Chapter VIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very kind,” assented Mrs. Blackwood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tho am I!” giggled Amy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reggie said: “Daresay we could.”

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

Reggie nodded with his mouth full.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not?” queried Ottilie doubtfully.

“Of course not.”

“_Verrückt_ ...” muttered Ottilie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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