Chapter II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Antoinette went upstairs with her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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