge. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-3-4"> +<a id="page-319" class="pagenum" title="319"></a> +CHAPTER IV +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve just had my appeal dismissed by the local +tribunal,” replied Benny with an affectation of +indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“We all share the same fate, apparently. What +happened, Benny?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if that isn’t the limit!” cried Dennis, +and Antoinette asked: “Are you going to appeal +again?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What—has his widowed mother died in the +meantime?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t think so, but the Board seemed to +<a id="page-320" class="pagenum" title="320"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Our ranks are getting sadly depleted,” said +Benny, “I see your friend Crispin has deserted +us.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">au courant</span>. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<a id="page-321" class="pagenum" title="321"></a> +stands drearily at the end of a pier, reciting long +Beethoven symphonies to himself.” +</p> + +<p> +Benny murmured: “‘<span class="lang" lang="de" xml:lang="de">Lieb Vaterland, kannst +ruhig sein</span>’—while Crispin guards our coasts.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 <a id="corr-30"></a>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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Benny said: “Mansfield’s doing hard labour; +he shared the common lot at his tribunal. I really +<a id="page-322" class="pagenum" title="322"></a> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s coming out for a few days next week,” +said Dennis, “I shall see him then....” +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +<a id="page-323" class="pagenum" title="323"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t, Doreen, I’ve not seen him for ages.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>can</em> have +happened to him...? As if it wasn’t bad +enough, having Clive like this....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +<a id="page-324" class="pagenum" title="324"></a> +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 +<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">habitués</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dennis!” +</p> + +<p> +At her cry, he slowly raised his head, looked at +her with a dazed stupefied expression. +</p> + +<p> +Involuntarily she drew back from him. “Dennis—what’s +the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +Still he sat looking at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it—have you had your call?” But even +while she asked, she knew that it was not that—not +that alone. +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-325" class="pagenum" title="325"></a> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Dennis, Dennis, don’t—I can’t bear it....” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +She was stung to reply: “I never hated him like +that. You’re unjust and cruel to think that I +should.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-326" class="pagenum" title="326"></a> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-327" class="pagenum" title="327"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +She told him then the reason that had sent her to +look for him here. +</p> + +<p> +“Clive wounded? What’s happened, did they +say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Doreen wasn’t very explicit over the telephone. +He’s got a poisoned arm, I think, and a wound in +the face.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes....” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her with great unhappy eyes. +“There’s nothing we can either of us say, is there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing....” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-328" class="pagenum" title="328"></a> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +His voice held the pain and tenderness of a +mother whose child has been stricken to death. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +And at the top of the stairs she was met by an +insolent smiling wraith. +</p> + +<p> +“In case we never meet again ... don’t hate +me too much....” +</p> + +<p> +She acknowledged the completeness of her rival’s +victory. Alan could triumph over her still. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-3-5"> +<a id="page-329" class="pagenum" title="329"></a> +CHAPTER V +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +“<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chérie</span>, 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 <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">convenable</span> for a <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">jeune fille</span> to run about +London as you do.” +</p> + +<p> +“You allow yourself more freedom than I as a +young man was allowed at your age.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is that young Blackwood who has taught you +these Bohemian manners.” +</p> + +<p> +“After all, we never knew his family.” +</p> + +<p> +“As I have always said, you cultivate the wrong +people.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if you would try to make yourself a little +more amiable to my friends....” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Till now one has let you do as you pleased. +But it is agreed that in future one will have to be +more severe.” +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-3-6"> +<a id="page-330" class="pagenum" title="330"></a> +CHAPTER VI +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-331" class="pagenum" title="331"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +The other Tommies had disposed themselves and +their kit about the compartment. Above the rattle +of the wheels Antoinette caught scraps of their +conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <em>next</em> time my King and Country call, +I’m going to be lame, blind, dumb, <em>and deaf</em>. 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-<em>mine</em>, you find war isn’t the gala garden-party +you thought it was, with the band and the +music and the flags flying.” +</p> + +<p> +One of his companions, a long-limbed Irishman, +grunted assent. “I’ve lost an eye in this bloody +<a id="page-332" class="pagenum" title="332"></a> +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’....” +</p> + +<p> +“Guess they won’t be satisfied till you’ve lost +the other eye to match,” remarked the Canadian +cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>Sinn Féin</em> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<em>Which</em> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, war’s a funny thing,” the Irishman broke +<a id="page-333" class="pagenum" title="333"></a> +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 <em>who</em> calls to us and <em>who</em> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She said: “Good-bye, Gawd bless you, Dickie,” +and he answered: “So long! See you again when +the war’s over—perhaps....” +</p> + +<p> +The train moved on. Alone in his corner the man +sat staring straight before him, inarticulate misery +incarnate. “When the war’s over—perhaps....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Arthur Griggs, home on leave, had come with +his <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fiancée</span>, Millie Ryan, to call upon the Blackwoods; +<a id="page-334" class="pagenum" title="334"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure Millie isn’t sorry,” smiled Mrs. Blackwood. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Clive smiled wryly up at her with his twisted +lip. “I could do with the other arm all the same, +you know, Lil.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And we hope you’ll be as happy as <em>we’re</em> jolly +well going to be!” returned Lily, boisterously. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite a competithion of happineth, ithn’t it?” +giggled Amy. +</p> + +<p> +“I think there can be no doubt that where there is +sympathy there is happiness,” mused Griggs; +<a id="page-335" class="pagenum" title="335"></a> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +There was a murmur of approval, and Millie said: +“Why, Arthur, you’re quite a poet this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a poet, Millie, not a poet. Just an ordinary +man. But might not even an ordinary man turn +poet for your sake?” +</p> + +<p> +Millie blushed. “Oh, you’re flattering me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Clive doesn’t need to swank,” said Lily, “we +all know what he’s done. Those three Huns—not +bad, that, not bad!” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +“Her <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fiancée</span> 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’....” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-336" class="pagenum" title="336"></a> +“Poor little Britannia,” cried Antoinette, “I +wonder if he was one of the three whom Clive +sniped?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good job,” muttered Reggie. +</p> + +<p> +“War’s war,” said Lily tersely, shrugging her +shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“All I can hope is,” the irrepressible Griggs +continued, “that two years hence we shall be as +complete as we are now.” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-337" class="pagenum" title="337"></a> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then at last Doreen’s voice, a woman’s voice and +yet piteously childish, cut into the stillness. +</p> + +<p> +“And I—I loved him so....” +</p> + +<p> +She turned and broke from the room. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood followed her. The +others remained as they were, talking in low voices. +</p> + +<p> +“Thall I go and thee if they want anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, better leave them alone together now.” +</p> + +<p> +“A good cry, you know, will do her all the world +of good ...” this from Griggs. +</p> + +<p> +“Ithn’t thith war dreadful? You never know +from one minute to the other, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor old Hugh, I wonder how it happened. I +expect some of his men will be able to give details. +<a id="page-338" class="pagenum" title="338"></a> +I think I ought to go to Doreen. Mrs. Blackwood +will only encourage her to give way.” Thus the +sternly practical Lily. +</p> + +<p> +Clive muttered: “Poor little kid ...” and +Reggie, still sitting motionless on the end of the +couch, looked at his boots and scowled heavily. +</p> + +<p> +“And to think that only two years ago—what a +handsome couple at your dance, eh, Millie? The +Black Knight and the Dresden Shepherdess....” +</p> + +<p> +Millie collapsed into tears. “I can’t bear it, +Arthur, I can’t bear it....” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur patted her hand. “There, there, little +woman, there, there.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But Clive only repeated: “Poor little kid....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear old man....” +</p> + +<p class="tb"> +* * * +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-339" class="pagenum" title="339"></a> +She shuddered and turned from the window to +face Mrs. Blackwood. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">contretemps</span> +that had marred her stay.... +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette said: “Oh, don’t ...” and got no +further. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Blackwood sat down and wiped her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <a id="corr-34"></a>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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Much better,” Antoinette assented without +looking at her. +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what does that matter?” cried Antoinette, +<a id="page-340" class="pagenum" title="340"></a> +“that can’t make him your boy any the less, can +it?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Safe ... in solitary confinement! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette gave the assurance required of her. +“Yes, of course he’s safe—quite safe.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Blackwood was uneasy. “If one knew +for certain—how they are treated....” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette was grateful to the increasing darkness +that hid her face. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Blackwood repeated: “If only one knew....” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll be quite safe,” she could only trust herself +to speak in a very low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course Daddy says they’re well treated, and +you do think so, too, don’t you—really?” +</p> + +<p> +Antoinette made a final effort. “He’ll come out +all right ... when the war’s over——” +</p> + +<p> +Her voice snapped. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3 class="chapter" id="subchap-0-3-7"> +<a id="page-341" class="pagenum" title="341"></a> +CHAPTER VII +</h3> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does he—say anything else?” she asked tentatively, +hoping that Dennis might have sent her +some word or message. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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, +<a id="page-342" class="pagenum" title="342"></a> +but I couldn’t budge one of them; not an inch. +And then his little sister’s <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fiancé</span> 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....” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-343" class="pagenum" title="343"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +<a id="page-344" class="pagenum" title="344"></a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<a id="page-345" class="pagenum" title="345"></a> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <em>must</em> be off. Good-bye....” +</p> + +<p> +He was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Barnaby smiled. “So Benny’s aunts in the +various parts of Europe will at least be safe from +Benny’s ridiculously inadequate shooting.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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...?” +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-346" class="pagenum" title="346"></a> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Barnaby. +</p> + +<p> +“I? Oh, I don’t know where I come in. I think +I don’t come in at all....” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. “I understand. May I say I’m +sorry for you? You know I don’t mean it as an +<a id="page-347" class="pagenum" title="347"></a> +insult.... What is to become of you, though?” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled wearily. “I suppose I too—just go +on....” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I’m afraid you’re the symbol of what has +to be sacrificed to the love between man and man.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everybody seems to imagine that you’re abnormal +because you <em>like</em> 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 +<a id="page-348" class="pagenum" title="348"></a> +them think it’s your own choice, and that you +enjoy being different!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a pity no one thinks of saving the guilty +for the sake of the innocent!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused, and went on: “They <em>do</em> 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 +<a id="page-349" class="pagenum" title="349"></a> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +With brimming eyes she listened to him; and +then she put the question that Mrs. Blackwood had +so often put to her: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you ... think Dennis will be all right?” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +<a id="page-350" class="pagenum" title="350"></a> +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....” +</p> + +<p class="end"> +THE END. +</p> + +<div class="trnote chapter"> +<p class="transnote"> +Transcriber’s Notes +</p> + +<p> +New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain. +</p> + +<p> +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> + + + +<ul> + +<li> +... At least, so <span class="underline">though</span> Antoinette, who from childhood ...<br> +... At least, so <a href="#corr-4"><span class="underline">thought</span></a> Antoinette, who from childhood ...<br> +</li> + +<li> +... I’d got to be musician, even if it did mean being ...<br> +... I’d got to be <a href="#corr-6"><span class="underline">a</span></a> musician, even if it did mean being ...<br> +</li> + +<li> +... it’th nithe to <span class="underline">thart</span> booking up before the danthe ...<br> +... it’th nithe to <a href="#corr-11"><span class="underline">thtart</span></a> booking up before the danthe ...<br> +</li> + +<li> +... be a <span class="underline">drug</span> upon the market,” exclaimed Griggs with ...<br> +... be a <a href="#corr-12"><span class="underline">drag</span></a> upon the market,” exclaimed Griggs with ...<br> +</li> + +<li> +... <span class="underline">she’s</span> takes Belgium’s name in vain to hide her ...<br> +... <a href="#corr-18"><span class="underline">she</span></a> takes Belgium’s name in vain to hide her ...<br> +</li> + +<li> +... “Letters <span class="underline">has</span> passed between them. Then the ...<br> +... “Letters <a href="#corr-22"><span class="underline">had</span></a> passed between them. Then the ...<br> +</li> + +<li> +... him accordingly. Crispin <span class="underline">led</span> them cherish. It ...<br> +... him accordingly. Crispin <a href="#corr-30"><span class="underline">lets</span></a> them cherish. It ...<br> +</li> + +<li> +... her so happy—I feel <span class="underline">is</span> if I’d lost a son, too.” She ...<br> +... her so happy—I feel <a href="#corr-34"><span class="underline">as</span></a> if I’d lost a son, too.” She ...<br> +</li> +</ul> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79286 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/79286-h/images/cover.jpg b/79286-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e727003 --- /dev/null +++ b/79286-h/images/cover.jpg |
