And suddenly the oak door opened, flung wide by a hand not accustomed to doing things by halves, and there she was confronting them indeed, with head up and eyes challenging, a tall, brown, imperious girl with a great plait of dark hair coiled like an attendant serpent over one shoulder, and a guitar-case in her hand.

  Felicity rocked back on her heels, startled into a sharp and childish giggle of embarrassment. The procession at her back halted as abruptly, with a succession of soft, clumsy collisions, like a Bank-Holiday queue of ambling cars suddenly forced to brake sharply. It would all have been a little ridiculous, but for the composure with which the newcomer marched into the gallery and looked them over, undisturbed and unimpressed. Her glance passed over the whole group in one sweep, riding over their heads and rejecting all but the tallest. She found Lucien, alert, dark and still against the wall. There she fixed, and looked no farther.

  Tossa, watching from the fringe of the group, literally saw the flash and felt the shock as their eyes locked, and her fingers reached for Dominic’s sleeve. The tension between those two set everyone quivering, even those who were too insensitive to understand why. And yet they could hardly have maintained a more stony assurance, calmer faces or stiller bodies. Only for the briefest instant had the daggers shown in two pairs of eyes now veiled, and cool. The girl’s face wore a newcomer’s polite, perfunctory smile, she was looking clean through Lucien and failing to see him, she had excised him from her field of vision. But the pressure of Tossa’s fingers, alert and excited, directed attention rather to Lucien himself. So far from crossing the stranger out of his notice, he was staring at her frankly and directly, trying to see deep into her and read some significance into what he saw; but if he was getting much information out of that closed and aloof face, thought Tossa, he must be clairvoyant. The glint in his eyes might have been alarm, or animosity or, curiously, elation. He might, for that matter, be the kind of person who would find a certain elation in the promise of a stand-up fight.

  The instant of surprise and silence was gone almost before they had recorded it. The girl with the guitar turned to Felicity, and was opening her lips to speak when the high, self-confident voice of Dickie Meurice gave tongue smoothly and joyously:

  “Well, well, well! Just look who’s here!” And he danced forward with arms outspread, took the girl’s hands in his, guitar and all, and pumped and pressed them enthusiastically. Her dark brows rose slightly, but she tolerated the liberty without protest.

  “Hullo, Dickie, I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

  “I didn’t know you were. For goodness sake, why didn’t they have your name on the prospectus?”

  “They didn’t know I was coming, and I’m not here to perform. I came as a student, like anybody else.”

  “Come off it!” said Meurice, laughing, and tapped the guitar-case. “You think you’re the sort of girl who can take her harp to a party without anybody asking her to play? Not while I’m around!” He laid an arm familiarly about her shoulders, and turned her to face the company. “Don’t you know who we’ve got here? Just about the greatest ballad-singer this side of the Atlantic, that’s who. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m proud to present to you none other than the great Liri Palmer.”

  CHAPTER II

  « ^ »

  EDWARD ARUNDALE made his speech of welcome in the small drawing-room before dinner, against the sombre splendour of black, white and heavy gilt décor that might have been specially designed to render him more impressive. He expressed his pleasure at having so intelligent and enthusiastic a company beneath the roof of his college, outlined the origin and history of the Follymead foundation, wished them a very pleasant and productive week-end, and deeply regretted that he himself wouldn’t be able to enjoy the whole of it with them, since to-morrow afternoon he had to leave to fulfil two speaking engagements in Birmingham, and would not be back until Sunday evening. After this evening, therefore, he would be handing over direction of the course to his deputy, Henry Marshall, – Mr. Marshall, who was young, anxious and only too well aware of being on trial, smiled nervously – and Professor Roderick Penrose, whose name and reputation were certainly known to everyone interested in folk-music. Mr. Arundale wouldn’t claim that folk-music was the professor’s subject; he would prefer to describe it as his passion and if he held some unusual and controversial opinions on it, the discussion during the week-end would be all the livelier.

  Professor Penrose, who was seventy-five, bursting with energy, and just beginning to take full advantage of the privileges of age, notably its irresponsibility and licence, grinned happily, fluffed up his clown’s-tufts of grey hair with eager fingers, and licked his lips in anticipation. He couldn’t wait to get his carnivorous teeth into all the sacred cows of the cult.

  Then they trooped in to dinner in the neo-Gothic vaulted hall, still hung with Cothercott tapestries and lit by great torches (electric now) jutting from the gold and scarlet walls. Audrey Arundale, dazzlingly fair in her plain black dress, sat beside her husband, looked beautiful, kept a careful watch on the conversation, and said and did all the right things at all the right moments. That is what the wives of the Edward Arundales are for, though they may also, incidentally, be loved helplessly and utterly, as Audrey was loved.

  She was fifteen years his junior, and looked even younger. He had never grown tired of looking at her, never lost the power to feel again the knife-thrust of astonishment, anguish and delight that possession of her beauty gave him. He still hated to leave her even for a day.

  “I wish you were coming with me,” he said impulsively in her ear. The young people were getting into their stride, you could gauge the potential success of a course by the crescendo of noise at their first meal together. He smiled at her quickly and reassuringly. “No, I know you can’t, of course. I wouldn’t take you away from this, I know how much you’re going to enjoy it.”

  “It’s just that I really began it,” she said apologetically. Her voice had something of the quality of her eyes, hesitant and faintly anxious, as though even after twenty years of backing him up loyally, first as the revered head of Bannerets and now here, she was still in doubt of her own powers, and still constantly braced to please. “I’ve really got to see it through, after getting Professor Penrose and all those others into it, haven’t I?”

  “Of course, my dear, I know. But I shall miss you. Never mind,” he said, letting his hand rest for a moment on hers, “let’s enjoy this first concert together, anyhow. It looks as if you’re going to have a success on your hands, by all the signs.”

  The noise by then was almost deafening but there were those who observed that Lucien Galt wasn’t contributing much to it, and neither was Liri Palmer.

  “To-morrow,” said Professor Penrose, rubbing his hands, “will be time enough to begin haggling about all the usual questions, such as definition and standards, what’s permissible and what isn’t, who has it right and who has it wrong. To-night we’re going to enjoy ourselves. We have here with us a number of recognised artists in the field, whose judgement of their material ought to command respect. Let’s ask them, not to tell us, but to show us. We’ll get them to sing their favourites, songs they take as beyond question or reproach. And then we’ll examine the results together, and see what we find.”

  “Now you got me scared,” said Peter Crewe plaintively, and got a mild laugh from under Dickie Meurice’s nose; but his time was coming.

  “Mr. Crewe, you are probably the safest person around here. We shall see! Don’t let me cast any shadows. I’m retiring into the audience as of now.” The professor, a born chameleon, was taking on colouring, from his American artist without even realising it. “Here and now I hand over this session to an expert at putting people through hoops. Mr. Meurice, take over.”

  Mr. Meurice rose like a trout to a fly, and took over gleefully. The professor retired to a quiet corner beside the warden and his wife, and sat on the small of his back, legs crossed, looking at his specimens between his skidding glasses and his shaggy brows, and grinning wolfishly.

  “There’s really no need of any introductions at all tonight,” said Dicke Meurice, beaming. “If you people down there didn’t know all about all these people up here, you wouldn’t be here at all. All they need me for is to name them in order, and you could tell me everything I could tell you about them. Maybe more! I dare say there’s something even I could learn, this weekend. So let’s not waste time listening to me, but get on to the music. Ladies first! Celia, will you lead the way? You all know Celia Whitwood, the girl with the harp. It makes a change from guitars, doesn’t it?”

  It got a ripple of delight from his fans, but it was a very gentle joke for Dickie Meurice. “I thought he’d be cruder,” Tossa confided in a whisper.

  “He probably will,” returned Dominic as softly, “before he’s done. Just feeling his way. He’s no fool. This needs a different approach from a disc-jockey session.”

  Celia Whitwood settled her instrument comfortably, and sang “Two Fond Hearts” and “By the Sea-Shore,” both in Welsh, translating the words for those who did not know them. She had a small, shy voice, and at first was uncertain of the acoustics in the great yellow drawing-room, but by the end of the first song she had the feel of the space about her, and was using it confidently. She followed with “The Jute-Mill Song,” and made her harp do the mill noises for her. Peter Crewe sang “Times are Getting Hard.” “I’m Going Away” and “The Streets of Laredo”; Andrew Callum contributed two Tyne-side colliery songs and “The Bonny Earl of Moray” from across the border. And Dickie Meurice continued bland, bright and considerate, as though his judgement, too, was on trial.

  “All playing safe,” remarked Tossa disapprovingly.

  The Rossignol twins began with a ballad-like thriller, grim and dramatic, “Le Roi a fait battre tambour.” They were twenty, flame-headed, of rather girlish prettiness but more than male toughness and impudence, and decidedly disturbing to watch, for one of them was left-handed, and one right, and they amused themselves by trading on this mirror-image appearance to such an extent that it had now become second nature. They followed with a lullaby in a dialect so thick it was plain they felt sure not even Professor Penrose would understand a word of it. “Quarrel with that!” said their innocent smiles. Then they consulted each other by means of two flicks of the eyebrows, cast a wicked glance at the professor, and broke into the honeyed, courtly melody of the fifteen-century “L’Amour de Moi.” They sang it like angels, with melting harmonies as gracious as the flowers they sang about. The professor nodded his ancient head and continued to smile.

  “Well, they trailed their coats, anyhow,” said Dominic.

  Lucien Galt began with “Helen of Kirkconnell.” There was no doubt from the opening that here was an artist of stature, first because nature had given him a voice of great beauty, a warm, flexible baritone that would have been attractive even without art, and second, because he had the rare gift of total absorption in what he did, so that he lost them utterly while the song lasted. He was the bereaved lover hunting Helen’s murderer along the water-side, and hacking him in pieces for her sake. The voice that had been all honey and grief over her body could find gravel and hate when it needed them. He was all the more compelling because everything he did was understated, but the passion vibrated behind the quietness with an intensity that had them holding their breath. He seemed surprised when they applauded him; probably for the duration, of that experience he had forgotten they were there.

  Next he sang “The Croppy Boy,” a venturesome choice for somebody without a drop of Irish blood; nor did he attempt to put on the Irish. He sang it like an Englishman possessed by the guilt of England past, and with an unexpected simplicity that made the child-soldier’s last innocent confession almost unendurably touching:

  “ ‘I’ve cursed three times since last Easter Day.

  At Mass-time once I went to play.

  I passed through the churchyard one day in haste

  And forgot to pray for my mother’s rest’.”

  By the time he reached:

  “ ‘Good people who dwell in peace and joy.

  Breathe a prayer and a tear for the Croppy boy’.”

  he had several of the teen-age girls in tears. That startled him, too, but he was disarmed. It was the first time Tossa and Dominic had seen him look kindly at his fans.

  “And what’s the third one to be?” asked Meurice amiably.

  Lucien thought for a moment, his lip caught between his teeth, his fingers muting the strings of his guitar. He looked across the rows and rows of expectant students, and Dominic, turning his head to follow that glance, caught a glimpse of Liri Palmer’s chiselled profile and great coil of brown hair. She sat at the back of the assembly, attentive and still. There was no reading anything into her face.

  Lucien began to sing. They all knew the air as “Believe me if all those endearing young charms,” but that was not what he was singing.

  “ ‘My lodging is on the cold, cold ground.

  And hard, very hard is my fare.

  But what doth me the more confound

  Is the coldness of my dear.

  Yet still I cry, O turn, love.

  I prithee, love, turn to me.

  For thou art the only one, love.

  That art adored by me.

  I’ll twine thee a garland of straw, love.

  I’ll marry thee with a rush ring.

  My frozen hopes will thaw, love.

  And merrily we will sing.

  Then turn to me, my own love.

  I prithee, love, turn to me.

  For thou art the only one, love.

  That art adored by me’.”

  “That ought to fetch her,” whispered Tossa, shaken, “if anything can.”

  Dominic was astonished. He hadn’t noticed this incalculable girl of his following any significant glances, and yet it seemed she knew very well what was going on. He wished he did. There was certainly something, and there was a tension in the air that threatened more; yet nobody else seemed to have noticed anything. Maybe all the girls took that declaration to themselves, and applauded it accordingly; and it was just possible – wasn’t it? – that that applied to Tossa, too.

  “Now hold your horses a minute,” beamed Dickie Meurice, fanning down the applause. “We haven’t finished yet. Oh, yes, I know that’s all we promised you, but we’ve still got a card up our sleeve, you’ll find. Some of you know it already, but to most of you it’ll be great news. Do you know who’s been modest enough to come along to this course as a student? She’s right there among you at this moment, maybe some of you talked to her at dinner and never realised. Liri… Liri Palmer! It’s no use trying to hide back there. I know where you are.” She hadn’t moved, not even a muscle of her disdainful face. She didn’t want to be haled out of her anonymity, but she certainly wasn’t hiding even from the crack of doom.

  “Yes, folks, that’s the whole secret. Liri Palmer is here among us. There she sits! Now you give her a big hand, and maybe she’ll surrender.”

  He was growing by the minute, expanding to fill the twenty-one inch screen that wasn’t there, to dominate the cameras, the emotions and the events of this evening. This was what he’d been waiting for.

  “Come along, Liri, don’t cheat us. You can’t blame us for wanting you. Come up here where you belong, and let us hear from you.”

  Every head had turned by this time, even the slowest of them had located her, even those who knew nothing about her had identified her by the glutinous stares of the others. Someone began to applaud, and all the rest took it up like a rising wave.

  “Come on, Liri, we’re all waiting just for you.”

  She rose from her chair, but only to gain a hearing. “I came to listen, you must excuse me. And I haven’t got my guitar down here.”

  “Lucien will lend you his guitar, I’m sure. Come on, you can’t disappoint everyone. Lucien, don’t just sit there, help me out. If you ask her, I’m sure she’ll come.”

  Lucien Galt was seen for once out of countenance, and that in itself was astonishing. He sat shaken and mute, staring across the array of hopeful faces to where Liri stood braced and annoyed, her brows drawn down in a formidable scowl. It was Lucien who flushed and stammered.

  “Yes, Liri, please do. You’d be giving everyone so much pleasure.”

  There could have been no milder invitation, but what happened next was more like the formal acceptance of a challenge.

  “Very well,” said Liri abruptly, “since you ask me.” And she walked fiercely up the gangway between the goggling fans, and stepped up on to the concert dais in the great window-embrasure, where the artists sat. She took the offered guitar, sat down on the forward edge of Dickie Meurice’s table, and stroked the strings, frowning. There was a moment of absolute silence, while she seemed to forget they existed, and only to be gathering herself for a private outburst. Then the whole drawing-room shook to the shuddering chords she fetched out of Lucien’s instrument, and she lifted her head and poised her silver-pure entry with piercing accuracy, like a knife in the heart:

  “Black, black, black, is the colour of my true-love’s heart!

  His tongue is like a poisoned dart.

  The coldest eyes and the lewdest hands…

  I hate the ground whereon he stands!

  “I hate my love, yet well he knows.

  I love the ground whereon he goes.

  And if my love no more I see

  No one shall have his company!

  “Black, black, black, is the colour of my true-love’s heart…”