Miss Foster really was a much-tried woman. Just as she had settled comfortably into her groove, just as she had got the domestic arrangements in B. House to run on oiled wheels exactly in the direction she desired, just as the whole household had learnt that her will was law and her methods the only possible methods, there came this girl--this most upsetting, disorganising, disturbing girl: a girl as impossible to ignore as to coerce; a girl whose all-pervading presence was made manifest in every corner of the house.
Miss Foster was above all things orderly. She made a fetish of tidiness, and her drawing-room was its temple. She had arranged it entirely to her own liking, and the furniture was as the fixed stars in the fabric of the firmament. It really pained and distressed her should a fidgeting guest move a chair ever so little out of its own proper orbit, and she quite longed for such an one to depart that she might promptly push the errant piece of furniture back into its original position. In her eyes the drawing-room was perfect, incapable of improvement, and any alteration therein must of necessity be for the worse.
Imagine her feelings then when she came back to find a grand piano and a harp added to its effects! Even this she might have borne had the harp remained quietly in some inconspicuous corner; but it proved a restless and ubiquitous instrument, and she never knew where she might find it next.
Lallie could not move it herself, and she would ring for one of the maids to help her; and once moved would leave it where it was, even though three chairs and a sofa had been displaced to make room for it. Before her arrival the drawing-room had never been used in the morning unless for the reception of some lunching parent. The fire had been lit at two precisely, and up to three o'clock Miss Foster rarely entered the room unless to arrange the two vases of flowers that always graced the mantelpiece. Miss Foster was of the opinion that there was something irregular, Bohemian, almost disreputable, in using a drawing-room for any other purpose than that of receiving friends; and it seemed to her to emphasise the unpleasant fact of Lallie's Irish origin, that now the girl invaded this sacred room directly after breakfast, and that the fire was lit before by Tony Bevan's orders.
Lallie practised there, sewed there, even cut things out there upon the gate table that hitherto had never been unfolded except for afternoon tea.
She would leave her green silk work-bag hanging on the backs of chairs or slung carelessly upon any excrescence that happened to be handy, such as the bell or the knob of a Chippendale tallboys. She left books about on unaccustomed tables, and had been known to fling the newspaper outspread and sprawling, loose and flagrant, upon the Chesterfield that stood in stately comfort at a convenient distance from the hearth.
Everywhere there were traces of Lallie. When she sewed, and she was always sewing if she wasn't knitting, she dropped bits of thread and snippets of material upon the carpet, sometimes even pins.
A large old-fashioned footstool was placed in the very centre of the hearthrug right against the tall brass fender. Miss Foster liked it there, and it had never been moved or even used except when some unusually bold boy would sit thereon and warm his back when he came to tea. Lallie was for ever moving that stool. Nearly all the chairs in the drawing-room were rather high, and she liked a footstool. It never occurred to her that the footstool was to be considered in any other light than as a footstool, and she dragged it about to whatsoever chair she wanted to sit in, sometimes curling up the edge of the hearthrug in her course.
"A footstool by the hearth so prim,
An oaken footstool was to him
And it was nothing more"--
Only in this case the him was a her, which made such insensibility even more unpardonable in Miss Foster's eyes.
Why do you always move the footstool, Miss Clonmell? she asked one day.
Because the chairs are so tall and my legs are so short, Lallie answered.
The chairs are of the usual height. Chairs are not nowadays manufactured for pigmies, Miss Foster said severely.
Did they use to be? Lallie demanded with interest.
No one has ever complained of the chairs in this house before, Miss Foster continued, ignoring Lallie's question.
I never complained of them, Miss Foster. They're very nice chairs as chairs go: a bit straight and stiff, perhaps, but quite endurable if one has a footstool. Tony has comfortable chairs in his room. I wonder how men always manage to get such comfortable chairs? It's the same at home; Dad has always the best of the chairs in his den, though I must say we have a good many that are pretty decent.
The hearth does look so naked without that stool, Miss Foster lamented.
I'll try to remember to put it back when I've done with it, Lallie said, with undiminished sweetness; "but I'm not very good at putting things back."
That I have already observed, Miss Clonmell, and it is a pity. No untidy person has ever achieved real greatness.
Are you sure, Miss Foster? That's rather a sweeping assertion.
I believe it to be a fact, Miss Foster replied coldly, "although it is quite possible you may be able to bring forward one or two examples to the contrary."
I'm trying to think of all the lives of great men that ever I've read, and I can't remember if it said they were tidy or not. I've an idea some of them were not. Goldsmith now----
Goldsmith was Irish, Miss Foster interrupted.
So was Wellington; so's Lord Roberts.
Miss Foster, without being at all sure of her facts, longed to point out that orderliness was a striking characteristic of both these heroes, but the fact of their nationality deterred her.
I fear, Lallie went on, "that Shakespeare must have had a niggly sort of mind in some ways in spite of his genius, because he left his wife the second-best bed. If he'd been an ordinary, careless, good-natured kind of man he'd never have remembered to specify which bed. Perhaps, though"--and here Lallie spoke more cheerfully, as though she suddenly perceived a rift in this cloud resting upon Shakespeare's memory--"it was his wife who was so tiresome and finnicky, always pestering him about not using the best things, so he left her the second-best bed as a punishment."
Miss Foster made no reply, but opened the Spectator with a flourish and held it up in front of her as a screen.
Don't you think that is possible, Miss Foster? Lallie persisted.
I must refuse to discuss any such absurd contingency. I have already told you that I believe disorderly personal habits to be incompatible with true greatness of character.
Lallie sighed deeply.
It sounds like a police court case, she said sadly. "'Lallie Clonmell, having no visible means of subsistence, and giving no address, was yesterday arrested as being of "disorderly personal habits."' Well, Tony would come and bail me out if the worst came to the worst. And yet I'm considered very tidy and managing at home; quite a sort of Mrs. Shakespeare, in fact. Everything depends on environment."
Miss Foster made no answer. Literally and figuratively she had wrapped herself up in the Spectator.
But the harp, the piano, the bits of cotton dropped on the floor were mere venial offences compared to the sin of making dirty footmarks upon the stair carpet.
The front staircase at B. House is imposing, wide, and Y-shaped. The first broad flight of steps starts from the centre of the large square hall. Half way up it branches into two, terminating at opposite ends of the landing upon which open the chief bedrooms, and the assistant-master's sitting-room. It is a handsome staircase of polished oak--no other house in Hamchester College has one half so fine--and it was at that time carpeted with a particularly soft and thick, self-coloured, art-blue carpet that matched the walls.
When the master of the house found how conspicuous were muddy or dirty footmarks on this same carpet, and how such defacement distressed Miss Foster who had chosen it, he always used the boys' staircase whenever he went to his room to change. So did Mr. Johns. Till Lallie came no one save Miss Foster ever used the front staircase at all, and she was most careful never to ascend by it if her boots were either muddy or dusty. She therefore saw no reason why Lallie should not show equal forethought, especially as there was no chance of her guest meeting any of the boys on the back staircase, as they were never allowed to go up to the dormitories during the day.
Alas! Lallie showed no disposition to consider the welfare of the carpet, but ran lightly up to her room by the front stairs no matter how dirty her boots, and she often left the clear impression of a small sole on every step.
The third time this occurred Miss Foster met her just outside her bedroom door, and remarked with some acerbity:
Haven't you discovered the other staircase yet, Miss Clonmell? It really is the shortest way to your room.
I like these stairs best, thank you. I'm not used to wooden stairs; my feet make such a patter it disturbs me.
But look at the marks your feet have made on the carpet, Miss Foster expostulated indignantly.
Lallie went to the top of the stairs and looked down.
They're very little marks, she said consolingly. "My worst enemy couldn't say I've big feet."
Quite large enough to make ugly and distressing stains when the feet happen to be muddy. Don't you see how every mark shows on that plain carpet?
Yes, it must be tiresome, Lallie said coolly, as though she and the footmarks had nothing whatever to do with one another. "It's a pity Tony went and chose a colour like that where people have always to be going up and down, but it's just like a man not to think of these things."
Miss Foster was really angry.
There is no necessity for any one to go up and down with dirty feet, Miss Clonmell.
Lallie's cheeks flushed pink, and the eyes that met Miss Foster's were bright with defiance as she said softly and distinctly:
When Mr. Bevan asks me to use the back staircase I'll do it; so far, he has not so much as suggested it, and with her head in the air Lallie marched across the landing to her room and shut the door very quietly, with ostentatious care that it should latch effectively.
It was a declaration of war, and, as such, Miss Foster received it.
That evening Miss Foster unbosomed herself in a letter to her favourite niece--the niece whose wedding she had attended when Lallie, as she described it, "sneaked in" during her absence.
"That girl's presence becomes more and more irksome every day, and I really do feel that her prolonged stay is likely to be a serious menace to the peace of B. House. You know how undesirable and unwholesome it is for manly boys to have anything whatever to do with girls of that sort, the sort that is always polite and pleasant, making them think far too much of themselves. It isn't exactly what she says that one can object to, though any conversation I have overheard is always extremely foolish, but she has a way of looking up under her eyelashes--I do dislike very thick black eyelashes in a grown-up person, they give such a made-up look to the face--that is most objectionable. She is not a pretty girl, quite pale and insignificant, and so small; but as I say she flatters men, and young and old they all seem perfectly silly about her, and therefore she is a most dangerous and disturbing influence. It is particularly trying for me, for the tone of B. House has always been so high ever since I came here; and I cannot but feel that this girl has imported an atmosphere of noisy frivolity and insubordination that must lead to moral deterioration. So far I have not discovered anything with regard to the boys that one can exactly complain of, but I have no doubt whatever that she is sly and underhand. The Irish are proverbially untrustworthy, and she seems to me to embody all the worst characteristics of that stormy and unreliable race. People here make a great fuss about her singing and playing, but I never was an admirer of loud voices, and particularly dislike her theatrical and affected way of singing. 'Dramatic' they call it, but to my thinking it is simply unladylike! I have no patience with people who can work themselves up into a state about nothing at all. I can appreciate a good concert now and then as much as anybody; but to have constant shouting and thrumming going on in my drawing-room is a very real trial. It's not only herself, but other people come to sing duets and practise their songs. Young masters who never entered the house before come now and bawl for hours, because they say she is such a beautiful accompanist. They come to flirt with her, that's what they come for; and dear, innocent Mr. Bevan never seems to see it. It is extraordinary how blind men are to the wiles of a designing girl.
" "As you may imagine a girl of any sort is rather a white elephant in a house like this, but had she been a nice, sensible, ordinary girl, with no nonsense about her, I would have managed. As it is, I don't know what may happen. Goodness knows how many other instruments she can play. I always enter the drawing-room in fear and trembling lest a drum and a trombone be added to the existing collection. Mrs. Wentworth has chosen to make a great fuss of her, and she, in her turn, makes a great fuss of the children. As you know I am not one of those who go about raving over Mrs. Wentworth. I could not truckle like some of them to that commonplace little woman. I am surprised that Dr. Wentworth has not himself suggested the desirability of Miss Clonmell's departure before this. But men are curious. They will let an abuse continue till it becomes absolutely intolerable rather than interfere with one another. It has struck me again and again since I came here how procrastinating men are, how extremely unwilling to speak the word in season. Well, I intend to do my part, cost what it may; my vigilance shall be untiring; and when I find, as I have no doubt I shall find, that that girl has overstepped the limits of propriety I shall go straight to Mr. Bevan with the facts. Then he cannot refuse to act firmly in the interest of the House. So far we have been free from any infectious disease. If only the other houses were as carefully disinfected and watched as this one, such illnesses might be stamped out altogether. Yet whenever I suggest my methods to those in charge of other houses I receive but scant sympathy or even thanks.""
"Meanwhile, Tony was daily getting more and more used to Lallie's presence. The pleasant, almost exciting sense of novelty had worn off, giving place to a still pleasanter feeling of familiar security.
She would be there when he got back, this girl with the soft full voice and delightful welcoming manner, and he found himself watching the clock like the laziest boy in his form during the last hour of afternoon school.
For years past, although he lived in a crowd and possessed troops of friends, he had been rather a lonely man, and his loneliness was accentuated rather than lessened when he came into possession of B. House.
Truly you may call it a 'house,' he said to a congratulating college friend. "It's far less of a home than my old diggings. I don't feel as though a single stick of the furniture really belongs to me except my old arm-chair and my desk."
Now, however, he thought more fondly of B. House; particularly of his study, where he knew that he would find a bright fire, the little tea-table drawn up beside his chair, and the brass kettle singing merrily over the spirit lamp. Not that these things were new. There had always been tea laid for him in his study when he came in at half-past five; but now it was Lallie who made the tea, not Ford, and Lallie made excellent tea. Moreover, she always had a great deal to ask and to tell. She took the deepest interest in all College matters, and absolutely declined to regard anything from a tutorial standpoint; and this in itself was restful and refreshing to Tony.
To her, Tony Bevan was above all the old friend tried by time; "the best of good sorts," "the decentest old thing." That he happened also to be a schoolmaster was perhaps unfortunate, but she generously declined to let this regrettable fact influence her attitude towards him.
She knew well that he wanted her above all things to be happy, and with him she always was happy. Furthermore she had loyally kept her resolution not to worry Tony with any knowledge of the friction that existed between herself and Miss Foster. He was not much at B. House, and being of a good-natured and tolerant disposition himself, he always gave other people credit for being similarly well disposed until he had ample proof to the contrary. Besides, in his presence Lallie and Miss Foster almost unconsciously adopted a manner towards one another that was at least free from signs of open hostility.
When Lallie had been a week at B. House she took her host's personal appearance firmly in hand. In the morning she flew after him to brush his coat before he went up to College. She exclaimed indignantly at the "bagsomeness" of his trouser knees. Finding that he did not possess any form of trouser-press she insisted on his going with her into the town to buy one. And when it was sent home, she folded the offending garments and placed them in it herself. She objected to ties that looked "like a worn-out garter," and said so. She even suggested that certain old and well-loved coats might be sent to the Mission, but here Tony was firm in his opposition. He would buy a new suit to please her, but part with his old coats he would not; and Lallie was far too diplomatic to press the matter.
She tried always to be at home to make tea for him when he came in at half-past five, and cut short many a tea-party to keep this tryst. She was in great demand at other houses, especially the houses where the heads were musical.
She was waiting for Tony on the evening of the footprint encounter with Miss Foster, and when she had fed and warmed and cosseted him generally she sat down in the big chair opposite his and faced him squarely, announcing:
Hunting begins this week, Tony.
Does it really? How the year is getting on.
Tony, dear, don't you think I might hunt if I took out one of the men from the riding school as groom--just one day a week?
Tony shook his head.
If your father had wanted you to hunt I am sure he would have suggested it, and he would probably have made arrangements for you to have a couple of the horses over; but he has never so much as mentioned it, and I can't let you do it on my own responsibility. I don't believe he'd like it for you here either. It isn't as if I could go with you.
Much good you'd be if you could go with me. You know, Tony, you are not at your best across a horse. As for Dad not having made arrangements--this Indian trip was got up and settled in such a tremendous hurry, he had no time to think about me at all. Listen to me now! How would you feel if when they began to mow the grass in May, and the good smell was in the air, and you saw all the others in their flannels, and heard all round you the nice deep ring of the cricket balls--and you mightn't play a stroke, and your arm as strong and your eye as true as ever it was. How would you like it?
I shouldn't like it at all; but----
Well, then, think of me. The smell of the wet dead leaves and the south wind blowing the soft rain against my face is just as full of association for me. And I never go out but I see long strings of horses in their nice new clothing, the dear darlings! And me, ME, that has gone hunting on the opening day ever since I could sit a fat little Shetland pony, ME to stay pokily at home! Tony, I simply can't! You must let me.
Lallie, the two cases are not analogous. You can go out riding whenever you like, provided you take a man; but hunting, no. Not without your father's permission. Especially here, you are too young--too----
Too what? You can't say I'm timid. You can't say I couldn't ride any mount they choose to give me at that old school. Look here, Tony, suppose they said, 'You may play cricket--oh, yes, at the nets with a wee little junior boy to bowl to you; but no matches, no playing with people who play as well as you do'--would you say 'Thank you'? And that's precisely what you offer me. Let me tell you I ride just as well as you play cricket--blue and all; and to please you I've even gone pounding round that ridiculous racecourse with half a dozen other girls who sit a horse like a sack of potatoes, who'd be off at every bounce but for the pommel. D'you think I call that riding? Oh, Tony, dear, if I could just have one good gallop across country after the hounds, I'd be a better girl--much nicer and easier to get on with.
I don't find you particularly hard to get on with as it is.
Other people do, though--Lallie's conscience pricked her as to Miss Foster--"and I dare say I'm often a great nuisance; but once let me work the steam off on the back of a good horse and I'd be an angel. Just you let me go out with the hounds on Thursday and you'll see."
Lallie, my child, don't. I would if I could, but I simply dare not. Your father would never forgive me. It was quite different last winter when he was there himself to look after you.
My dear, good man, a hunting field isn't like the 'croc' of a girls' school. No one can 'look after' anybody else. You either ride straight or you potter, or you rush your fences and get in people's way. But whatever you do you're on your own. If you come a bad smash there's always a hurdle to lay you on, and a doctor and a farmhouse somewhere about. If you think Dad kept me in his pocket three days a week throughout the hunting season all these years, you've a more fertile imagination than I gave you credit for, and Dad would be the first to disillusion you. We went to the meets together, and after that we saw precious little of one another.
What about riding home?
Hardly ever did we come home together. Sometimes he got home first, sometimes I did; and whichever of us was first in got the bath, and the other was pretty sure to come pounding at the door before the early bird was out of it. You can't chaperon people out hunting. Why, by the time I'd been out three times here, I'd know the whole field, and you'd be perfectly happy knowing I was among friends.
Lallie sat forward in her chair gazing eagerly at Tony, who said nothing at all; but from the expression of his face it might have been gathered that this prediction of her speedy intimacy with all the field gave him no satisfaction whatever.
Well, Tony? she demanded impatiently.
I'm sorry, but it's impossible. You can write to Fitz if you like and ask him to cable his opinion.
No, indeed. I'll write and tell him that unless he cables forbidding me, I'm going to hunt. Dad will always do the easiest thing, and I know will never bother to cable forbidding me to do a thing I've done for years.
Lallie's voice was almost defiant, and poor Tony looked very pained, but he said nothing; and after a minute's silence she continued in a more conciliatory tone:
Then in a fortnight's time from next mail if I don't hear, I may hunt?
You must give him three weeks, for he may be up country, and his mail takes days to reach him after the agent gets it.
And by that time there'll be a frost; I didn't think it of you, Tony, I really didn't. In this matter you out-Emileen Aunt Emileen herself.
Tony rose.
You have my leave to depart, he said, opening the door for her; "I've a lot of letters to write, and those chaps are coming to bridge after dinner, so I must do them now."
Well, I think you're horrid, and if a slate falls on my head and kills me when I'm out walking, just you reflect how nice and safe I'd have been if I'd had my own way and been out in the open country.
I'll risk the slate, Tony remarked unfeelingly; but still he would not look at Lallie, who stood in the doorway gazing reproachfully at him.
And you're going to play bridge and have a nice time while I sit solemnly in the drawing-room making a waistcoat for you, ungrateful man. You've never asked me to take a hand, and I play quite well.
You see, this is a club; we meet at each other's houses--there are no ladies----
Of all the monastical establishments I've ever come across this is the strictest, and you call Ireland a priest-ridden country.
Lallie, I must write my letters.
At that moment Mr. Johns came into the hall, bearing a large and heavy book.
Well, you deny me everything that keeps me out of mischief--on your own head be it, said Lallie rapidly, in low tones of ominous menace. Then, turning to the newcomer, she smiled a radiant welcome, exclaiming joyously: "You've brought your snapshots to show me! How kind of you! I'm badly in need of something to cheer me up. Come into the drawing-room, for Mr. Bevan is busy and Miss Foster's out, so we'll have it all to ourselves."
With quite unnecessary violence Mr. Bevan rang the bell for Ford to take away tea. Yet, when Ford, looking rather aggrieved, had responded to his noisy summons and removed the tea-things with her customary quiet deftness, he did not sit down at once to deal with his correspondence. Instead, he went and stood in front of the fire staring at the Greuze girl who was so like Lallie.
He ran his fingers through his smooth thick hair--a sure sign of mental perturbation with Tony--and he made the discovery that he was furiously angry; not with Lallie, the wilful and inconsequent, but with the unoffending Mr. Johns.
Confound the fellow and his snapshots! thought Tony; "if there's one kind of hobby more detestable than another it's that of the ardent amateur photographer. A man given up to it is almost as bad as the chap who wears cotton-wool in his ears, and is always taking medicine. There were these two" (with the second-sight vouchsafed to most of us upon occasion, Tony was perfectly correct in his surmise) "sitting side by side on the sofa with their heads close together, and that great heavy book spread out on their joint knees. Heavens! he would be proposing to snapshot Lallie next" (which is precisely what Mr. Johns was doing at that moment). "He, Tony, would not have it. He would interfere, he would--" Suddenly, exclaiming aloud, "What an ass I am!" he sat down at his desk with the firm determination to attend to his letters. He drew a neatly docketed bundle towards him, and selected the top one. It was that of Uridge Major's father, who wrote pointing out what a steadying effect it would have upon the boy were he made a prefect that term. Tony dealt diplomatically with this, but instead of going methodically through the bundle as he had fully intended to do he drew from his pocket a letter he had received from Fitzroy Clonmell last mail. It consisted of two closely written sheets; the first mainly descriptive of the sport they were enjoying, and duly concluded with the pious hope that his daughter was behaving herself. This was manifestly intended to be shown to Lallie. It was the second sheet that Tony read and re-read when he ought to have been allaying the misgivings of anxious-minded parents.
By the way, it ran, "if one Sidney Bargrave Ballinger should happen to call upon Lallie while she is with you, be decent to him, will you? He fell hopelessly in love with her at Fareham last winter, and followed us to Ireland for fishing in the spring, when he proposed and she refused him. Consequently she is unlikely ever to have mentioned his name. The frankest and most garrulous creature about all that concerns herself, she is extraordinarily reticent as to things concerning other people, especially if she thinks it might be in any way unpleasant for them to have their affairs discussed. They parted quite good friends, and I take it as not unlikely that she might be brought to reconsider her decision. You will probably think him a bit of a crock--old son of Anak that you are! So he is in some ways, but he is also quite a good sort, refined, kind-hearted, and a gentleman; a Trinity man, with somewhat scholarly tastes. I am sure he would make her a good and indulgent husband. Besides, he has an uncommonly nice place in Garsetshire, and about eight thousand a year. He came into this money quite recently through the death of an uncle, and having now a 'stake in the country' he feels, I suppose, that he ought to be a bit of a sportsman, and he does his best to achieve that character, although I don't believe he has a single sporting instinct in him. He broke his collar-bone the second time he came out hunting last season; but he hunted again the minute it was mended, and rode as queerly as ever. He followed us to Kerry for fishing in April, and flogged the stream all day without getting a single rise; but he contrived to see something of Lallie, which was what he came for.
"Should he appear in Hamchester I'd like to know how he strikes you. I'm so horribly afraid she may want to marry some impecunious soldier chap imported by Paddy, who will carry her off to a vile climate where she would assuredly go under in a year or two, that it would be a real comfort to me to see her safely married to a good fellow who could give her all the pleasures she most cares for and has been accustomed to; and even if he isn't a sportsman himself would not be averse from her fond father occasionally sharing in the same--but this is a very secondary consideration. A son-in-law will be such an incubus that nothing he can bring in his hand will mitigate the nuisance much. Perhaps he won't turn up at all, but if he does, don't cold-shoulder him--he has my blessing. Give him his chance. She'll follow her own line of country in any long run, but there's no harm in giving her an occasional lead in the most desirable direction. I wish he hadn't been called Sidney, it's a name I detest; still, we can call him by his middle name if it ever reaches the necessity for a familiar appellation.
" "Salve atque vale. From yours.
""Fitz."
Tony knit his brows and pondered. Had Mr. Sidney Bargrave Ballinger already arrived? he wondered. Was that why Lallie was so ardently desirous of going out with the hounds on Thursday? No; he acquitted her of any form of stratagem. If she had seen the man she would have mentioned it. She always made a bee-line for anything she wanted, and intrigue was as foreign to her nature as mischief-making.
He was worried and irritable; he couldn't settle to his letters; and he felt quite unaccountably annoyed with Fitz for thus shifting the burden of responsibility from his own shoulders to Tony's. And Tony, being of a just and charitable temperament, took himself seriously to task for having instantaneously and irrevocably taken a violent dislike to the unseen and unknown Sidney Bargrave Ballinger.
That evening Dr. and Mrs. Wentworth dined alone. This was quite an unusual occurrence, for their circle of friends was large and they were exceedingly hospitable. As there was nobody to entertain after dinner Mrs. Wentworth went and sat in her husband's study and "relaxed her mind over a book," while he wrote some of the innumerable and inevitable letters that fall to the lot of every headmaster. The answers to parental missives were generally submitted to Mrs. Wentworth's criticism, and she insisted upon his softening the asperities occasioned by their frequent ineptness. Dr. Wentworth did not suffer fools gladly, but his wife regarded such things from the maternal standpoint; consequently the headmaster of Hamchester got credit for a sympathetic attitude he by no means deserved.
At that moment he was dealing with the case of one Pinner, an extremely stupid boy of seventeen in a low form, whose mother wrote saying she would like him to begin at once to specialise with a view to entering the Indian Civil Service later on.
Suddenly Mrs. Wentworth laid down her book and sat listening.
Isn't that one of the children? she asked.
Dr. Wentworth, deep in the demolition of Pinner's prospects, did not answer.
I'm sure it's one of the children, Mrs. Wentworth repeated, and hastened upstairs.
Dismal wails smote upon her ear as she neared the night nurseries, and she found Punch sitting up in bed flushed and tearful, and not to be pacified by his devoted nurse who was standing by his cot alternately soothing and remonstrating.
Hush, Punch! you'll wake Pris and Prue in the next room. What is the matter? Did you have a bad dream? Were you frightened?
No, Punch proclaimed in a muffled sort of roar, "I'm not fitened, but I can't sleep because she won't sing Kevin. I can't mimember it and I can't sleep. Oh, do sing Kevin."
I don't know what he means, mum, nurse exclaimed distractedly. "Is it a hymn, do you think?"
No, bawled Punch indignantly; "t'int a hymn. Oh, do sing Kevin," he wailed, standing up in his cot with his arms round his mother's neck and his hot, tear-stained little face pressed against hers.
But, Punch, dear, what is Kevin? Of course I'll sing it if you'll only explain.
But you can't, lamented Punch; and inconsequent as inconsolable he reiterated, "Oh, do sing Kevin."
But who can sing this song? Mrs. Wentworth asked. "Where have you heard it?"
Lallie singed it. Oh, do get Lallie. Lallie knows Kevin.
I can't get Lallie to come and sing for you in the middle of the night. You mustn't be unreasonable. You must wait until next time you see her--perhaps to-morrow--then you can ask her to sing for you.
T'int the miggle of the night, Punch retorted scornfully, "or you'd be wearing a nighty gown. Please, dear mudger, get Lallie, ven she'll sing Kevin and I'll go to sleep."
Mrs. Wentworth and the nurse exchanged glances across the cot.
'Tis but a step across the playground to B. House, the nurse said in a low voice. "I know the young lady would pop over. He's been goin' on like this for over an hour."
Punch had ceased to wail; now he loosed his arms from about his mother's neck, sat back on his pillow, and looked from one to the other of the anxious faces on either side of him.
He's such a obstinate boy, she murmured. "He'll never give up wanting it, and she can sing Kevin."
Mrs. Wentworth tried hard to look stern.
Daddie wouldn't like it; and what would Lallie think to be fetched out at this time of night to sing to a tiresome little boy who ought to have been asleep hours ago.
Punch screwed up his face and prepared to wail again, but caught his breath and stopped in the middle of the first note to listen to his adoring nurse as she suggested in a whisper:
I'll pop over for her, mum, and she'll be here directly. I'm quite worried about him. It seems to have got on his nerves; he's so feverish.
Mrs. Wentworth felt one of the hot little hands and stroked his damp hair back from his forehead. Punch stared unblinkingly at her, and repeated mournfully:
He's fevish, very fevish; but, more hopefully, "he won't be if Lallie's feshed, 'cos then she'll sing Kevin."
I know Daddie would disapprove, Mrs. Wentworth said weakly; "and, Nana, imagine what people will say. What will Miss Foster think?"
I'm sure the young lady's not one to go talking, said Nana stoutly, "and she so fond of Master Punch and all. And he really has been frettin' something dreadful, and we none of us can sing that outlandish song; and you know how he keeps on, mum."
Nobody knows it but Lallie, Punch repeated. "Lallie can sing Kevin. Oh, do sing Kevin."
Mrs. Wentworth nodded to the nurse, who departed hastily.
Punch sat on his pillow, wide-eyed and wakeful, with flushed round face and tired, unblinking eyes.
Would you like to come and sit on my knee in the day nursery for a bit, Sonnie? Then perhaps you'll feel sleepy. I'll sing you anything you like.
I'll come and sit on your knee till Lallie comes, then she'll sing Kevin. I don't want no other song.
How do you know Lallie will come? She may be dining out; she may not be there.
I fought you said it was the miggle of the night, Punch said sternly. "If it is she'll be back again."
It is the middle of the night for little boys.
But not for Lallie; I fink she'll come.
Mrs. Wentworth arrayed him in his blue dressing-gown and carried him into the big day nursery. She sat down in a low chair in front of the fire, with Punch warm and cuddlesome on her knee snuggled against her shoulder. He lay quite still in her arms, staring at the red glow through the bars of the high nursery fender.
Do you think that little boys who wear beautiful pyjama suits just like their daddie's, ought to wake up and cry in the night? Mrs. Wentworth inquired dreamily, her chin resting on the top of Punch's head, her eyes fixed on the fire.
I fink I could sleep till Lallie comes, Punch announced in particularly wide-awake tones. "Hush!"
For nearly ten minutes they sat still and silent, then Punch suddenly gave a little wriggle and sat up on his mother's knee, stiff and expectant: every nerve tingling, every muscle taut.
I fink I hear Lallie, he cried excitedly.
There was a swish and frou-frou of skirts in the passage outside as Lallie, followed by the triumphant Nana, came swiftly into the room. She flung her heavy cloak on a chair, and ran across and knelt by Mrs. Wentworth, exclaiming:
How dear of you to send! I do so sympathise with Punch; I nearly go crazy if I half remember a tune and there's no way of getting the rest of it.
T'int the chune; it's it all, said Punch magisterially. "Now you can sing Kevin."
But do you know what he means? Mrs. Wentworth asked.
I should think I do. Oh, might I hold him? It's a longish song.
She was dressed in a little straight white silk dress embroidered with green, and her favourite green ribbon was threaded through her hair. Slender arms and neck were bare, and her cheeks flushed with her run across the playground in the cold air. She might have been Deirdre herself, product of sun and dew and woodland moss, so fresh and sparkling was she. Punch held out his arms to her.
I knowed you'd come, he cried triumphantly; "an' you wouldn't be in bed, nor out, nor nuffin' like they said. I knowed you'd come."
Mrs. Wentworth gave Lallie her chair, and then Punch to cuddle, and forthwith Lallie burst into a rollicking tune and the legend:
"As Saint Kevin was a wanderin' by the shores of Glendalough,
He met one King O'Toole and he axed him for a schough;
Says the King, 'You are a sthranger and your face I've never seen,
But if you've got a bit of weed I'll lend you my dhudeen!"
To Punch the whole thing was vivid as an experience. He saw as in a vision the wind-swept shores of Glendalough. The only "lough" he had ever really seen was an ornamental lake in the town gardens, but Lallie had told him that King O'Toole's lough was a hundred times as big as that, so Punch pictured something very vast indeed. She had not explained what "schough" was and he had not asked, for he concluded it was some kind of bonfire from the context.
"As the Saint was lighting up the fire the monarch heaved a sigh.
'Is there anyt'ing the matter,' says the Saint, 'that makes you cry?'
Says the King, 'I had a ghander as was left me by my mother,
An' this mornin' he turned up his toes with some disase or other.'"
So Punch pictured a bonfire that crackled like those the gardner made with rubbish in the kitchen garden. The saint agrees to cure the ghander on condition that should the bird recover, he shall receive
"the bit o' land the ghander will fly round."
'Faix I will and very welcome,' says the King, 'give what you ask,' and departs forthwith to the palace to fetch the burd."
"So the Saint then tuk the ghander from the arrums of the King,
And first began to twig his beak and then to stretch his wing.
He cushed the bird into the air! he flew thirty miles around,
Says the Saint, 'I'll thank yer Majesty for that little thaste of ground!'"
But the king was in no mind to part with such a large slice of his property, and he called his "six big sons" to heave St. Kevin in a ditch.
"'Nabocklish,' says the saint, 'I'll soon finish them young urchins,' and he forthwith transformed King O'Toole and his sons into the Seven Churches of Glendalough. Meanwhile Dr. Wentworth had finished his letter to Pinner's mother, and longed to read it to his wife, for he felt that the pill of truth was gilded with charity in quite angelic fashion, and he thirsted for her appreciation and applause. Minutes passed, and still she did not come. The house was very quiet and he felt sure she must have been mistaken about the children, and wondered what on earth she could be doing; then suddenly, into the silence, there floated a voice uplifted in most cheerful song: a melody that set the head nodding and the heels drumming. Not for one instant did Dr. Wentworth even wonder as to the owner of the voice. No one who had heard Lallie sing once could fail to recognise her singing when he heard it again. The siren song drew him from his letters and up the stairs to the half-open door of the nursery, and there he stood watching the pretty picture by the fire. Punch, majestic and satisfied at last, sat bolt upright on Lallie's knee. Her arms were round him; but she leant back in her chair that she might the better watch his serious baby face. Mrs. Wentworth and nurse stood on the other side of the hearth, both absorbed in adoring contemplation of the small figure in the blue dressing-gown. Neither of them saw the doctor, but Lallie did, and gave him a merry nod of greeting. An' if ye go there any day at the hour of one o'clock,
"You'll see the ghander flyin' round the Lake of Glendalough."
The song ceased, and Punch turned himself to look earnestly in Lallie's face, demanding:
Have you seen him?
Well, no, I can't say I have, but then I've never been there just at that time.
Sing it again, Punch suggested sweetly.
NO, NO, NO, Mrs. Wentworth cried sternly; "Punch must go to bed this instant."
I said I would if she singed it, an' I will, said Punch. "Lallie can carry me."
NO, NO, NO, said another voice, and Punch's father came into the room. "You're far too heavy for Miss Lallie, I'll take you; but I'd like to know what you mean by being awake at this hour, and how you manage to get young ladies to sing for you?"
I came over, Lallie replied hastily; "I was lonely and he was awake, and worrying because no one could sing St. Kevin, so I sang it, and I have enjoyed myself so much, but I must fly back now. Good-night, you darling Punch."
Dr. Wentworth escorted Lallie back to B. House, and to this day does not know that she was "feshed." Neither did Miss Foster, for she was upstairs discussing the probability of an outbreak of chicken-pox with Matron when Lallie was "feshed"; and finding the drawing-room untenanted on her return, concluded that Lallie had gone to bed, and went herself in something of a huff. It was one thing for her to leave Lallie for the whole evening, but it was quite another matter for Lallie to retire without bidding her a ceremonious good-night. Lallie crept in at the side door--Ford had left it unbolted for her--and went upstairs by the back staircase.
Punch, warm and soft, with that indescribably delicious perfume of clean flannel and violet powder that pervades cherished infancy, had filled her heart with charity and loving-kindness towards all the world.
I was a pig about the stairs, she said to herself; "I'll use these for the future. Perhaps if I try to be less tiresome she'll not dislike me so much. Oh, dear, why is it so easy to do what some people want? Now if Mrs. Wentworth asked me to climb up a ladder every time I went to my room I'd do it joyfully, and poor Miss Foster asks me to use a good wooden staircase when it's a dirty day and it seems utterly impossible to do it. I'll really try and be nice to her--but she won't let me. Never mind, I can but try."
Next morning Lallie went into the town between twelve and one. She had a real and legitimate errand, inasmuch as she needed more silk for the waistcoat she was working for Tony.
Since Mrs. Wentworth's remonstrance she had never once walked down the promenade alone between twelve and one, and to-day she felt particularly virtuous and light-hearted. She would go straight to the shop, match the silk, and come home at once. "I'll walk up and down with nobody," she said to herself, "not even if the band's playing 'Carmen.'"
As it happened, the band was playing selections from "The Merry Widow" when she reached the shops, and she was not tempted to break her good resolutions, for she met no friends at all until she had bought her silks. "I'll go just to the bottom of the promenade and walk up again," she thought, "it's such a cheerful morning."
It was. The sun shone as it sometimes will shine at the beginning of the gloomiest month. The air was soft and humid, and though the roads were shocking the wide pavement of Hamchester promenade was clean. Lallie looked down anxiously at her shapely strong brown boots. No, they had not suffered; they were smart and trim, and did no shame to the well-hung short skirt above them. She squared her shoulders, held her head very high, and strolled along serene in the assurance that in all essentials she presented a creditable appearance. So evidently thought a young man coming up the promenade towards her.
He was a man of middle height, slight and fair, and wearing pince-nez; clean-shaven, with full prominent blue eyes, a large head, pinkish complexion, and an amiable, if weak, mouth. Admiring friends told him that he greatly resembled the poet Shelley, and he prided himself upon the likeness while in no way dressing to the part. He had an extremely long neck, which rather emphasised the fact that his shoulders were narrow and sloping. He wore a stock and was generally sporting in his attire, and his face and figure seemed curiously at variance with his clothes. In academic cap and gown his personality would have been congruous and even dignified, but clad as he was in a well-made tweed suit with riding-coat, and wearing upon his head a straight brimmed bowler, in spite of the fact that there was nothing exaggerated or outré in his garments he yet made upon the beholder a curious impression of artificiality, and seeing him for the first time one's first thought was, "Why does he dress like that?"
Immediately he caught sight of Lallie he hurried forward with outstretched hand and joy writ large upon his countenance.
You, Miss Clonmell! What unspeakably good luck! I have been hoping to meet you for the last three days, and never caught a glimpse of you.
How do you do, Mr. Ballinger? Lallie said demurely, "and what brings you to these parts? Are you over for the day, or what?"
I've come here for a bit. I'm going to hunt here for a month or two--all the season if I like it. I suppose you're coming out to-morrow?
Why aren't you hunting in your own country? Lallie asked him reproachfully. "What has Fareham done that you should desert it? Do you suppose the hunting here is better?"
I believe it's quite decent here, really; and I know a good many people, and I thought I'd like a bit of a change--and there are other reasons. Of course you're coming out with us to-morrow?
Lallie shook her head.
No, I'm not hunting--yet.
Not hunting, Miss Clonmell! What on earth is the matter? Have you lost your nerve?
No, snapped Lallie, "but I've lost my horse. Dad's in India, as you know; the horses are in Ireland; and I'm staying with friends who don't hunt and won't let me hunt without them."
Oh, but that's nonsense! Were you going this way--may I walk with you? I've got a little mare here that would carry you perfectly if you would honour me by riding her to-morrow. She has been ridden by a lady, and I believe she has excellent manners and is a good jumper. I'm putting up at the Harrow, the stables are so good. They're just at the back here. Won't you come round and look at the horses and see the little mare? It's not three minutes' walk.
Mr. Ballinger talked fast and eagerly, in short, jerky sentences, as though he were nervous.
I'd love to see the horses, said Lallie, turning with him into the lane where the stables were, quite forgetful of her good resolutions to "walk with nobody."
And if you like the look of the mare you'll come out to-morrow?
Ah, that's quite another matter. I don't think I can do that. Tony wouldn't like it.
Why wouldn't Tony, whoever he is, like it?
Because he can't come with me.
And why not?
Because he's shut up in school.
Now really, Miss Clonmell, that is going too far. I know how you always spoil any boys you come across, but that you should give up a day's hunting because some wretched little schoolboy doesn't like you to go without him is absurd. Even you must see how ridiculous it is, and how bad for him. Let him attend to his work and mind his own business.
Mr. Ballinger spoke with considerable heat, and Lallie burst into delighted laughter, exclaiming:
But he's not a little schoolboy that anybody could ignore, I assure you. Besides, I'm devoted to him.
I have no doubt of it, but he wants putting in his place. Here are the stables.
Once among the horses, Lallie forgot everything except her delight in them; but not even the charms of Kitty, the mare, could make her promise to ride her the next day. So persistent was Mr. Ballinger, however, that to get rid of him she said she would send him a note that night should she happen to change her mind. He escorted her back to the very gate of B. House, and of course she met almost every one she knew in Hamchester while in his company.
She dismissed him at the gate, nor did she ask him in to lunch as she assuredly would have done had it been her father's house. She stood for a minute watching his somewhat slow and disappointed departure, gazing earnestly at his retreating back. Then she shook her head decidedly and went into the house.
Up the back stairs did she go in her honest desire to conciliate Miss Foster. One window on that staircase looks out on to the playground, and as she passed she caught sight of Cripps standing with two other prefects. The window was open and she looked out. All three boys looked up and capped her.
The dears! said Lallie to herself, and kissed her hand to them gaily as she passed.
At that very moment Miss Foster, followed by Mr. Johns, came through the swing-door at the top of the stairs. Miss Foster stopped short some four steps above Lallie, and of course Mr. Johns had to stop too, for he couldn't push past her, and to turn back would have looked odd.
Miss Clonmell, said Miss Foster, in tones that could be heard to the farthest corner of the playground, "I really must protest against your corrupting the boys of this house by vulgar flirtation of that kind."
Lallie stood still in her turn, absolutely petrified by indignant astonishment.
Cripps crimsoned to the roots of his hair, caught each of his friends by the arm and hurried them indoors.
How dare you speak to me like that? Lallie gasped out; "and before the boys too? How dare you insult me so?"
I shall continue to do what I consider my duty whether it be agreeable to you or not, Miss Clonmell, and I tell you again that I will not have these vulgar flirtations.
It is you who put a vulgar interpretation on the simplest actions, Lallie exclaimed furiously, and with that she turned and ran down the stairs again and across the hall and out at the front door before Miss Foster fully realised that she was gone.
At Miss Foster's first words poor Mr. Johns had turned and fled upstairs again, through the swing door, and out to the landing from which he could look down into the hall, and he saw Lallie's swift and furious exit. Down the sacred front stairs he dashed and out into the drive after her, catching her just as she turned into the road.
As he joined her she lifted to him her white miserable face with tragic eyes all dark with grief and anger.
I must walk and walk, she said breathlessly. "I am so angry; if I had stayed another minute I should have done that woman an injury. You heard what she said?"
I quite understand, Mr. Johns said soothingly. "I hope you'll allow me to come with you. I won't talk."
It's very nice of you, but really I'd be better alone.
I think not, Mr. Johns said gently; "I hope you won't forbid me to come."
He looked so big, and kind, and honest, and withal so hopelessly uncomfortable, that Lallie's face softened and laughter crept back into her eyes.
It's really very nice of you to want to come when I'm in such a bad temper. Let's go this way, where there's no people, and perhaps presently I'll feel better and we'll talk.
For nearly ten minutes Lallie pounded along in dead silence as fast as she could go. Then she began to notice that the pace which was rapidly reducing her to a state of breathless collapse had no sort of effect upon her companion, who, hands in his pockets, appeared to be strolling along in an easy sort of saunter at her side.
This is ignominious, she exclaimed; "here am I walking as if for a wager, and you don't seem hurrying one bit."
Am I walking too fast for you? Mr. Johns asked, in poignant self reproach. "I am so sorry; you see, I don't often walk with ladies."
It isn't you at all, it's me; I'm walking too fast for myself, and it's so aggravating to see somebody alongside perfectly cool and composed. If I could leave you behind, or you had to trot to keep up with me, it wouldn't be half so trying. As it is I give in. For mercy's sake let's sit on this seat for a minute. You may talk to me now. I no longer feel like tearing the hair off Miss Foster. Tell me now, what was it I did to draw such an avalanche of abuse upon me?
Side by side they sat down upon one of the hard green seats that are placed at convenient intervals in every road leading out of Hamchester.
Lallie's cheeks were quite rosy after her rapid walk. Her grey eyes were clear and limpid again, candid and inquiring as a child's. Mr. Johns gazing into them felt compelled to speak the truth.
I think, he said slowly, "it was because you kissed your hand to Cripps."
It wasn't only to Mr. Cripps, it was to Mr. Berry and Mr. Hamilton as well.
Perhaps she thought you did it to attract their attention.
And what if I did? Would she expect me to pass three nice boys living in the same house with me--though it's little enough I see of them--with my nose in the air and never a word of greeting; and if I hadn't gone up by her nasty old back stairs just to please her, this would never have happened.
After all, said Mr. Johns, still gazing at Lallie, although she no longer looked at him, "does it matter much what Miss Foster thinks?"
It doesn't matter to me what she thinks, but what she says does matter. I can't let her insult me in public and take no notice.
She often, Mr. Johns remarked ruefully, "insults me in public, and I take no notice."
Well, it's very noble of you, but I can't reach those heights. To be told I'm a vulgar flirt and corrupt--corrupt, mind you--the boys, is more than I'll endure from any stout old woman on this earth. Do you think I'd corrupt any boys, Mr. Johns?
I'm quite sure you would always use your great influence in the highest possible way, Mr. Johns said solemnly, "but----"
But what? Lallie demanded impatiently as he hesitated.
You might mislead a boy by--ah--for instance, kissing your hand to him.
How mislead?
It's very difficult to put it in such a fashion as not to sound exaggerated and absurd; but you might, you know, make a boy think you were fond of him.
So I am very fond of them; they're dears, and I'm perfectly ready to leave my character in their hands. They wouldn't misjudge me and think horrid things.
I don't think they would misjudge you, Miss Clonmell, but they might mistake your intention.
My intention was perfectly plain--to give them a friendly greeting as I passed. I've always kissed my hand to people ever since I was a wee little girl--Madame taught me to do it--and if that's corrupting them, the sooner I leave B. House the better. I can't turn into Diogenes in his tub at a moment's notice. If I mayn't smile and wave to the people I know, I'd best go where there's a more friendly spirit. And so I'll tell Tony, only it will bother the poor dear so. Do you think Miss Foster will go and harangue Tony, Mr. Johns?
I fear it is only too likely.
Well, she'll get a pretty dressing down when she does, and Lallie gave a sigh of deepest satisfaction. "Tony understands me, however dense other people may be."
Don't misunderstand me, Miss Clonmell, I beg; I only tried to lay before you a possible point of view--it may be a wholly erroneous one. But you know people of great charm have also great responsibilities, and it seems to me that sometimes--sometimes you are apt to forget how your graciousness may raise false hopes.
Hopes of what? In the name of common sense what is the man talking about? Lallie cried despairingly. "Do you mean that if I kiss my hand to a boy he will promptly hope I'll kiss him in a day or two?"
That's precisely what I do mean, only I shouldn't have dared to say so, Mr. Johns replied emphatically.
Oh, the boys have got far more sense than you give them credit for. Good gracious, what's that bell?
Mr. Johns hastily dragged his watch from his pocket.
Do you know it's a quarter past two and I'm due to play for the town on their ground at three.
And luncheon will all be gone, and I'm so hungry, Lallie wailed. "You see it was nearly half-past one when I came in, and then Miss Foster was so disagreeable and drove us both out of the house, and we walked and walked; and now what'll we do?"
I, at any rate, must fly and change. If I take a pony trap down to the ground I'll just do it.
And you've had no lunch! Oh, I am so distressed!
That doesn't matter in the least, I'll snatch a biscuit and a bit of chocolate. When I'm in training I often do without lunch.
Run then, Mr. Johns; never mind me. If you sprint a bit you'll be at B. House in five minutes.
Will you not think me very rude?
Don't waste time talking--run!
Mr. Johns ran, and Lallie followed very slowly, wrapped in thought.
Tony had been playing fives and only managed to change just in time for the boys' dinner. Lallie's seat, at his right hand, was vacant, and he concluded that she was lunching with the Wentworths. Miss Foster sat at another table, and he had no opportunity till the meal was over of asking her what had become of his guest.
Mr. Johns' absence, without warning or explanation, certainly did surprise him, for Mr. Johns was the least casual of men and prided himself upon never being late for, or absent from, any duty whatsoever. It never occurred to Tony to connect his absence with Lallie's.
Tony had promised to take Lallie to the match in the afternoon, but had that morning been unexpectedly summoned to Oxford on rather important business, and the half-holiday made it possible for him to go.
He noticed that Miss Foster, contrary to her usual custom, went straight to the drawing-room directly after lunch, and he followed her there with his question as to the whereabouts of his guest.
Miss Foster stood on the hearthrug in front of the fire--luncheon was always earlier on half-holidays, and it was not yet two-thirty. She looked more than usually formidable, and Tony trembled before her. As he asked his question she waved him to a chair with a majestic motion of the hand.
Please sit down, Mr. Bevan, she remarked, in a hard voice. "I want to speak to you on this very subject. I have no idea where Miss Clonmell is. She flounced out of the house in a passion because I had to speak to her about flirting with the boys; and I believe, but I am not certain on this point--I believe that Mr. Johns accompanied her, which explains his absence."
Tony did not sit down. On the contrary he remained for a full minute exactly where he was, just inside the half-open door, and stared amazedly at Miss Foster. In perfect silence he shut the door and crossed the room till, standing beside her on the hearthrug, he said slowly:
I don't think I quite understand; did you say that in consequence of something you had said to her Miss Clonmell left the house?
Not for good, Mr. Bevan; don't look so anxious. She was in a temper because I found fault with conduct that I know you, also, would be the first to reprobate.
Miss Foster spoke rather nervously. Tony's face was quite expressionless, but there was an indefinable something in his excessively quiet manner that caused her for the first time to question whether she had been quite wise.
I'm afraid I must ask you to explain exactly what has happened, Miss Foster. I can't imagine any conduct on the part of Miss Clonmell that could call for an expression of opinion so adverse as to drive her from my house, even temporarily. And I cannot conceive it possible that you should so address her if she was, as you say, accompanied by Mr. Johns.
Mr. Johns was not with her. He happened to be following me as I came down the stairs. I did not see him when I spoke. What happened was this: I found Miss Clonmell standing at the window of the staircase trying to attract the attention of three of the bigger boys by kissing her hand to them--a most----
My dear Miss Foster, Tony interrupted irritably, "how very absurd. You must have misunderstood the whole occurrence. I've known Miss Clonmell since she was a baby, and she is the very last girl in the world to try to 'attract' any one's attention. She doesn't need to. As to kissing her hand, it's a foreign gesture she has acquired from much living abroad. I don't suppose the most conceited ass of a boy in the whole College would misunderstand her if he saw her."
Tony's face was no longer expressionless, and Miss Foster again experienced that strange little tremor of fear.
I can assure you, Mr. Bevan, had you seen what I saw, you would not treat the affair so lightly. I beg you will not think I was animated by any personal feeling in what I did.
Why should you be? Tony asked simply, looking very hard at Miss Foster the while.
In speaking as I did to Miss Clonmell I was animated wholly by a desire to do my duty by B. House. The honour of the house is very dear to me.
Miss Foster's voice broke, and Tony was melted at once.
I am sure it is, he said cordially; "but you must take my word for it that in this instance you have been mistaken. And now, where do you suppose that poor child is?"
I should say she is almost certainly with Mrs. Wentworth, pouring her fancied woes into a sympathetic ear.
Again Tony bent his searching gaze upon Miss Foster.
Ah, he said thoughtfully, "that last remark of yours proves conclusively how little you know Lallie. She would no more go and complain of you to any one outside, than she would repeat a confidence or carry a mischief-making tale."
Miss Foster made no reply.
Well, I must go, but I hope I have made it quite clear to you that you were mistaken; and please remember in future, should any little difficulty occur, you must come to me and not deal directly with Miss Clonmell. I came to ask you to go with her in my place to the match this afternoon, but in view of what has happened and the fact that Miss Clonmell has not returned, I suppose that is impossible. I shall have to stay the night at Oxford, but hope to be back in time for morning school to-morrow. May I beg you to adopt as conciliatory a manner as possible to Miss Clonmell--even if you cannot bring yourself to apologise to her? She is my guest, you see, and it would be very distressing to me to think she is unhappy in my house. Can I depend upon you in this, Miss Foster? Tony's voice was so pleading and he looked so unhappy that Miss Foster relented.
I certainly could not apologise as I feel I was justified in what I did. I shall make no reference whatever to what has passed. I think that will be best; don't you?
Much best, said Tony warmly. "Please tell her how sorry I am not to have seen her before I left."
As the door was shut behind him Miss Foster exclaimed:
Oh, you poor, dear, duped, deluded, man!
Meanwhile Lallie still strolled slowly up and down the bit of road where she had rested with Mr. Johns. A soft rain began to fall and she had no umbrella, but she was unconscious of the fact. Physically she was tired and chilled, and really faint from hunger. Mentally, now that her anger and indignation had cooled, she was depressed, but inclined to think she had exaggerated the importance of the whole affair.
A storm in a teacup, thought Lallie, "and I've gone and complicated the whole thing by vanishing in the society of Paunch. Awfully decent of him to come with me, but Tony will wonder. He'll set Germs in her place, but he'll ask me what it was all about, and if he discovers that Germs and I are not the dear friends he pictures us, he'll worry, and to be a worrying guest is what I can't bear. I wonder what I'd better do?"
For a whole hour Lallie walked up and down that little bit of road in the rain, resting at intervals upon the exceedingly wet green seat, till at last the grey twilight of the short November afternoon began to close about her. A passing man looked so hard at her that she grew nervous and set off at a great pace for B. House.
Tony was worried and distressed. His interview with Miss Foster had revealed to him a state of matters he had, it is true, once or twice dimly conjectured: always putting his misgivings from him as unfair and ungenerous to Miss Foster. He kept his hansom waiting till the last minute in the hope that Lallie would return before he had to go.
With the excuse of getting her to keep Val till he was safely out of the house, he sought the matron and begged her to see that tea was taken up to Miss Clonmell's room directly she came in, and that her fire should be lit at once. He hung about looking so miserable and undecided, that Matron, who had heard the whole story of the why and wherefore of Lallie's absence from Ford--how do servants always know everything that goes on?--was emboldened to remark consolingly:
It will be all right, sir; these little storms soon blow over. We all know Miss Foster is just a little bit difficult at times; but she means the best possible, and it soon passes. I'll look after Miss Clonmell myself; you may depend upon me. She's a sweet young lady and we're all devoted to her.
This was exactly what Tony wanted, and he departed somewhat comforted.
As he was getting into his cab Matron watched him from the window, and poor Val, whining dismally, paws on the window-sill, watched him too. As the cab vanished out of the drive Matron leant down and patted Val, remarking:
After all, what's thirty-seven? A man's at his best then, and none the worse because he has always been so busy that he doesn't even know what's the matter with him when he's got it--rash out all over him--got it badly.
Thus it was that when Lallie returned to B. House, front door, front hall, front stairs, though her boots were dreadful, she found a lovely fire in her bedroom and Matron there arranging a little tea-table beside the armchair on the hearth. Moreover Matron insisted on her changing everything there and then, and helped her to do it, finally dosing her with ammoniated quinine before she would give her any tea. She asked no questions of Lallie, but while the girl devoured crisp toast and a boiled egg, entertained her with various items of College news, among them that there was a case of scarlet fever in one of the houses.
Isn't Miss Foster in a dreadful state? asked Lallie.
Well, she's worried and anxious, but so are we all. It's not the right term for it either, and the boy can't have brought it back with him--it's too late in the term--so the question is where did he get it? One always dreads an epidemic of any kind in a large school. We haven't had a real bad one for four years, and then it was in the summer term, which was better. It's always so much easier to get people well in summer.
I got it that time too. Of course Paddy came back with it. Three holidays in succession he came back with something, and gave it to me every time; and he was so sick to have it in the holidays instead of missing school. But I should think this house is pretty safe. I never smelt so many disinfectants in my life till I came here--Come in!
Miss Foster followed her knock, and she heard Lallie's last words.
The fire, lit three hours before its proper time; the tea-table; the presence of Matron; above all the certainty from the few words she had overheard that she, herself, was the subject of their discourse, all combined to rob her manner of any geniality she might have intended to impart to it. So annoyed was she that Matron should have taken upon herself to give Lallie tea without her--Miss Foster's orders, and that Lallie, as she concluded, had actually lit her own fire in the middle of the afternoon without by your leave of any sort, that she found nothing to say but:
You're back I see, and have had tea--are you unwell?
Thank you, no, Lallie answered with quite equal frigidity, "but I was tired and hungry and very wet, and Matron was kind enough to bring me some tea."
Mr. Bevan asked me to tell you that he has been unexpectedly called to Oxford and will not be back to-night.
Won't you sit down, Miss Foster? Must you go, Matron? Thank you so much. Matron told me Tony had to go; it was he who asked her to see that I had tea. I hope it has not been troublesome? Lallie added politely, rising from her chair.
Miss Foster stood in the middle of the room, large, remote, unapproachable; manifestly disapproving.
I shall esteem it a favour, Miss Clonmell, if, in future, you will let me know beforehand when you intend to be absent from a meal.
Certainly, Miss Foster; then I may as well tell you now that I shall not be home for luncheon to-morrow. I'm so glad you reminded me. Won't you sit down?
Lallie herself sat down again in the big deep chair; so large was it that she almost seemed to lie down in it as she leaned back and stared fixedly at the fire. She looked so comfortable, so entirely at her ease, that Miss Foster simply longed to give this impudent girl a piece of her mind, but the events of the early afternoon had somewhat shaken her serene faith in the innate wisdom of her instincts. For years she had religiously tended the flame of her self-confidence till it burned with a steady radiance upon the altar of her beliefs. To-day, however, the flame had been blown upon by an adverse wind of criticism; it flickered until its light resembled a will-o'-the-wisp rather than the clear light of reason she had always supposed it to be. Even the sight of the denuded eggshell upon Lallie's empty plate, annoying anachronism at that hour though it was, could not stir Miss Foster to engage in open conflict.
The graceful little figure in the loose white dressing-gown, lolling in the chair, plainly awaited the first onslaught. Lazy and luxurious, Lallie looked sideways at Miss Foster under her long lashes and said sweetly:
Do sit down: you look so uncomfortable standing there.
No, thank you; and in spite of herself Miss Foster replied quite civilly. "I only came to deliver Mr. Bevan's message. Do you think you will be well enough to come down to dinner?"
I assure you I am not in the least ill. I will come down most punctually. But, if you will excuse me, I will not change till it's time to dress. I have letters to write and will do them here by this nice fire. Thank you so much for coming to inquire for me.
Miss Foster nearly answered: "I did nothing of the kind," but again mistrust of the "will-o'-the-wisp" prevented her, and she sailed out of the room without another word.
Lallie thrust out her little feet to the warmth and laughed.
Dinner alone with Paunch and Germs will be rather a silent meal, she reflected, "unless we discuss the probabilities of scarlet fever, which we are sure to do. I'll finish Tony's waistcoat this evening, for to-morrow I shall be out all day. Tony will be so annoyed with me to-morrow that he'll forget all about the stupid little stramash to-day. I hate to vex him, but I know if he guessed half I have to bear from Germs it would vex him far more; and if he got questioning me I might let out something, and for all his quiet ways Tony is very observant. Germs was very civil this evening. I wonder why? I suppose poor old Tony gave her a dressing down, but it would hurt him frightfully to do it. She really is so splendid in the house, and he does love to live at peace with all his fellow creatures. He'd never enjoy a row as I do; but then, he's as English as ever he can be. It's quite suitable that he should find fault with a harum-scarum like me, that won't hurt him; but it's upsetting in the extreme to run against such a solid body as old Germs, all knobs and hard things that hurt when you charge into her.... I hope Mr. Ballinger won't look upon it as encouragement if I ride Kitty to-morrow. After all, why shouldn't I? We lent him a horse several times when he was over in Kerry last spring, and it's much safer to lend me a horse than him. I wish he was big and benevolent like Tony. You always feel you could lean against Tony and he'd stand steady as a rock. If you leant heavily against Mr. Ballinger he might collapse. Tony really is a very great dear, he's so big all round--I hate to vex him--but perhaps it'll clear the atmosphere a bit. I wish Mr. Ballinger looked less like a passenger when he's outside a horse.... I wonder----"
Lallie had ceased to wish or wonder, for she was fast asleep.
Lallie came down to breakfast in her habit. Miss Foster did not ask where she was going or why she was riding so early, but contented herself with a remark to the effect that the very short and skimpy habits now in vogue were singularly ungraceful and unbecoming. Lallie replied that the shortness of the habit mattered very little if only the boots below it were irreproachable, and that after all a habit was not for walking in and that it was better to look a bit bunchy on foot than to be dragged if you happened to be thrown. Whereupon Miss Foster made a complicated sort of sound, something between a snort and a sniff, and the meal proceeded in silence.
Only by going straight into College from the station could Tony take his class at the proper time, but immediately morning school was over he rushed down to B. House, hoping to find Lallie and take her up to watch the pick-up.
His letters were spread out on the hall table, and one, conspicuous from the fact that it was unstamped, caught his eye at once. He recognised the little upright writing so like Fitzroy Clonmell's.
As he read, Tony's honest face flushed, then paled to a look of pain and perplexity.
Tony, dear, it ran, "I've disobeyed you and gone to the opening meet after all. I've not gone alone, and I assure you all will be well. Yesterday, in the town, I met a hunting friend of whom we saw a good deal last season, and he tempted me with a charming little mare whose clear destiny it was to carry me once; anyway--I fell--I gave in. His name is Ballinger--he is quite a nice man; but he doesn't ride a bit better than you, Tony, dear, so except as an escort I don't fancy I shall see much of him.
This morning I had a letter from the Chesters up at Fareham, and they have asked me to go from to-morrow till Tuesday. They want me to sing at a Primrose meeting on Saturday; that I know you won't mind: it will get rid of me for a few days, and give you all a rest. Try not to be cross with me. I'm a tiresome wretch, I know, but I am also your loving Lallie.
Very deliberately Tony folded the letter, put it back in the envelope, and into his breast-pocket. He gathered up the rest of his letters and went to his study, but he made no attempt to read them. He forgot that he ought to go and watch the pick-up. He sat down by his desk, staring straight in front of him at nothing.
Evidently, he reflected, Lallie was unhappy in B. House; glad to get away. She was afraid he might say something to her about yesterday, and regardless of his expressed wish, nay his command, so far as he could be said to exercise any authority over her, she had disobeyed him. It had never so much as entered the realm of possibilities that she could defy him, and he was hurt. Never until that moment did he realise how much he counted upon her steady affection. He had always been so sure that he and Lallie thoroughly understood each other. From the time, when a little baby in her nurse's arms, she would hold out her own, struggling to be "taken" by the tall, shy undergraduate; throughout the somewhat stormy years of her childhood, when he was ever her confidant and her ally; during the many holidays he spent with Fitz and his family in Ireland, till the day, two years ago, when he first beheld her in a long frock with her clouds of dusky hair bound demurely round her head, and became aware with a little shock of foreboding that Lallie was growing up--never had he doubted her. And when he had got accustomed to her more grown-up appearance he speedily discovered that the real and essential Lallie was unchanged, that she was just as kind and merry and easily pleased, just as warm hearted and quick tempered, as neat fingered and capable and unexpected, as when her frocks reached barely to her knees.
If I had seen her yesterday I don't believe she would have done this, Tony thought to himself; "it's not like her somehow to take the opportunity of my being away to do what she knows I would have done my best to prevent had I been at home. And this young Ballinger--he's no fit guardian for Lallie out hunting. Confound him! I wish he had stayed in his own shire. Fitz said I was not to discourage him, but I'm convinced he never meant she was to go out hunting with him. I suppose he is going to these Chesters, too; probably that's why she's going. I know nothing about the young man, but, like Charles Lamb, 'I'll d---- him at a venture.' It's too bad of Fitz shelving his parental responsibilities like this. Suppose anything happened to her to-day----"
This thought was so disquieting that Tony got up and walked about the room. Finally he opened and read his letters. Then Miss Foster came and added to his anxieties by informing him that A. J. Tarrant, a new boy, had that morning started a bad feverish cold and complained of sore throat.
No rash yet, Miss Foster added gloomily, "but of course we've isolated him."
Altogether Tony wished he could have stayed in Oxford. Yet the day seemed very long, and when half-past five at last arrived Tony actually sprinted from the College to B. House.
A great wave of sound met him as he opened the front door. Lallie was playing the overture to Tanh?user. It certainly was neither meek nor repentant music. Nevertheless Tony ejaculated "Thank God!"
He opened the drawing-room door very gently. The ruddy firelight glowed and gloomed in waves of flame and shadow, but the opening of the door let in a long shaft of light from the hall, and with a final crash of chords Lallie turned on the piano stool, demanding:
Is it you, Tony?
I didn't need to ask if it was you, and it was a great relief, I assure you. Had you a good day?
Out of the shadows Lallie came forward into the ruddy circle of light.
Your voice doesn't sound quite pleased with me, she said. "I must see your face to make sure. Please switch on a light and let me see."
She laid her little hands upon his shoulders and looked up searchingly into his face. The bright glare of the electric light made Tony blink, and he was so inexpressibly glad to see her again that his joy wholly crowded out the reproachful expression he had intended his homely features to assume.
He felt an overwhelming desire to take her in his arms, kiss her, and implore her to swear she would never go away again. It was only the certainty that she would kiss him back with the best will in the world, probably bursting into tears of repentance on his shoulder, that restrained Tony. He felt that it would not be playing the game. So very gently, with big hands that trembled somewhat, he removed those that lay so lightly on his shoulders and said, in a matter-of-fact voice:
Naturally I was anxious. You see I thought we had agreed that there was to be no hunting until we heard from your father; and how could I tell how this--Mr. Ballinger might have mounted you?
Lallie clasped her hands loosely in front of her, and stood before Tony with downcast eyes, and he forgot all about the matter under discussion in admiring her eyelashes.
I didn't exactly promise, she murmured; then louder: "no, that's mean of me, and untruthful; I broke my word. I knew you wouldn't wish me to go--but I went--and I enjoyed it--rather. Not quite so much as I expected, though the little mare went like a bird. It was quite a short run; I was back here by three o'clock."
Who brought you back?
Who brought me back? My dear, good Tony, I'm not a parcel nor a passenger; I came back. I studied the ordnance map of this district that's hanging in your study for a good hour last night. It was broad daylight when the run was over, and it's a very good country for signposts. I returned. Did you see Mr. Ballinger's cards in the hall? He came fussing here to see that I was all right when I was in the middle of changing, and he dutifully asked for Miss Foster, but she'd gone to the sewing-meeting for the Mission--I ought to have been there; I forgot all about it; I'm so sorry--and she's not back yet, so I sent down word that I was perfectly all right and resting, so he went empty away, poor man, longing for tea, I've no doubt; so must you be, we'll have it brought in here, Miss Foster won't be back till six. Some one's reading a paper to them while they sew, poor things! I'll have another tea with you, Tony. No lunch yesterday, no lunch to-day, and to-morrow will be the third day, though Mr. Ballinger did bring me a beautiful box of sandwiches, but I had no time to eat them.
Mr. Ballinger! Why should he bring you sandwiches? Why didn't you ask Matron for some?
Oh, you dear goose! How could I ask for sandwiches when I was supposed to be going out to lunch. What would Miss Foster have said? Do you think anybody will tell her I went out hunting all by my gay lonesome?
It depends how many people knew you in the field.
Ah, there you touch me on a tender spot. With the exception of one old curmudgeon who used to hunt sometimes with the Cockshots" at Fareham last year, there was no one I knew at all, and he rode all round me staring, and then grunted out, 'Where's your father, Miss Clonmell?' I passed him at the first fence, that's one comfort; but you're right, Tony--I missed Dad. People stared at me. It was all right when the hounds were running, I forgot everything and everybody but the fun and excitement, but at the meet it was horrid. Is your tea nice? Oh, it is good to have you back again!"
And you prove your joy at my return by going off to-morrow!
That's only for the week-end. I always promised them to help at their old meeting--and me a Home-Ruler--isn't it an anomaly?
I didn't know that your politics were so pronounced.
You might guess I'd be 'ag'in the Government,' whichever party's in power. Neither really cares a jot for Ireland. I think the Tories are perhaps the less hypocritical of the two. But any sort of a political meeting is fun. I always long to shout, and boo, and kick the floor. I think all the disturbances they're able to make is what is so supremely attractive about the Suffragettes.
Are you a Suffragette as well as a Home-Ruler? I shall begin to be quite afraid of you.
I should have been a Suffragette if I might have gone to meetings, carried banners, or thumped on a gong to disturb Mr. Winston Churchill, but Dad was quite stuffy about it, and put down his foot--really put down his foot with a stamp; fancy Dad!--and forbade me to have anything to do with any of them, so what was the use? It wasn't the vote I wanted.
Fitz really has, upon occasion, wonderful flashes of common sense, even in his dealings with you.
Now don't you be pretending to think Dad spoils me, for you know very well he does nothing of the kind. He has never been petty nor interfering, but in things that really matter, I'd no more think of disobeying him than----
Of going out hunting without asking his permission, Tony suggested mildly. "And since we have approached the subject of your general submissiveness, might I suggest that you fall in with one little regulation of mine, mentioned on the very first evening you came. Do you remember my asking you not on any account to use the boys' part of the house?"
Well, neither I have, ever.
What about the back staircase?
Lallie flushed angrily and began indignantly, "It wasn't my--"; then suddenly she stopped and said with studied gentleness, "I'm sorry, Tony; you did forbid me, but I quite forgot that those stairs came under your ban."
Tony smiled at her.
That's all right then. You'll remember in future. In some ways, Lallie, you are very like a boy.
Good ways, I hope? her voice was anxious.
Some of them are quite good. Some of them--well, they are apt to get other people in trouble. See what was sent to me by the incensed master to whom the remarks refer, and Tony held out to her a large sheet of lined paper, closely written in her own neat little upright writing. The first few lines comprised a decorous statement to the effect that "Marlborough underrated the difficulty of managing a coalition. In his necessary absence abroad this difficult operation was in the hands of Godolphin, always a timid minister without any real political convictions," when suddenly the style of the Reverend J. Franck Bright lapsed into the wholly indefensible statement that "cross old Nick is a silly old Ass," and this was repeated line after line throughout nearly half a page.
Lallie gasped, then burst into uncontrollable laughter, exclaiming:
It's Cripps's lines. He told me he had to do five hundred, and that no one ever looked at them, so I said I'd do three hundred for him as he wanted awfully to play fives that day. So I copied the dry old History Book till I was sick to death of the long words, and then in the middle I put that in just to cheer things up. What had I better do? Go and see Mr. Nichol, or what? He simply must not punish Cripps. He knew nothing whatever about it, poor boy. I sent him the lines in a neat bundle, and I don't suppose he ever looked at them.
As it happened it was Mr. Nichol who looked at them, for Cripps omitted the very simple precaution of putting his own pages on the top, and as his writing in no way resembles yours, Mr. Nichol naturally suspected extraneous assistance. He turned the pages over and came upon the one you have in your hand--your capital 'A's' simply jump to the eye. Naturally he was much annoyed, and I am sorry to say he describes your friend Cripps as 'a surly, insubordinate fellow,' and demands that he should be starred.
But he can't be starred, for he didn't do it.
That, very naturally, Cripps did not explain; and after all he is responsible for the lines he gives up.
Tony, have you seen Cripps?
I have.
Oh, what did you say?
I told him that he was a lazy young dog, and ought to do his lines himself; that I hadn't an ounce of sympathy with him, and that he deserved all he got and more; but I need hardly say I did not send him to the Principal with the suggestion that his prefect's star should be taken from him.
Oh, Tony, I hear Miss Foster; quick--ought I to run out and see Mr. Nichol? I'm not a bit afraid of him.
I think that the matter may now rest in oblivion; only let me offer you one bit of sound advice. If you are charitable enough to help any poor beggar with his lines, write large; it's a fearful waste of energy to do neat little writing like that--eight words to a line is the regulation thing--and, for Heaven's sake refrain from personal remarks.
Tony, you are a real dear. I will fly now, for Miss Foster may want to talk to you about the house.
Lallie darted at Tony, dropped a hasty kiss on the top of his head, and fled across the room, opening the door to admit Miss Foster, who had removed her outdoor things. She never came into a sitting-room before going upstairs; she considered it slovenly.
Tony folded the large closely written sheet of paper containing the reiterated animadversions upon the intelligence of Mr. Nichol senior, put it in his pocket, and rose to place a chair for Miss Foster, who regarded the tea things with a look of acute distress.
I took the opportunity, Tony remarked, "of speaking to Miss Clonmell on the subject you mentioned to me yesterday afternoon, and--er--I reminded her that I had on her first arrival asked her on no account to use the boys' part of the house." Here Tony made a little pause, as though he expected Miss Foster to make some observation. "I confess that the fact of her being on that staircase at all did surprise me," he added meditatively, looking full at Miss Foster with kind, beseeching eyes.
That lady flushed and sat up very straight in her chair, but she did not meet his gaze.
What explanation did Miss Clonmell give? she asked.
None; she expressed regret that she had forgotten my prohibition, but said that she did not suppose that staircase came under it, though why, I can't imagine.
Again Miss Foster felt herself encompassed by that glance, so full of dumb, entreating kindness. This time she raised her eyes to his and met them fairly as she said slowly:
Perhaps I am somewhat to blame for Miss Clonmell's presence upon that staircase, though you may imagine I never dreamt of the use to which she would put it. I confess that it never occurred to me as being in any way objectionable during the day. The boys never go up or down, and she often has such exceedingly muddy boots--I may have even suggested she should go that way. I am sorry----
It doesn't matter in the least really, Tony said heartily, and his whole face beamed. "Thank you very much for explaining."
He did not add that it was just what he had suspected from the first moment that Lallie's frivolous conduct was revealed to him; but he meant Miss Foster to own up, and she had owned up. Had she failed to do so Tony could never have respected her again.
As to Lallie, he reflected tenderly, "you never know what she'll do next, but there are things you can depend on her not doing, and that's to try and drag any one else into the unpleasant results of her vagaries. She'll never go back on any one, never make mischief; and who the devil is Ballinger that he should have all this?"
That evening Lallie went into the study to say good-night to Tony. He was reading by the fire, and she came and sat on the floor at his feet, leaning back against his knees as she had done on the evening he corrected papers in the drawing-room. The green silk bag was slung over her arm, but her work was allowed to remain therein, and for once she was content to let her hands lie idle.
I've come early, she announced, "because if you're not very busy I'd like a little chat. I've turned out the lights and shut the door, for Miss Foster's not coming down again, she says. Isn't it funny to like to go to bed so early?"
She gets up early, I expect; and perhaps she's very tired at night. Wouldn't you like a cushion or something, don't you find the floor very hard?
I'm quite comfortable, thank you. Now listen to me, Tony. Do you think I'm getting to an age when I'd be better with a home of my own?
With a mental ejaculation of "Ballinger!" Tony adjusted his mind to the question, saying quickly:
But surely you've got that already.
No, Tony; that's just what I have not got. As long as old Madame was alive it was all right. Dad came and went as he pleased, but there was always the house for Paddy and me, whether we were in France or in Ireland. But lately I've begun to feel I'm a bit of a drag on Dad; you know how restless he is sometimes, how unexpected----
It's a family failing, Lallie, Tony interrupted.
And, you see, when he rushes off he won't leave me alone in whatever house we happen to be in, and Aunt Emileen seems no comfort to him unless he's in the house along with her; and there's all the fuss of arranging for me, and I'm sent off here and there on visits, whether I like it or not; and I begin to feel that I've no abiding place at all.
Is your visit here one of the 'nots'?
Now that's nasty of you. You know I meant nothing of the kind, and I jumped for joy when Dad said I should come to you for all these months; but when Dad has been home for a bit and the first delight in having me again has worn off, he'll want to be wandering. If it's wandering I can do too, that's all right. I love going about with Dad, but if it's somewhere that he doesn't care to take me, like this time, then it'll all come over again--the placing out--and I hate it.
But, Lallie, most young people like plenty of change and variety; the one thing they cannot away with is monotony. That's what most of them, girls especially, complain of.
Tony, I'm going to make a confession. Lallie turned half round, and leaning an elbow on his knee lifted her face, earnest and serious, so that she might look into his. "I'm fond of a house. I like housekeeping, and pottering, and looking after things, and ordering dinner, and sewing, and mending, and arranging flowers, and cooking if I want to, and I can cook well; and you can't do any of these things in other people's houses--at least, only the sewing part."
I'm sure you may cook here if you wish to. I'll undertake to eat anything you make if it's really good.
Oh, it's not that. I don't mean that I'd like to be always cooking, but I like to feel that I've got a house to look after--my own house. I'd be perfectly happy if Dad wanted a house, but he doesn't. He kept it up for Paddy and me when we were small because he thought it was the right thing to do; but now he doesn't seem to think it so necessary. Poor man, he's too young to have grown-up children, Tony, and that's a fact. He has small patience with Paddy, because, you know, their interests clash. It's different with a woman, the younger she is the prouder is she to have grown-up sons and the cleverer she thinks herself that they are grown up. Don't you think I'm right?
Your generalisation, Tony began deliberately, when Lallie interrupted by pinching his knee and exclaiming:
Now, none of the schoolmaster, I won't have it.
As I was about to remark when you interrupted me, what you say has a certain amount of truth in it, but your father has not yet returned from India. When he does return he may not feel the slightest inclination for wandering; at any rate, not for some considerable time--so why worry?
I should like to feel settled and secure.
My dear Lallie, you'll never feel settled, you're not that sort; and as to security, pray in what way do you feel insecure at present?
Lallie removed her elbow from Tony's knee, she leant back against him again so that he could not see her face, and said, very low:
I feel insecure because in the course of the next few weeks I'll have to make up my mind definitely one way or other, and whichever way it is, it seems to me I shall regret it.
Again the whole of Tony's mentality fairly cried the name of Ballinger aloud, and although the stillness in the quiet room was so great that you might have heard a pin drop it seemed that his thought must have reached Lallie, for she broke the silence by saying in quite a different tone:
I wish you had met Dad's friend, Mr. Ballinger, Tony; I'd like to know what you think of him.
That can be easily managed; we'll ask him to dinner when you come back.
He is going to the Chesters, you know.
I didn't know, but I'm glad to hear it for your sake, since you like him.
Then you don't think I'd be better in a home of my own--married, I mean, said Lallie with startling bluntness.
I never said anything of the kind.
Well, you didn't seem to smile upon the notion.
The notion, as you call it, appears to me in itself quite admirable, if not exactly novel; but you would need to make sure, wouldn't you? that the husband--I think a husband is included in your scheme of felicity--is in keeping--in the picture as it were.
Tony's voice was dry as that in which he instilled the rules of prosody into his form. In fact it was less impassioned, for on occasion he waxed eloquent though vituperative when dealing with that form's Latin prose.
Again Lallie turned half round and leant her elbow on his knee. Again her grey eyes searched his face, apparently in vain, for some clue to the tone in which he spoke.
I wish I was a rich widow, she said vindictively, "with a nice little place of my own, then there'd be no bother at all, and you could come and stay with me and arrange cricket matches all the summer holidays. I'd put up that eleven you always go off with, and we'd have a cricket week and lovely times."
The prospect is certainly pleasing, Tony remarked, without enthusiasm; "but it seems to me a little callous on your part to be so anxious to kill off your husband before ever you've tried one."
Do you think Mr. Johns would make a nice husband? Lallie asked in a detached, impersonal sort of way.
Good heavens! How should I know? I hope he won't think of being any one's husband for years to come. He couldn't keep a wife; for one thing, he's too poor.
Oh, but he is sure to get on; he'll be a headmaster some day. You'll see. I never met a young man who was more wrapped up in his profession. He's influencing boys all day long.
By Jove! is he though? I'm glad to hear it.
I think he'd be a very kind husband, said Lallie, "but a bit boring sometimes. I suppose I'd better be thinking of bed. You haven't helped me much, Tony," and Lallie arose and stood in front of him, slender and upright, in her straight green gown. Tony rose too.
I don't quite know what you wanted me to say, Lallie, but I'd like to say this: Don't you marry anybody for the sake of having a house of your own. Your mother's daughter is capable of something finer and better than that. I cannot in all my experience recall such a happy marriage as hers. Child, there is such a thing. Don't you believe people who say that respect, and affection, and mutual suitability, and all the rest of it are one atom of good if you're not in love with the man. You spoke to-night of your father's restlessness. Do you think he would have been like that if your mother had lived? It was simply that he had the most perfect home man ever had on this earth; and when she was taken away from him the wrench destroyed his will-power, and he has been at the mercy of his impulses ever since. Never judge him, Lallie; he can't help it.
The tears welled up into Lallie's eyes.
I don't judge him, she faltered; "it's myself I judge, and blame, and yet I tried so hard to make his home happy and comfortable, so that he'd want to stay with me; and I can make a nice home, I really can, but it wasn't enough for Dad. Last winter I thought we were settled. He liked the hunting, and we were so happy, and had such jokes about Aunt Emileen, but it all came to an end--and he'd like me to marry, Tony; that's the har-r-d part."
The big tears hung on Lallie's lashes, the corners of her mouth drooped, and she looked so small, and pathetic, and forlorn that Tony fairly turned his back upon her and leant his arms on the chimneypiece, staring with the greatest interest at the shield bearing his college arms, which he did not see.
I am convinced, he said, and his voice was almost gruff, "that your father would hate to think you married anybody simply for the sake of getting married. Of course he would like to see you well and happily married--but----"
Good-night, Tony, Lallie said meekly.
He turned and shook her outstretched hand and stood at the door watching her as she went slowly up the stairs with drooping head and deep depression in every line of the slender little figure that always looked so much taller than it really was. She never turned her head to look back at rum, and Tony shut the door and sat down at his desk with a groan.
Matron was right: he'd got it late, and he'd got it badly. But she was wrong when she informed Val that he didn't know what was the matter with him.
He cursed himself for an old fool; for a betrayer of trust; for a dog in the manger.
Fitz wanted Lallie to marry this Ballinger; told him so. And here was he, Tony Bevan, actually using what influence he had to prevent her doing anything of the kind. Fitz wouldn't want it unless Ballinger were a good fellow. He knew Ballinger and Tony didn't. Was it likely that Fitz would be anxious for the marriage unless Ballinger was the best of good fellows? And yet, he, Tony, who knew nothing whatever about the man, had interfered. "But she doesn't love him!" cried this old fool, this betrayer of a father's trust.
How do you know? sternly demanded the inward mentor; "is she a girl to wear her heart upon her sleeve? She may be deeply in love with him, but won't confess it to herself even, just because he is rich and eligible, and because she would like a home of her own."
She doesn't seem a bit in love with him, pleaded the fatuous one. "Lallie in love would----"
The mentor shrugged his shoulders and retired, for Tony Bevan had embarked upon a sea of speculation so deliciously problematical, so wholly removed from such sober themes as duty and expediency, that it was hopeless just then by the clearest call to reach ears that were deaf to all but the siren song.
I wonder, mused Tony, "if I'd met her now for the first time, if she hadn't always put me down as a friend of her father's, worlds away from any touch of sentiment--I wonder if, as a mere man, I might have had a chance. Upon my soul I'd have tried for it."
For a good half hour Tony sat dreaming; then he stooped and patted Val, remarking, "I'm d--d if she's in love with Ballinger," and Val wagged his tail in cordial assent.
From LALLIE CLONMELL, B. HOUSE, HAMCHESTER COLLEGE, TO FITZROY CLONMELL, c/o MESSRS. KING AND Co., BOMBAY, INDIA. MY DARLING DAD,
" "It's eleven o'clock at night and I ought to be getting to bed, but it's mail day to-morrow and I'm going to the Chesters at Fareham quite early, so I'll do your letter to-night. I'm sleepy enough, for I've been out with the Hamchester hounds to-day. Mr. Ballinger has come to hunt here, why, I leave you to imagine, and he mounted me and took me. Tony had forbidden me to go till we heard from you, but he went to Oxford; then I met Mr. Ballinger; then I had ever such a row with Miss Foster, and I felt reckless; and as Tony was not there to make me feel conscientious or repentant I went. I didn't enjoy it much, though the day and the little mare and the run were all as good as they could be. Mr. Ballinger is going to the Chesters also. There's a Primrose meeting to-morrow night, and I've got to sing some absurd tum-ti-tum sort of Jingo song about Empire and Tariff Reform and a large loaf. They call it a 'topical' song over here. I'd much rather sing them 'The Vicar of Bray' or 'Love's Young Dream' or 'Rory O'More,' but they won't let me. I offered to. Dad, dear, you will have gathered from my letters that Miss Foster and I do not exactly hit it off. I could forgive her not liking me, though I think it's bad taste on her part, if only she wouldn't treat me as though I were a contagious disease. The boys call her Germs, but indeed it's me that she makes feel a mass of microbes of the most noxious kind. She's rude, Dad, downright rude; and it would be absurd to say she doesn't mean it, for she does. And what's more, she takes care that I know she means it. I wouldn't mind a bit if she was ever so pernicketty and peppery if only she would be kind and pleasant sometimes, but she never is pleasant--to me. And yet I can't help admiring her for the way she looks after B. House. She really loves the boys, and if one of them is the least little bit ill Miss Foster is in a dreadful way. Both she and Tony are very worried just now because a boy is ill. They fear he has got scarlet fever. There has been a case in another house.
" "Miss Foster has taken it into her head that I am bad for the boys, and that's one reason why she dislikes me. In what way I'm bad for them I don't know, and any that I have met seem to like talking to me, but whenever they do, I can see she is worried. I think she likes Tony awfully--but who doesn't? Yet she doesn't seem to make a really comfortable home for him somehow. As for poor Paunch! she hates him as much as she hates me, and never says a civil word to him. Paunch and I are great friends; we sit and shiver together in the chill blast of Miss Foster's displeasure, and 'a fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind,' especially Paunch. He is a most earnest young man, Dad; all day long he is thinking of the influence he may be on others, and the result is that Tony, who never thinks about himself at all, makes far more impression when he tells a boy he's a silly young ass than Paunch would if he talked about ideals till Doomsday. It's very odd how the boys really care what Tony thinks; of course they don't say so, but any one can see it. Mr. Johns is awfully good at games, so the boys respect that. The other day I asked Mr. Hamilton, one of the pre's, if Tony ever gave them a 'pi-jaw' as they call it.
" "He looked very funny for a minute, and then he said, 'I don't know any one I'd sooner go to than old Bruiser if I was in a very bad mess.' It wasn't an answer to my question, but it was enlightening all the same. Tony makes me think of those lines at the beginning of 'Stalky': 'For they taught us common sense,
"Tried to teach us common sense,
Truth and God's own common sense,
Which is more than knowledge.'
"
I was reading 'Stalky' last night, and that seemed to me to explain Tony. The queer thing is that both Mr. Johns and Miss Foster, though they love him dearly, think Tony is a bit of a slacker. Miss Foster, because he will not work himself up into a fever whenever there's a rumour of mumps or chicken-pox; and Mr. Johns because Tony never talks about moral training, and never seems to be watching or prying about the boys; and yet I remember Paddy saying that somehow undesirable chaps never come back to B. House, though how or why nobody never knows, and I'm certain Tony's ideals are quite as high as Mr. Johns', although he never talks about them. I think it's rather a great thing, don't you, to send so many boys out into the world so that they keep straight and work and are useful members of the community, and so that they remember you and know you'd be awfully sorry if things went wrong. All the years I've known Tony, I've thought it such a pity he was anything so humdrum as a schoolmaster. Since I've been here I don't think that any more. I think it's such a jolly good thing for all the boys who've come under him. I wish he'd had the house all the time Paddy was there; but then, Paddy had him in the holidays, so it didn't matter so much.
" "Paddy seems very happy at the Shop. He knows a lot of gunner people outside, and he goes out every Saturday and Sunday, but he's rather sick that they don't ride till their second term. Please don't fancy I'm unhappy here, I like it awfully. Every one is as kind and jolly as possible, and the attitude of Germs just gives the necessary touch of excitement to the situation. She positively dislikes music, poor woman, so I must be a trying guest. I'm obliged to practise, for I'm always singing somewhere. The music-hater is decidedly in the minority in this world.
" "I'm afraid, Dad, that Mr. Ballinger means to propose again very shortly, and Tony says I ought not to marry any one I'm not really in love with, and I can't imagine myself in love with Mr. Ballinger, though I do like him, really, he's so kind and nice and says such agreeable things. Tony is not so amusing here as at home. He's a tiny bit stiff sometimes. I suppose it's the atmosphere. It must be awful to think all the time about setting an example, like Mr. Johns--so tiring. But he seems to thrive under it, and Tony says he'll be stout if he doesn't take care.
" "I hope you'll bring back a lot of nice skins. They're a mangy lot in the drawing-room over in Kerry, some new ones will be a great improvement. Please write me longer letters, dear Dad. I'm very homesick sometimes, and I miss Bridget, but she could never have got on with Miss Foster; and if she heard Miss Foster speak nastily to me there would be wigs on the green indeed. It's a good thing Biddy is not here.
" "I wonder why extreme monotony in the matter of meals is considered so beneficial to the youthful palate. It wouldn't cost a penny more to have a little variety, but they never do in the houses. There's heaps and heaps to eat, even the boys own that, but it is so dull for them having the same things over and over again. I'd love to go into Tony's kitchen and teach that cook of his how to make real good soup and a proper haricot. Dinner is always a nice meal, but Miss Foster has no imagination. I wonder what she'd do if she had to keep house for you. She'd probably grovel to you because you'd bully her. Now, as it is, she bullies Tony, and he can't call his soul his own. They say, (Who are they? I hear you ask), well, rumour hath it that if Tony ever wants to get married he'll have to do it in the holidays secretly, and then bring his wife home to have it out with Miss Foster. I can't imagine Tony married, can you? Oh, I'd hate it. I do hope he won't. Good-night, my dearest Dad. I'm really quite good here on the whole, though I did disobey Tony about hunting just this once.
" "Your own loving daughter, LALLIE.""
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