CHAPTER I

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Comparatively speaking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reggie shook his head in silence.

“Aren’t you going to be the Dauphin?” his mother persisted. “I thought it would be such a nice part for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Opposing temperaments?” suggested Hester.

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

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

There was a frown between Mrs. Blackwood’s eyes now. She appeared to be looking straight at Hester, yet without seeing her; and a second later, at the sunlit lawn and the first tee of the hotel golf links, yet without seeing them either. Her concentrated gaze evidently beheld something that had nothing whatever to do with Hester or the lawn or the golf links. She said in a troubled voice: “Yes—yes, perhaps he is, I don’t really know—of course as long as he’s happy—.” She broke off abruptly and fell silent. Hester watched her. So she had reserves after all, this provincial chatterbox, despite her readiness to discuss her own and other people’s affairs. But whatever it was that Hester imagined to have glimpsed, was hidden away again the next moment, beneath the flow of light conversation that had broken out afresh. “He’s been staying up in London with a friend, Mr. Burgess, for the Russian opera season, they’re both so interested in it. Mr. Burgess is musical too—plays the piano, but he doesn’t compose like Dennis does. Still,

it’s nice for them to have something in common, isn’t it? And now they’re off on a walking tour through Devonshire, and as we’re on the Great Western line here, Dennis promised that they would spend the week-end with us on their way down.” She went on, “I wish they were staying longer; I’m sure Dennis would like it here, though he always says he hates hotels. But it’s the people who make the place, isn’t it? And I do think they’re such a nice set of people here, don’t you, Miss Cawthorn?”

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

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

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

“What about Clive?” laughed Hester.

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

husband, of Clive and Reggie—with affection, with admiration, with respect even, when she spoke of Dennis or, as at the present moment, remained silent about him, there was about her whole manner something which suggested that the love she bore him was more poignant, and therefore more secret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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