Tarrant had got scarlet-fever, and very badly too.
He was removed to the fever hospital on Friday, and by Sunday morning it looked as though things would go hardly with Tarrant. There were complications, and the boy seemed to have no power, either mental or physical, to resist the disease.
So ill was he that the Principal went to see him after morning chapel. Tarrant was quite conscious, and made whispered, suitable answers to Dr. Wentworth's kind and serious remarks.
Keep your heart up, said the Principal just before he left; "remember that we are all thinking about you and praying that you may get well."
Did they pray for me in chapel? Tarrant asked.
On being assured that this was so, the boy turned his face to the wall, feeling that all was over for him. Like a good many older folk who ought to know better, Tarrant thought that to be prayed for in public proved that the case was indeed desperate.
He had been prayed for in chapel!
Only people who were very ill, who were going to die, were ever prayed for in chapel. Chaps had told him so.
There was a chap died in the Easter term, and he'd been prayed for in chapel for a fortnight.
Tarrant was too weak to be much upset. It was a footling thing to do, to die in one's first term, but it couldn't be helped. Rotten luck though! Old Bruiser would be awfully cut up. Fellows had told him how cut up old Nick was when that chap died in his house, and Bruiser was a jolly sight decenter than old Nick.
What ought a chap to think about when he was dying? Religion and that, he supposed. He tried to remember a hymn, but the only hymns that really appealed to Tarrant were those with "ff." against several of the verses, when the Coll. all sang at the tops of their voices and nearly lifted the roof off the chapel. And somehow he didn't feel very jubilant just then.
Again he tried to think of something soothing and suitable, but the only thing he could remember was a bit of a French exercise--"The nature of Frederick William was harsh and bad." And this he found himself saying over and over again.
The kind nurse bent down to hear what he was muttering, but all she could catch was "harsh and bad," and she wondered if he had been bullied in B. House.
From the nature of Frederick William, Tarrant's wandering thoughts turned to Germs.
What a stew old Germs would be in!
She was kind though; he remembered that with dreamy gratitude. She hated chaps to be ill, and did her level best to make them comfortable. All the house said that. But my aunt! she was afraid of infection, and fever was awfully infectious. Now Dr. Wentworth wasn't afraid, and he had kids. Bruiser wasn't afraid either; but you wouldn't expect Bruiser to be afraid of things. He had a comfortable big hand, had Bruiser. Tarrant wasn't capable of wishing for much, but he rather wished Bruiser could have stayed. He felt less like floating away into space when Bruiser held him.
What was it Bruiser had said?
You must buck up, you know. Think of your father and mother in India, how worried they'll be.
Poor mater, it would be a bad knock for her. The pater, too, he'd been at the good old Coll.--his name was up in the big Modern.
Tarrant supposed the chaps would subscribe for a wreath. They did for that other chap. Briggs minor told him. He wondered what sort of a wreath it would be; he hoped it would be nice and large.
What was that hymn they had in chapel last Sunday evening? Ah, he had thought of a hymn at last--
"Sweet Saviour, bless us ere we go;
Thy word into our minds instil,
And make our luke-warm hearts to glow
With lowly love and fervent will...."
He wished his heart would have glowed, but somehow it refused to do anything of the kind.
It had a nice cheerful tune, that hymn, especially the last two lines--
"Through life's long day and death's dark night,
O gentle Jesus, be our light."
Would it be very dark? he wondered. Perhaps for him, seeing his life had been so short, the gentle Jesus of the hymn might see to it that it was not so dark as to be frightening...
* * * * *
When Tony Bevan got back from the hospital that afternoon Miss Foster was waiting for him in the hall. She wore a long travelling-cloak and a most imposing hat, and she appeared very much upset. Tony's sad, worn face did nothing to reassure her.
He is just slipping away, he said sadly, as he followed her into the drawing-room. "There seems no real reason why he should die, but he seems to have no stamina, and they give very little hope. Everything has been done. The nurses are most devoted, the doctors have tried everything. The next few hours will decide it."
You will have to manage without me for a day or two, Miss Foster said abruptly; "I'm going to that boy. It's just providential that Miss Clonmell is out of the house. I've put on a cotton dress, which can be burnt before I leave the hospital, so can everything I wear in his room, but I'm going. My cab will be here directly. I could never forgive myself or rest easy another hour if I don't go and see after that boy myself. I have no faith in trained nurses, nor much in doctors for the matter of that. I believe they carry about all sort of horrid microbes in their clothes. They never change or disinfect or anything. I've no doubt Tarrant rubbed up against some doctor when he was watching football and caught it from him. I wish all those doctors were forbidden the field; that I do."
Miss Foster spoke very crossly, but there was something underlying her irascible manner suspiciously like tears, and Tony held out his hand to her, saying in an almost inaudible mumble:
It's very good of you. It's particularly hard for us--the little chap's first term, and his people so far away. It will be an inexpressible comfort to me to think that some kind woman----
Tony's voice gave out, and he turned away just as Ford came in to announce that Miss Foster's cab was at the door.
Tarrant dozed and dreamed and then came back to realities with a start; and the queer light feeling of being suspended in space became so acute that he plucked at the sheet to assure himself that there was a bed and that he was lying in it.
A very firm hand closed over his; a smooth hand and soft, but yet with a purposeful quality about it that seemed to send a little intangible current of some kind through his arm right to his very brain, so that he was seized by a quite definite curiosity as to the personality belonging to the hand.
Lazily he opened his tired eyes and looked along the sheet at the hand covering his own.
It was white, with particularly well-tended nails: surely, too, the rings were familiar. He was certain he had seen those rings before, and had noticed them in the sub-conscious way one does observe such things.
It seemed far too great an effort to raise his eyes so that he could take in the entire figure that sat beside his bed, so he contented himself with looking along the sleeve that belonged to the hand--a grey linen sleeve, and the nurses wore pale blue. Who could this be? With a mighty effort Tarrant lifted his eyes and at the same moment gasped out "Germs!"
It was a very faint little gasp, and Miss Foster, being unaware of her nickname among the boys, thought he said something about "terms," and concluded that he was worrying about his work, which was indeed the very last thing that Tarrant was ever concerned about.
She was about to take her hand away, when the hot little hand within it clutched at it feverishly.
It's all right, my dear boy, I'm not going away, she said gently.
Tarrant opened his eyes wider. If Germs was here he certainly couldn't have fever, couldn't be infectious. No one was so afraid of infection as old Germs--it was a mania with her. Could the doctors and everybody have been mistaken? Perhaps he had only a common throat after all. But it was nasty to feel so queer and light. Yes; Germs was still holding his hand. Back again came that beastly old sentence about the nature of Frederick William; he was in French form, and the master said sharply, "Next word, Tarrant," and he awoke with a start, staring with large frightened eyes at Miss Foster, who said:
Can you hear me, dear boy?
He made a little inarticulate sound.
You must rouse yourself, said Miss Foster. "You mustn't give in. You keep a firm hold of me, and never mind French exercises or anything else. You've been dreaming about a French lesson. Now I forbid you to dream about anything of the kind. You're to dream about being strong and well, if you dream at all. But you'd much better just sleep and get rested."
Miss Foster spoke with immense decision, and sat there looking so portly, and solid, and rational that Tarrant began to wonder if he had dreamt of the Principal's visit.
Was I prayed for in chapel? he whispered.
Of course you were, Miss Foster answered briskly; "that's why you are going to get well. Don't you think about yourself at all, leave that to us."
Haven't I got fever? Tarrant persisted in his faint husky whisper.
Of course you have. But that's no reason to give in. Lots of boys have had scarlet fever and are running about now, not a jot the worse for it. But I'm not going to allow you to talk.
But why, gasped Tarrant, "are you here?"
Because I choose, Miss Foster replied; "and that's every single question I'm going to answer. Be quiet, like a good boy, and think--if you think at all, but you'd really better not--what you'd like to do when you're allowed to sit up."
Aren't you afraid you'll catch it? he insisted.
Good gracious, no! What does the boy take me for? I'm terrified of infection for the HOUSE--but not for myself. Dear, dear, to think you could imagine that! Now, not another word.
There was a sturdy conclusiveness about Miss Foster that was very reassuring. It was impossible to reflect upon wreaths and funeral services in College chapel while she sat there looking so robust, and capable, and determined. It is probable that no one else could have had quite the same effect upon Tarrant.
It really seemed as though the grip of her firm, capable hand literally held his frail little barque of life to the shore, in spite of the strong backward tide that was drawing it out to sea.
He submitted to this new view of his case. He was too weak to argue with any one. If Germs said he was going to get well he supposed he must be. Besides, he couldn't be so awfully infectious, else she wouldn't be there.
* * * * *
At midnight Miss Foster called Tony up on the telephone.
We think he is going to pull through, was the message. "He needed cheering up, so it's just as well I came."
The Chesters of Pinnels End were as much an institution in the Fareham neighbourhood as the Abbey Church, itself. Hospitality was a religion with them, and William Chester and Olivia his wife were never so happy as when their big wandering house was absolutely full. They had six grown-up sons scattered about the world who were forever sending their friends to "cheer up the old people," so they were seldom lonely. They were not particularly rich, certainly not smart--the interior of Pinnels was almost conspicuously shabby--but they were the youngest and cheeriest old people imaginable, and their house was comfortable as are few houses. Those who had once enjoyed its entertainment were fain to return with gleeful frequency.
For nearly four hundred years there had been Chesters at Pinnels End--large families of Chesters, and however they may have differed as to politics, religion, or personal taste, they were supremely unanimous in one matter: they none of them could bear any changes at Pinnels.
Mrs. Chester used to declare that until a carpet there actually fell to pieces and tripped up her husband and sons, she was never allowed to replace it. That done, it was months before they became resigned, years before they consented to regard it with any but the most grudging toleration, and even then it was compared unfavourably with its predecessors.
The party to be assembled at Pinnels consisted of three of the sons--two on leave from India and Egypt respectively; the third an Oxford man who had just taken his degree and was marking time at home while his father sought out an agent with whom to place him to learn estate management--Lallie, Sidney Ballinger, who was asked because he was a neighbour, and because kind Mrs. Chester knew that he would rather be in the same house with Lallie Clonmell than anywhere else on earth. There was Celia Jones, the usual "nice girl" of house parties, who possessed no striking characteristics whatsoever; and the remaining guest was a Mrs. Atwood, the wife of a busy doctor in Carlisle.
Her host would have found it rather difficult to explain Mrs. Atwood's presence. He met her while he and his wife were spending a few days in a house of a mutual friend about a fortnight before; and somehow, although he could never remember exactly how it came about, Mrs. Atwood had extracted an invitation from him for this particular week-end.
Did you take such a fancy to her, father? Mrs. Chester asked, when informed of the lady's projected visit. "I didn't care much for her myself, and I shouldn't have thought she was your sort either."
I can't say I was greatly attracted, though there's something rather pleasing and pathetic about her, and she wanted so badly to fill in those four days between two visits. It's such a deuce of a way back to Carlisle--and she 'longed' so to see Fareham--historic old town, you know--and consulted me about hotels there, and so on. You've often done the same thing yourself; you know you have.
Oh, I shall be most pleased to see her and, of course I've told her so. Only--I wonder how she'll fit in with the others.
She'll fit in right enough; the more the merrier.
I can't imagine Mrs. Atwood merry under any circumstances.
All the more reason to try and cheer her up, Mr. Chester remarked optimistically, and the subject dropped.
Eileen Atwood was thirty-six years old, and looked at least five years younger. She was tall, slender, and fair, with a graceful, well-set head, large heavy-lidded and generally downcast blue eyes, a small close mouth, and a chin that would have been markedly receding had she not so persistently drooped her head forward. It is only people with firm chins who can afford to carry their heads in the air. She spoke very low, and was fond of discussing what she was pleased to call "psychic things." She herself would have said that she "bore an aura of unhappiness"; and the world in general concluded that Dr. Atwood was not simpatico. She had no children nor, apparently, many domestic claims, for she spent a large portion of her time in paying visits. Simple people considered her intellectual because she used such long and unusual words. Others of proved ability, such as her husband, had a different opinion.
Lallie arrived at Pinnels before luncheon. She left B. House by the first available train in the morning--partly because she knew Tony and Miss Foster to be very anxious about Tarrant, who was to be moved to the hospital that morning, and she thought they would be glad to have her out of the way; and partly because she was quite certain that Sidney Ballinger would not travel by such an early train, and she did not desire him as an escort. When they rode to the meet together he had implored her to give him an idea of what time next day she would travel to Fareham, but she persisted that her plans were too uncertain to admit of any information on this point. Therefore did he choose a train that would get him to Fareham in time for tea at Pinnels End, rightly thinking that this was the usual and agreeable time to arrive. He nearly lost his train through procrastination in the matter of taking his seat, having walked the whole length of the train several times peering into every carriage in a vain search for Lallie; and he endured a miserable journey, assailed by dismal doubts and fears lest Lallie had changed her mind and decided not to go at all.
It was therefore a great relief when he was ushered into the dark old hall at Pinnels to hear Lallie's voice raised in song in the duet "Thou the stream and I the river," which she and Billy Chester, the would-be land agent, were performing with great enthusiasm.
The drawing-room was almost as dark as the hall, for the lamps had not yet been brought in, and the only lights were from two candles upon the piano and the big fire of logs on the hearth. For years the present owner of Pinnels had been considering the installation of an electric-light plant, but he had never been able to bring himself to such an innovation. "It would pull the old place about," he observed apologetically, "and, after all, lamps are very handy, you can put 'em wherever you want 'em."
Ballinger waited at the open door till the duet had come to a triumphant and crescendoed conclusion, and then preceded the footman bearing tea.
He was the last to arrive, and the various greetings over Mrs. Chester led him over to the fireplace, remarking:
I think you know everybody here except Mrs. Atwood.
That lady, seated in a particularly dark corner, leant forward, saying in her usual soft tones:
Mr. Ballinger and I have met before; in fact, we are quite old friends.
Why did you never tell me? asked Mrs. Chester, and left them.
Mrs. Atwood was in the shadow, but Ballinger was standing in the circle of red light thrown by the fire, and that may have been the cause of his crimson face as he bent over the lady's hand.
Lallie, standing back in the room beside the piano, noticed that he gave a very perceptible start at the sound of Mrs. Atwood's voice, and that his flushed face betrayed no pleasure at the meeting, for he shook hands with the lady in somewhat perfunctory fashion and immediately moved back to a chair near Mrs. Chester, who was making tea on the other side of the hearth.
When the lamps were brought in Mrs. Atwood, who wore a most becoming tea-gown, came forth from her corner and went and sat down near Lallie, who shared a deep window-seat with Billy Chester and was squabbling with him for the last toasted scone.
You are a very wonderful person, Miss Clonmell, she said solemnly.
I'm glad to hear it, Lallie replied politely. "I've long been of that opinion myself, but hitherto I haven't been able to get people to share it."
Of course they won't share with you if you're so greedy about keeping things to yourself--what about that last scone? Billy exclaimed reproachfully.
Mrs. Atwood ignored Billy.
I suppose you have studied singing seriously? she continued.
I'm afraid I'm not very serious about anything. But I love music, if that's what you mean.
I mean a great deal more than that. You are possessed by it. The true artist always is. Don't you feel every time you sing that you are expressing in the fullest and most perfect form the essential you? That your entity is completed--rounded off as it were; that your very soul becomes tangible in song?
Billy softly and silently vanished from Lallie's side; and she, wishing with all her heart that Mrs. Atwood would go and talk to some one else, said humbly:
I'm afraid I don't feel nearly all that. I'm a very prosaic person really, and sometimes the inane words one has to sing--well, they get between me and the music and spoil it; though that, too, is inane enough sometimes.
Mrs. Atwood leant back in her chair and smiled indulgently at Lallie.
Oh, how I envy you, she exclaimed; "but at the same time I am quite sure that we agree in diathesis: that although we may arrive at our conclusions by different methods, they are practically identical. I cannot conceive that you can possess such a power of self-revelation without the artistic temperament, any more than I can allow that I, lacking means of self-expression, must necessarily lack temperament. I feel that we shall have much in common."
Lallie looked as though she feared this confidence on Mrs. Atwood's part was somewhat misplaced and said gravely:
I should never say that you lacked means of self-expression. You seem to me to have an unusually large vocabulary.
Mrs. Atwood laughed. "Now you are making game of me, and I believe I must have frightened Mr. Chester away--too bad. I suppose you know every one here very well. This is my first visit, you know--all strange except dear Mr. and Mrs. Chester, such kind people! Who is that man sitting so close by her?"
Lallie's seat was considerably higher than Mrs. Atwood's, and the girl looked down at her with a curiously appraising glance.
I thought I heard you say just before tea that he is an old friend of yours.
Mrs. Atwood laughed nervously.
Oh, that one! Mr. Ballinger; yes, I know him. I meant the tall one leaning against the chimneypiece.
That is Mr. Arnold Chester. He was here at lunch, you know.
So he was, how stupid of me. This lamplight is very confusing.
It seemed that although Mrs. Atwood spoke in her usual subdued tones that Sidney Ballinger heard his name, for he turned right round and saw Lallie sitting in the deep window-seat. Her head was sharply silhouetted against the white casement curtain, and her eyes, star-sweet and serious, met his in mute challenge. He did not see Mrs. Atwood, his eager gaze was concentrated on the little figure in the window. Hastily setting down his empty cup upon the tray he crossed the room and sat down in Billy Chester's vacant place, and not even his pince-nez could conceal the gladness in his eyes.
When did you arrive? he asked eagerly; "I've not had the chance to speak to you yet; you might have told me your train----"
Then he saw Mrs. Atwood.
His face changed and clouded, and his sudden pause was so marked that Lallie said hastily:
I came very early; Mrs. Atwood and I arrived almost at the same time from different directions. It was convenient, for it saved the motor going in twice.
And gave us an opportunity to become acquainted on our way out, Mrs. Atwood added. She leant back in her low chair and with half-shut eyes lazily looked at the two in the window.
Lallie longed to disclaim any sort of acquaintance with Mrs. Atwood, Ballinger seemed possessed by a demon of glum silence, only Mrs. Atwood, in graceful comfort, easily reclining in her deep chair, seemed insensible of any tension in the atmosphere.
Lallie felt intensely impatient at Ballinger's sudden and inconvenient taciturnity. Every one else in the room was talking. Why couldn't he? Why couldn't she? For the life of her she couldn't think of a suitable remark to make. Mrs. Atwood sat very still, a serene little smile just tinging her face with a suspicion of ironical amusement.
Lallie became unendurably restless. She felt that if she sat where she was another minute she would say or do something desperate. To get out of her corner she had to pass in front of her neighbour and almost squeeze behind Mrs. Atwood's chair; with a remark to the effect that it was chilly sitting so far from the fire, she achieved the difficult feat and joined the cheerful group round the tea-table.
Well? said Mrs. Atwood.
Ballinger looked at her rather helplessly. He had an irritating habit when embarrassed of holding his hands out in front of him and feebly dangling them from the wrists. He did this now as he remarked obviously:
I had no idea you were here.
Mrs. Atwood leaned suddenly toward him. "Don't talk banalities," she said almost fiercely. "Have you nothing else to say to me after all these months?"
He pulled himself together. "Well, really"--he spoke as though weighing the question carefully--"I don't know that I have."
Nevertheless, I shall have something to say to you, said Mrs. Atwood.
When Sidney Ballinger was at Trinity, Dr. Atwood had a practice in Cambridge. Mrs. Atwood was by way of being guide, philosopher, and friend to a good many undergraduates, and in Sidney Ballinger's case the friendship had assumed proportions quite other than Platonic.
He was flattered and grateful, his feeling for her being a subtle compound of inclination, gratified vanity, and a sort of pleased surprise that he was such a devil of a fellow. For Sidney was not then of much importance either in the world at large or in that smaller world of University life. He was good in the schools and of no use whatever in the athletic set. He did not speak at debates, nor act, nor perform at any of the various Musical Societies; in fact, he was a hard-working, rather simple-minded, inconspicuous young man until Mrs. Atwood got hold of him and taught him to believe himself complex, unusual, and misunderstood. She could not spoil his work, for he was shrewd enough in some ways, but she did contrive to develop a great deal that was artificial and petty in his character, whereas her feeling for him was as nearly sincere as emotion ever is in a nature that continually poses, as much to quicken its own spirit as to impress others.
They were both young and enthusiastic, but neither of them ever contemplated any very vigorous flight in the faces of the conventional. They saw each other constantly during term time, and often read Swinburne together. In the vacations they wrote long letters, and Sidney went about feeling very superior to the common herd of undergraduates who merely fell in love with people's unmarried sisters during May week.
The Atwoods left Cambridge during Sidney's fourth year there, which may have accounted for his exceedingly good degree. After he was called to the Bar he saw very little of Mrs. Atwood. As she put it, "they drifted apart." She did occasionally come to London, where they would meet, and he listened sympathetically to her complaints as to the "hebetude" of the inhabitants of Carlisle, but their letters were brief and few; in fact, the whole affair would have died a natural death but for his sudden and unexpected inheritance of his uncle's property. In his case all feeling for Mrs. Atwood, except a mildly reminiscent sort of affectation, was dead, and being sincerely desirous of doing his duty in the new station of life to which he had been called, he laid aside many youthful follies and affections; in fact, he set himself seriously to become the ideal landed proprietor.
On Mrs. Atwood, Sidney's sudden accession to a considerable fortune had quite another effect. Vistas of a hitherto undreamt-of possibility stretched before her; she beheld in imagination the world well lost and herself and Sidney fleeing to sunnier climes in a yacht she would help him to choose. She was a good sailor. He was not, but this she did not know.
Everything would arrange itself. Her "unloving, unloved" husband would doubtless soon get over it and she-- But it is fruitless to pursue Mrs. Atwood's reflections. She wrote many letters to Sidney. To some he replied with matter-of-fact civility, but he left a great many unanswered, especially of late.
Time had precisely opposite effects upon their respective temperaments. The flame of Mrs. Atwood's desire for Sidney burned stronger and fiercer; while in him there remained but a few grey ashes upon the altar of his love. Naturally tidy, he objected even to these frail reminders of the past, and did his best to sweep them away. Then he met Lallie and fell honestly and hopelessly in love. Mrs. Atwood's very existence became a rather annoying trifle--a pin-prick that only occasionally smarted.
When Mrs. Atwood met the Chesters she was beginning to feel desperate. Her last three letters to Sidney were unanswered. When she happened to hear Mrs. Chester say he was to be their guest so shortly, she felt that the hand of destiny was outstretched on her behalf. She promptly set to work to extract an invitation from Mr. Chester, and having succeeded, felt that all would happen as she had pictured. She was convinced that they only needed to meet once more when their relations would be as they had been in the past--only more so.
Take ship, for happiness is somewhere to be had, she quoted to herself. She was sure that her happiness lay at Pinnels End, and embarked upon her enterprise with a high heart.
By Saturday evening, the night of the Primrose meeting, the situation was somewhat as follows: Mrs. Atwood, still striving vainly to secure a few minutes alone with Sidney Ballinger; he, moving heaven and earth to draw Lallie away from all the others, without success; Lallie, quite aware of the tactics of both Ballinger and Mrs. Atwood and mischievously delighting in the checkmate of each in turn. She infuriated Mrs. Atwood by her extreme graciousness to Ballinger in public, and drove him to desperation by her desire for Billy Chester's society whenever he hoped to get her to himself.
Mrs. Chester was furious with Mrs. Atwood. She invaded her husband's dressing-room just before dinner to voice her indignation.
I have no patience with the woman, she exclaimed; "she's a regular spoil-sport. Any one with half an eye or an ounce of sympathy can see how the land lies between Lallie and young Ballinger, and yet she never leaves them alone for an instant. She seems to me to follow them about on purpose."
I think you're a bit hard on her. She must go about with some one, you couldn't expect her to stop in her room; and after all, how can she divine that Lallie and Ballinger are in love? They're too well-bred to show it if they are, and you have only your supposition to go on. I think she has taken rather a fancy to Lallie, like the rest of us.
Fancy! Mrs. Chester repeated scornfully. "If there is one person in this house that Mrs. Atwood cordially dislikes, it's Lallie. Mark my words, she means mischief, though how or why I can't tell; but I am convinced that she got you to ask her here simply that she might meet Sidney Ballinger--and I wish I'd never seen her."
The Pinnels party went in an omnibus to the Primrose meeting in Fareham. Ballinger secured a seat next Lallie, and under cover of the general conversation demanded:
Why will you never give me a minute alone? Why do you seem to avoid me so?
Why, I'm with you all day long, it seems to me; and as I've nothing to say to you that mightn't be shouted from the housetops, why should solitude be necessary?
I have a great deal to say to you that couldn't possibly be shouted. Will you come for a walk to-morrow afternoon? I'm sure you don't sleep all Sunday afternoon. Will you promise? And without that chap, Chester, mind--just you and me.
What about your friend Mrs. Atwood? She may be fond of walking.
Confound her! Will you promise?
I can't promise, but I'll try; there! Only you must be amusing and agreeable.
I'm only too afraid of being amusing. You generally seem to find me that. I should like you to take me very seriously indeed--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Atwood, what did you say?
The Primrose meeting was well attended. A noble earl, chief landowner in the neighbourhood, made a speech which mainly consisted of "hems" and "ers" interspersed with platitudes about Empire and Tariff Reform. The unionist candidate spoke wittily and well, and certain local magnates said the things local magnates usually do say. Then came the lighter part of the evening's business--songs and recitations. Lallie sang her topical ditty with immense flair. She looked so small, and slim, and young in her really beautiful French frock, with pearls in her hair and round her slender throat, that the hearts of the audience went out to her before she opened her mouth. But when she did begin to sing, when the big rich voice rolled out the ridiculous words with the marvellously clear articulation that was one great charm in Lallie's singing, she made every point with an archness that was delicious, that seemed to take each member of the audience into her confidence, while that confidence implied entire trust in their general shrewdness and clear-sightedness.
At the triumphant conclusion the whole house rose at her and demanded an encore with such noise and persistency that there was nothing for it but to indulge them.
The organist of Fareham Church presided at the piano as accompanist, and they saw him seemingly protest or expostulate at the song she gave him, but Lallie was evidently peremptory, and it was to be that or nothing. When she came forward to the front of the platform there was a sudden silence as, without any prelude, very softly, every note clear and poignantly sad, there fell upon the astonished ears of that comfortable English company:
"Oh, Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that's
going round?"
Not one word could be missed or misunderstood.
"I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand,
And, says he, 'How's poor old Ireland, and how does
she stand?'"
How, indeed? A little uncomfortable doubt as to their dealings with that most distressful country assailed even the most cock-sure politician in that audience.
Oh, the wearing of the green, sang Lallie, her heart in her voice. The monotonous, melancholy tone, charged full in every measured cadence with the sorrow of a people, held the good Fareham folk against their wills.
The clever Conservative candidate sat forward in his chair on the platform, his elbow on his knee, his hand shading his keen eyes as he stared fixedly at the little figure who worked this strange miracle.
It was over.
Fareham took a long breath and ventured upon subdued applause. For a moment there was a perceptible and uncomfortable pause. Then Billy Chester leapt to his feet and saved the situation.
He was glad, he said, "that the lady who had just been delighting them with her great gift of song had reminded them of Ireland and her wrongs. One thing above all others was needed to right those wrongs; to set Ireland in her place among the kingdoms of the Empire; to give her prosperity, self-respect, and peace within her own borders. This remedy they had in their hands if they would only use it--the institution of a judicious system of Tariff Reform. For no part of the Empire would it do so much as for Ireland." Billy showed how it could be brought about. He quoted statistics by the yard, he made jokes, he put Fareham on good terms with itself again, and the meeting broke up with a special vote of thanks to Miss Clonmell for her delightful music.
Lallie, you horrid little Fenian, what on earth possessed you to sing that song to-night of all nights? Mrs. Chester demanded as they drove home.
It seemed to me, Lallie replied grimly, "that there was an intolerable deal of sack to very little bread throughout the proceedings. So I thought I'd give them a little bread--black bread and bitter, but wholesome."
But for Billy it might have been very awkward indeed, Mrs. Chester continued.
Perhaps, Mrs. Atwood suggested, "that natural instinct of the artist to make a sensation at all costs was too strong for Miss Clonmell. She certainly attained her object. The faces of the people were an interesting study."
No one spoke for a moment, but Mrs. Chester, who was sitting next Lallie, suddenly felt for the girl's hand under the rug and gave it an affectionate squeeze.
You're a sad pickle, she whispered, "you always were."
I must speak up for my country when I get the chance, Lallie said aloud. "It isn't often I find myself upon a political platform, but I really believe I could sway the multitude better than most of them. If only I'd danced an Irish jig, I believe I could have got the whole of them to vote for Home Rule."
On Sunday morning Lallie got a letter from Tony telling her how ill Tarrant was. She read the letter over and over again, feeling restless and unhappy. She wanted Tony. She would have liked to go back to B. House that minute, to comfort him.
When I was at B. House I was homesick for Bridget, and now I'm here I'm homesick for Tony. Shall I always be homesick, I wonder? Lallie pondered.
She felt curiously nervous and ill at ease. Sidney Ballinger's inevitable proposal was hanging over her, and she was no nearer any decision as to her own answer. It was all very well "to be nice" to him just to annoy Mrs. Atwood, as it plainly did; but quite another matter to make up her mind "to be nice to him for ever and ever," as she considered would be her duty if she accepted him. She wished she could talk it over with Tony once more.
Mrs. Chester insisted that her husband should take Mrs. Atwood to service at Fareham church while the rest of the party went with her to the church in the village.
Mrs. Atwood protested against the motor being had out on her account, but her hostess was firm; and as she had, when they first met, expressed such an ardent desire to behold that ancient building, she could hardly now declare that she no longer felt any inclination to gaze upon its beauties.
Won't you come too, Miss Clonmell? she asked, as arrangements were being made in the hall after breakfast.
Lallie is coming with me, Mrs. Chester said firmly, without giving her guest a chance to reply. "Every one is coming with me except you and my husband. Then the vicar won't miss him so much."
All through the service Lallie thought of College chapel and longed to be there. From her seat in the gallery she could see Tony, and she liked to look down at him and admire his decorous demeanour. She always regarded his schoolmastering as something quite apart from himself, and now, although she had been living in B. House for nearly six weeks, she still thought that when he was what she called "stiff" it was only a manner adopted for the benefit of the boys.
Her Tony Bevan was the Tony of the holidays, in shabby Norfolk jacket and old fishing-hat. She never quite got over her first amusement at his sober Sunday garb and college gown. But even in this she liked him. She liked him amazingly. Her eyes were very soft and kind as she pictured Tony, stalwart and grave, leaning back in his college stall. And Ballinger, watching her, wondered what would be her thoughts, and hoped they might be of him.
They all walked back from church together meeting the motor as it turned into the drive. Mrs. Atwood and Mr. Chester got out and the whole party went round the gardens before lunch.
Remember, we meet in the drawing-room at three--no one's ever there on Sunday afternoon; you promised me a walk, you know--don't forget, Ballinger contrived to say to Lallie as they neared the house. She nodded without speaking, and Mrs. Atwood who was close behind them--she generally was--heard his reminder and noted Lallie's silent acquiescence.
Her face was very sombre as she slowly went upstairs to take off her hat.
She was leaving next day, and she was no nearer any explanation with Sidney Ballinger than before she came. They had assuredly met once more, but even her vanity hardly helped her to believe that the meeting had, for him, been fraught with any pleasure.
Like Miss Foster, she considered Lallie "a designing girl," and blamed her for Sidney's coldness.
If I could only see him alone, was the thought that repeated itself over and over again in her head; and the reflection that it was Lallie--and not she--who would see him alone that very afternoon became unbearable. Something must be done.
In winter at Pinnels, bedroom fires are lit before lunch on Sundays, and ladies retire to their rooms immediately after, nominally to write letters. Most people sleep, but that afternoon Lallie felt unusually wide-awake. She drew up a chair to the fire, intending to read till it should be time for her walk with Ballinger, but the printed page conveyed nothing to her mind. She was in that state of acute nervous tension when definite occupation of any kind seems impossible, and every smallest sound is magnified tenfold.
I'll get it over, said Lallie to herself. "Nothing will induce me to marry him, but I'll get it over."
Presently there came a very soft rap upon her door. Mrs. Atwood followed the knock and, shutting the door behind her, came over to Lallie.
May I sit down? she said. "I very much want to have a few minutes' conversation with you, and this seemed the best opportunity."
She was pale, and there was an atmosphere about her of suppressed storm. Lallie hoisted a mental umbrella while she politely begged her guest to be seated, and awaited developments.
You have, I think, said Mrs. Atwood, "known Mr. Ballinger for about a year?"
Just about, said Lallie.
I have known him for nearly seven.
Really, Lallie remarked.
Miss Clonmell, you are young, and I feel that it is only fair to you that you should know--what he and I have been to one another.
Please, I have no desire to know anything of the kind. It is no business of mine. I would rather not--much rather not--hear any more. Please, please stop before you say things you will wish unsaid half an hour afterwards--please.
You've got to listen to me whether you like it or not, Mrs. Atwood exclaimed passionately. "You think he is in love with you. I know him; it is merely a passing glamour. Your youth, your music--your--oh, what shall I call it--have carried him off his feet, but it will pass; his heart, what there is of it, belongs to me."
But you're married, Mrs. Atwood, so what would you be doing with his heart? even if it is as you say.
Married! Mrs. Atwood repeated bitterly--"married! so I was when he first knew me, but that didn't prevent his falling in love with me."
I fear, said Lallie gravely, "that he is a very unfortunate young man, and if he has done his best to cure himself of such a hopeless attachment it's not you who should stand in the way of his doing so."
Confront me with him, Mrs. Atwood cried furiously; "ask him whether what I say is true or not, and you'll soon see."
My dear Mrs. Atwood, I shouldn't dream of doing such a thing. It is an unpleasant affair altogether, and the sooner it's buried in oblivion the better for all concerned.
But, girl, I love him! Can't you understand? I love him!
I'm very sorry, said Lallie.
But what are you going to do? cried Mrs. Atwood, her voice vibrant and shrill with irritation. "The matter can't rest here. What are you going to do?"
Nothing whatever. I never let it affect me when people tell me tales about others. I wasn't intended to know this. If Mr. Ballinger wants me to know it, he'll tell me himself.
You mean that what I have told you won't affect your feelings towards him in any way?
Mrs. Atwood, I am really very sorry for you, but I can't see that Sidney Ballinger is called upon to go single all his life just because he was in love with you once and has got over it. He can't marry you if you've got a husband already, and it's much better he shouldn't go hanging round you any more--better for both of you. Don't you see that it is?
You don't understand, wailed Mrs. Atwood. "You take the common, narrow, early Victorian view of the whole situation. Does he owe me nothing for the years I have loved him?"
If I had loved a man for years, said Lallie softly, "I don't think I should talk about his debt to me."
You don't know what you would do. If you were a woman, instead of a child incapable of understanding any great passion, you would know. Will you give him back to me, I ask you? Will you give him back to me?
Nothing can do that except his own will.
But will you stand out of the way, refuse him, have nothing more to do with him? Promise me.
A moment before, Lallie had looked frightened, and Mrs. Atwood thought she could be bullied. She stood over the girl, menace in her eyes and hatred in her heart. She caught Lallie by the shoulder and shook her. She made a great mistake.
A moment before Lallie had been very sorry for her, though she despised her and thought her shameless. But now--she shook off Mrs. Atwood's hand and she, too, stood up.
I will promise nothing, she said haughtily. "You have no possible right to ask it."
The two women stood looking at each other. Mrs. Atwood breathless, panting, almost beside herself with excitement; Lallie quiet and dignified.
The clock struck three.
I think we have said all there is to say on this subject, Lallie said coldly. "I really would rather not hear any more."
She crossed the room and held the door open, and in silence Mrs. Atwood passed through it.
Lallie seized her coat and hat, fiercely stabbed in her big pins and ran down stairs to the drawing-room, where she knew Sidney Ballinger would be waiting.
So he was, and Mrs. Atwood was with him. The tears were running down her cheeks. He was white and evidently very angry. His mouth, usually so weak and amiable, had taken on a cruel look--the sort of snarl that curls the lips back from the teeth as in an angry animal.
Lallie stopped short and looked from one to the other.
I have told her, Sidney, sobbed Mrs. Atwood. "I thought it only right that she should know all we had been to one another--how greatly we loved, how----"
He turned upon her furiously.
I never loved you. From its first inception the whole thing was false and pretentious, as you are yourself. I was only a boy when you got hold of me. I never really cared for you.
Lallie moved a little nearer Mrs. Atwood.
Believe me, Lallie, he went on, "I never cared for her, and now she won't leave me alone. I care more for your very shoe-lace----"
Stop! It was Lallie who spoke. "How dare you speak to her like that? Oh, you----"
Mrs. Atwood covered her face with her hands and fled from the room.
Listen to me, Lallie! Don't let her come between us.
He spoke in sobbing gasps and caught at one of Lallie's hands. She drew it away.
She has not come between us, she said scornfully; "it is yourself. You might have told me that it had all been the worst thing possible, and I could have forgiven you. Who am I to judge a man? But not this. You went back on her. You put her to open shame before me. You are a coward, Mr. Ballinger."
Lallie, think of the provocation! What right had she to come thrusting in with her grievances--wholly imaginary grievances--upon the most beautiful and sacred thing in my whole life. Let us come out and forget her. You will come, won't you? You won't let her spoil everything?
I told you before, Mrs. Atwood had no power to spoil anything. I wasn't even sorry for her when she told me; but you-- No, Mr. Ballinger, I could never trust you. You went back on her.
And Lallie turned and left him standing in the middle of the Pinnels drawing-room, thinking bitter thoughts.
Who could have dreamt she would have taken such a curious line? That she should be shocked, distressed, indignant, was to be expected--it was what he dreaded. But she was none of these things. The affair with Mrs. Atwood seemed to pass her by. She blamed him because he didn't own up, because he was cruel to Eileen Atwood when he denied that he had ever cared for her. He had cared, as much as it was in him to care at all--then. Now, he was absolutely truthful when he had said that Lallie's shoe-string was more to him than Eileen Atwood's whole body. But it had not pleased Lallie. Women were incomprehensible. He knew that Lallie did not love him, but he had believed that he could make her love him in time. She was so affectionate, so passionately grateful for kindness: surely, surely she must respond some day if only he got his chance.
Had this horrible woman ruined it entirely? He felt that he could gladly have strangled Mrs. Atwood with his own hands: yet his knees bent under him and his pulses were thundering in his ears. He went into the deserted dining-room and mixed himself a stiff whisky-and-soda, and drank it at a draught. He felt better after it and more hopeful.
Poor little Lallie! It had been a horrid scene. He wouldn't appeal to her again--not just now while she was still angry, but in Hamchester--thank Heaven! she would be somewhere within reach where he could see her sometimes. Perhaps by and by, when she had cooled down, she would listen to reason. By the way, he might go and see that schoolmaster fellow who was acting as her guardian. The Chesters said he was a very decent chap, quite a man of the world. Ballinger thought he might just give a hint that there had been unpleasantness about another woman, and a tolerant, broad-minded man--the Chesters said he was that--would say something sensible to Lallie, and it would have weight. She was forever quoting him. She'd probably take it from him.
It never occurred to Sidney Ballinger that a guardian of any sort could regard him other than in the most favourable light. After all, eight thousand a year is eight thousand a year, and "I'm not a bad chap or wastrel. There's nothing against me really," he reflected.
By tea-time he was able to take quite an optimistic view of the situation.
Nearly three weeks later, Tony Bevan sat on a seat in the sun watching "Pots." It was Thursday afternoon and there was an "extra half."
In front of him, standing with legs wide apart, very conscious of a new covert coat and gaiters, stood Punch; a round diminutive Punch all by himself, and overjoyed at his isolation. His family were at least three seats away.
When a covert coat, if it is to be a coat at all, necessarily reaches almost to one's knees, it is difficult to thrust one's hands in knickerbocker pockets. So Punch found it. He tried both, he tried hard, but the coat would bunch out all round like a frill, so he contented himself with one. With the other he occasionally shaded his eyes, as though the watery November sun was too strong for him.
Sitting on the same seat with "Mitta Bevan," as Punch called him, were two boys--big boys. Punch liked big boys; they were generally quite friendly.
Presently he turned to Tony and said politely:
I hope I don't o'scure your view.
The big boys made queer muffled sounds, but Tony said gravely:
Well, if you could stand, just a little to the left--or better still, won't you come and sit with us? You'd see just as well.
Punch came, and was duly ensconced between Tony and one of the boys, with a share of rug over his short legs.
Where's Lallie? he asked; "she's not been to see us for ages, nor to sing for me."
Lallie is coming home the day after to-morrow. Are you glad? I am, said Tony, and he looked it.
Why did she go away so long for?
Well, you see, the lady she was staying with begged her to stay on and on, and she's very fond of that lady; but she's really coming home on Saturday.
Will she come to see me on Saturday?
I'm not sure. You see she mightn't get home very early, but I think she'll come and see you on Sunday afternoon if you'll be at home.
I'll be at home, said Punch firmly; "I won't go to the children's service with Pris and Prue."
I don't think she'd come during service time.
I'd better not go lest she did, Punch insisted. "I like Lallie."
I think we all like Lallie, said Tony, and one of the "big boys" sitting on the seat murmured: "And so say all of us," and nudged his comrade.
Letter after letter had come from Lallie deferring her return. First it was that--"there are five hundred little red names to sew on Claude Chester's garments before he returns to Egypt. Mrs. Chester seems to imagine that there's something magical about those names, and that they will in some mysterious fashion prevent Claude losing his clothes, which he does at the rate of about an outfit a year. I should think that the whole of the Egyptian Army is taking a wear out of Claude's vests and things, judging by the amount he takes out and the few and holey garments he brings back. Mrs. Chester says it hurts her eyes to thread needles, and she's a poor old woman with no daughter; and what would I be tearing back to Hamchester for where no one particularly wants me (that's not true, is it?) when I can be of use here? So I really think I'd better stay till the names are all firmly attached, but it won't take long."
Then, after the little red names were all sewed on, Mrs. Chester got an exceedingly bad cold and had to stay in bed; and of course Lallie had to stay on at Pinnels to look after her.
But she was really coming home to-morrow. Tarrant was getting up every day for an hour or two, and it seemed only in keeping with the general pleasantness of things that B. House should already have scored six points to nil.
One thing about Lallie's letter puzzled Tony. She never so much as mentioned Ballinger. If she had given him his congé, this was natural enough and like Lallie; but if not, what did it mean?
At half-past five that evening Sidney Ballinger's card was brought in to him.
He never saw people in the drawing-room if he could possibly help it. He never knew why he hated it so till Lallie commented upon its stiffness. He received Sidney Ballinger in his study.
Nervous, poor chap, was Tony's mental comment, as his guest came in. He did his best to set him at his ease; supplied him with cigarettes; offered him tea; whisky-and-soda; both refused.
I dare say, said Ballinger, "that Miss Clonmell told you I hoped you would allow me to call. Is she at home?"
Tony looked rather surprised.
She returns on Saturday; I thought you were at Pinnels also.
I left last Monday fortnight, and I haven't heard from Miss Clonmell since. I thought she was coming back next day.
Been having good hunting with the Cockshots? asked Tony.
Pretty fair. Mr. Bevan, it's no use beating about the bush; you know, I have no doubt, why I am here and why I have ventured to call upon you. When I went to Pinnels three weeks ago I fully intended to ask Miss Clonmell to be my wife--to ask her again. She told you that I had already proposed to her?
She didn't tell me. Her father did though.
Well, I didn't ask her again at Pinnels: not in so many words; I never got the chance.
That was unfortunate, said Tony, and in spite of himself his eyes twinkled.
It was d--d unfortunate. I'll make a clean breast of it. There was another woman there--a married woman--with whom I had had a foolish flirtation in my salad days--when I was at Cambridge. You know the sort; older than I am, and horribly tenacious.
Ballinger paused. Tony smoked thoughtfully but said nothing to help him out. "A bit of a Goth," thought Ballinger, and took up his tale again.
Well, she made a scene. Told Lallie all about it, and before me, too; and naturally Lallie--Miss Clonmell--was upset, and she wouldn't listen to me after that.
But why do you tell me all this? asked Tony, and took his pipe out of his mouth.
You see, sir, I know that Miss Clonmell has a very high opinion of you; that you have, in fact, enormous influence over her; and it seemed to me that if you would tell her it really wasn't anything so very bad.
Wasn't it anything so very bad?
I assure you no-- Folly if you like, egregious folly; but it might have happened to any one. If you could tell Miss Clonmell that you have seen me, that I have told you the whole thing, and that you think she ought to forgive me--that she ought not to let it ruin both our lives.
That's the point, said Tony. "Will it ruin Miss Clonmell's life if she continues to take an adverse view of the circumstance you have just related? Or is it only of your own life you are thinking?"
I believe I could make her happy, said Ballinger gloomily.
I have no doubt you would do your best to do so, but one can never tell what view a woman may take of such things; and I'm not sure that they aren't often perfectly right. Still, in Lallie's case, she has had a different bringing up from most girls. You can never depend on her taking the conventional view. There is probably hope for you--if she cares.
A very big if, groaned Ballinger.
If she doesn't care, I can't see how what you have told me would affect her one way or other. Tony took up his pipe again and stared steadily into the fire.
Ballinger stared at him. How much did he know? Had Lallie written about it to him? She probably would, and that's why he said that about not taking the conventional view. He didn't make it very easy for a fellow. Ballinger cleared his throat.
May I, he asked, "depend upon you to put my case as favourably as possible before Miss Clonmell?"
I can't promise that. You see, to be perfectly candid, I know next to nothing about you, except that you are well off and that Fitz Clonmell likes you; but I will certainly point out to Miss Clonmell that it would be a pity to let an affair of that sort--you said it was entirely ended, I think; had been for some time--stand in the way where there was any solid prospect of happiness. I can't truly say I'm glad you told me of this, for I'm not. It puts a horrid lot of responsibility on me, and an old bachelor is hardly the adviser one would choose for a girl in affairs of this kind.
* * * * *
I'll put the common-sense view before Lallie, as I promised, Tony wrote to Fitz Clonmell that night; "but your Sidney Bargrave Ballinger is too much of a 'Tomlinson' for my taste."
"My heart, my heart is like a singing bird,
Whose nest is in a watered shoot,"
sang Lallie, and Tony Bevan had set his study door open to listen.
There was no doubt whatever that Lallie was supremely glad to be back at B. House. Even Miss Foster had, at dinner that night, thawed into a semblance of geniality; the girl's pleasure was so manifest, her high spirits so infectious.
Now, alone in the drawing-room, she sang song after song, and, unlike Lallie's songs as a rule, not one of them was sad.
"Because my love, my love has come to me,"
she carolled.
The melody--exulting, triumphant, a very p?an of rapture, young, glad, valorous--so entirely expressed Tony's own feeling that it drew him with irresistible force, and he went to her.
She did not pause in her song, but sang on with ever-increasing abandon; and Tony, leaning against the end of the piano and watching her, was hard put to it not to tell her there and then what she was to him.
But he was not given to act on the impulse of the moment, and even before the last glad notes had died away there came the old chilling consciousness of the disparity between them: a disparity not of age only, but of temperament. Tony was very humble-minded. On such rare occasions as he thought about himself at all he did not, like Sidney Ballinger, tell himself he "was not a bad fellow." He was only too conscious of his many defects and shortcomings. He hoped he did his best according to his lights, but he acknowledged that those lights were neither brilliant nor searching. And just as there was for Lallie something incongruous in the fact that he was a schoolmaster, so there was for himself something almost ridiculous in the fact that he, of all people in the world, should be hopelessly in love with one so elusive and so complex as was the lady of his dreams.
For just as no mortal on earth could ever be sure what Lallie would do next, Tony least of all: so she and the world in general had a habit of depending upon Tony Bevan and always expecting from him a certain kind of conduct. Nor were they ever disappointed.
I wonder, said Lallie, looking across the piano at him, "whether you are half as glad to see me as I am to get back."
Don't I look glad?
You always do that; but then, that might only be kindness and politeness on your part. I seem to have been away years.
You went for three days and stayed three weeks. Were all the outfit, and colds, and dire need for your presence genuine, or was it merely that you were having a good time and wanted to stay at Pinnels?
I did have a good time at Pinnels: I always do; but I should have been back long ago had it not been that Mrs. Chester really seemed to want me.
Mrs. Chester's desire is not incomprehensible, but I hope you are not going away for any more long week-ends, or the holidays will be here, and then----
Then I pick up Paddy at the Shop dance, and we both go to Ireland for Christmas; and if you think Aunt Emileen will be sufficient chaperon, reinforced by Paddy, we shall be pleased to see you.
But I'm supposed to be a chaperon myself.
Not at all, Lallie said emphatically. "Have you forgotten the dreadful fuss you made because Miss Foster wasn't here when I first came?"
Ah, but that was different--I have to be away so much here. By the way, have you nothing to say to me, in my capacity of chaperon--Uncle Emileen, if you like--as to the momentous decision you told me you would be called upon to make while you were at Pinnels.
Tony, dear--Lallie spoke in a whisper, looking delightfully demure and mischievous--"I was never called upon to make any decision at all. I suppose it was conceit on my part to think I should have to do it. Anyway, I hadn't to, and it saved a lot of trouble."
Is that quite true, Lallie?
In the letter absolutely; in the spirit--well, it takes a lot of explaining when you come to such subtleties. And sometimes one can't explain without bringing in other people who'd perhaps rather be left out.
Who were the other guests at Pinnels besides you and Mr. Ballinger?
A young lady--a young lady after Miss Foster's own heart, I'm sure; so inconspicuous and characterless, she reminded me of the man in the pantomime who is always running across the stage with a parcel and gets knocked down and disappears only to be knocked down next time he crosses the stage with the same inevitable parcel. I'm not sure whether she was the man or the parcel, but she really doesn't come into the story.
Yes; and who else?
Three Chester boys--all nice; there never was a nicer family. And then there was a Mrs. Atwood.
What was she like?
She, Tony, was the kind of person described by their relations as 'highly strung'; she uses immense long words, of Greek origin if possible--at least Billy Chester said so, and he ought to know, being just fresh from Oxford.
Does Mrs. Chester like your Mr. Ballinger?
Why do you call him 'my' Mr. Ballinger? He's nothing of the sort. Yes, Mrs. Chester does like him; she knew him when he was quite young and used to come for the holidays to the uncle who left him all the money, and she was dreadfully sorry for him.
Who? Ballinger or the uncle?
Mr. Ballinger, of course. His parents died when he was quite little, and this uncle and aunt brought him up. There was an aunt then, a dreadful aunt, who thought that everything in the least pleasant was wicked. She considered all games a waste of time. Novels and poetry were an invention of the devil, and such people as the kind, good, merry Chesters 'dangerous companions.' So the poor boy had rather dismal holidays. The only thing she thought good about Rugby was a volume of Dr. Arnold's sermons. Oh, he had a poor time of it.
Still, they sent him to a good school and then to the 'Varsity. They didn't do very badly by him.
The aunt died before he went to Cambridge, and his uncle became much more human. For one thing he was awfully pleased because Mr. Ballinger was so quiet and industrious. He didn't waste his time playing cricket and getting blues and things, and so he got a splendid degree--a something first! Are you listening, Tony?
I am, most attentively, and it strikes me that if that young man had spent a little more of his time playing games, he might not have got into the particular kind of mischief he did get into--mischief that is apt to make things very uncomfortable later on.
All the time she was talking Lallie had been playing very softly in subdued accompaniment to her remarks. Now she suddenly ceased, and sitting up very straight stared hard at Tony, who still lounged against the other end of the piano devouring her with his eyes.
What do you mean, Tony?
I mean, Lallie, that a young man is apt to pay dearly for a sentimental friendship with a lady of 'highly strung' temperament.
Where in the world did you hear anything about it?
Now where do you think?
You don't mean to say that he has actually been to see you and told you himself?
That is precisely what I do mean; and having heard the story, I feel it my duty to ask you not to be too hard on the fellow--not to let it influence your decision one way or other; especially now that you have told me of his boyhood, would I beg you to judge leniently.
Lallie's little face grew set and hard, her grey eyes darkened, and the soft curves of her chin took on stern, purposeful lines.
Just tell me this, she said. "Did he, when he described the somewhat stormy interview with Mrs. Atwood, give you to understand that it was his flirtation with the lady that I objected to? Did he say that now?"
Well, naturally.
Then he lied.
Lallie, my dear child!
Since he has chosen to confide in you--though why, Heaven only knows--I will tell you exactly what happened. She made a scene, and he behaved like a brute to her; and it's because he behaved like a brute that I will have nothing more to do with him. He went back on her, Tony; denied that he'd ever cared a toss for her, and before me, too.
Perhaps there was enormous provocation. You see, he is very much in love with you, and he wouldn't know how you would take it.
That was evident. He did the one thing that I could never, never forgive. And now let's have an end of this, Tony; you've done your duty and pleaded his cause, and for your comfort I'll first tell you this: that if I had cared for him and there had been twenty Mrs. Atwoods, and each had come with a tale as long as your arm about him, it wouldn't have moved me an inch provided he was straight with me and generous and honest to them. As it happened I didn't care for him. I had decided that before there was any fuss at all with Mrs. Atwood. But when she came and, so to speak, put a pistol at my head, commanding me to give him up, I wasn't going to tell her that I'd done it already.
But why not, if you had? It would have saved all the fuss.
If you think I'm going to knuckle under to any idiotic, hysterical woman that chooses to bully me, just to save a fuss, you little know me, or any woman.
Tony shook his head solemnly, but his heart was light, as he said:
No one can pretend to understand a woman. I have no doubt whatever that you did everything you could to annoy and rouse that poor lady, and then, having achieved your object and forced Ballinger's hand, you turn and rend him for crying out when he's hurt.
It's only women who may cry out. A man that is a man suffers in silence.
H'm--I'm not so sure; it depends on the man.
Well, I'll tell you this: that I won't marry any one I can't lean against in a crisis. If I think a man can't bear my light weight without crumpling up, I've no use for him; and the man who goes back on one woman will go back on another. No, thank you.
Will you tell your father this?
Oh, dear, yes; and tell him you pleaded Mr. Ballinger's cause and made my life a burden generally. I'll be a sister to him, Tony, and tell him a few home truths; it would do him all the good in the world.
Well, I sincerely trust no more young men will come to me about you; upon my word, this sort of thing is twenty times worse than parents. You're a frightful responsibility, Lallie.
Her lips trembled, she gave him a long reproachful look, and then seemed to collapse into a pathetic little heap on the keyboard of the piano, her arms spread out on the protesting notes, her head down on her arms.
Lallie was crying, and crying bitterly.
With a muttered and intensely sincere "God help me!" Tony went round and stood beside her, patting her shoulder awkwardly, but very gently.
My dear, my dear, what is it? Why do you cry?
She lifted her little face, all tear-stained and piteous.
I thought you'd be glad it was all at an end and done with, she sobbed, "but your chief concern seems to be that you'll still have the bother of me. I can't get married just to get out of the way. I've a great mind to accept Cripps and see what you'd say then: that would be bother enough----"
Cripps! What on earth do you mean?
Cripps is a gentleman, a dear, nice boy; he wrote to me--it was one of the letters you forwarded, but he'd disguised his writing so you never noticed--saying he thought I'd got into trouble through waving my hand to him, and that was why I'd gone away; and he was dreadfully sorry, and he'd go to you immediately if I gave him leave--he's going to Sandhurst next term if he passes, you know--and that there was nobody in the world--oh, you know the sort of thing----
Indeed, I don't, cried Tony, in vigorous disclaimer. "I never heard such nonsense. And what did you do?"
I wrote him ever such a pretty letter, but I pointed out that the damsel destined for him is probably at this moment wearing a pinafore and a pigtail. I was motherly and kind and judicious.
Lallie's face was still wet with tears, but her eyes sparkled and were full of mischief again.
I'm glad one of you showed a modicum of sense. Remember, I know nothing of Cripps and his vagaries; don't send him to me, whatever you do.
I didn't send Mr. Ballinger.
I don't suppose you did; still, if you happen to know of any one else likely to come and ask my assistance in his wooing, you might break it to me gently--now, that I may be prepared.
Lallie looked down; she smiled and dimpled distractingly, as she said softly:
You must promise not to be cross--Mr. Johns wrote too, very seriously. He asked me to live the higher life with him.
The deuce he did! And you?
I think a sisterly feeling is all I can muster up for Mr. Johns at present.
Tony groaned.
Will he come to me, do you suppose? I warn you, he'll hear some home truths if he does.
I don't think he'll worry you, Tony. He's on probation--as it were.
Softly, very softly, Lallie began to play the "Widdy Malone," and almost unconsciously Tony found himself humming:
"She broke all the hearts of the swains in thim parts."
Lallie laughed.
No 'Lucius O'Brian of Clare' has come as yet, she said.
She had turned her face back to Tony, with laughing challenge in her eyes.
Upon my soul, I can't stand this, cried Tony Bevan, and fled from the room.
Lallie sat where she was, staring after him in speechless astonishment.
I can't make out Tony these days at all, at all, she sighed.
But she did not get up and run after him as she would have done a month ago.
Tony held old-fashioned and chivalrous notions regarding his duties as host and guardian to his friend's daughter. It seemed to him that in no way was it possible for him to declare his feeling for Lallie without putting her in a false and painful position. And not to declare that feeling emphatically and at length was becoming every day more difficult. He knew the girl to be so fond of him in the dear, natural, unrestrained fashion that had grown with her growth, that had become as much a pleasant habit of mind as her love for Paddy or her father, that he dreaded, should he ask more, lest she might mistake her present feeling for something deeper, and in sheer gratitude and affection promise what it was not really hers to give. Again, should she feel it impossible even to consider him in the light of a lover, he made the situation difficult--nay, impossible--for her. She could not then return to B. House, and she had nowhere else to go.
Sometimes Tony let himself consider a third and glorious contingency--that Lallie cared even as he cared. Even so, she could not come back to B. House, but old Fitz would have to come back a bit sooner, and she could stay with the Wentworths till he did; at such moments as these Tony's lined face would grow boyishly radiant. But all too soon the good moment passed and stern realities hemmed him in on every side: loyalty to Fitz, the best and kindest thing to Lallie.
Yet, with the temptation to tell her all he felt for her assailing him all day long, it was positive agony to think of her as out of his reach with all the world free to make love to her.
The strain was telling on Tony. He looked old and harassed, and as the Christmas term drew to an end the boys in his form declared that in all their experience his temper had never been so fiendish.
Even Miss Foster noticed that he was looking unwell and, quite rightly, attributed his indisposition to the worry of having "that upsetting girl" in the house.
Mr. Johns was not wholly discouraged by Lallie's sisterly attitude, and in somewhat solemn fashion showed her plainly that he was there, ready to respond to any warmer feeling on her part. Lallie was consistently gracious to him, and the young man's smug acceptance of her favours drove Tony to desperation.
Lallie spent a great deal of her time with the Wentworths. Mr. Ballinger would not take no for an answer. He called frequently, he managed to ingratiate himself with Mrs. Wentworth, and often met Lallie there as Tony knew. He even, with artless belief in Tony's sympathy, sought him again, begging for his good word.
Tony was bitterly conscious that all the world, that all his little circle--boys, masters, and masters' wives--seemed to see more of Lallie than he did, but he never sought her society, and lately she never came to say good-night to him in his study as she always did at first.
The winter term at Hamchester ends the day after the College concert. There is always a great gathering of old Hamchestrians at this function, and the accommodation of the houses is taxed to its utmost. B. House sent more boys to Woolwich than any other in the College, but that year the cadets did not get their leave till three days after the College, and so could not manage to get down for it. Therefore B. House was not quite so packed as usual, though there was a fair sprinkling of old boys who were at the 'Varsity or out in the world.
Lallie sang at the concert, and received a tremendous ovation. She had, herself, set to music four verses of Kipling's--
"Let us now praise famous men,
Men of little showing"--
and the tune, stately yet jubilant, marched in swinging measure to a triumphant conclusion. Not one word in the whole four verses did the audience miss, and the boys yelled "encore" with one prodigious voice.
The programme was a long one, encores were "strictly forbidden," and the restriction was perfectly reasonable; but the boys simply refused to let the next item on the programme begin. Hamchester School had made up its mind that it wanted Lallie to sing again, and no power on earth can stop six hundred boys with good lungs when they fairly get going.
Dr. Wentworth was annoyed; Tony Bevan was furious, for his house had never before really got out of hand, and there was no doubt whatever that it was ringleader in the tremendous din that followed Lallie's singing. Of course she was radiant; this flying in the face of all authority was after her own heart. She was trembling with excitement when at last, in sheer desperation, Dr. Wentworth led her up on to the platform to give the boys their way.
She chose as her song, "Should he upbraid," and sang at the Principal in the most bare-faced manner. A ripple of mirth ran over the audience, and then, as the liquid, seductive notes rolled out so smoothly and soothingly, Dr. Wentworth's annoyance subsided and he actually turned and beamed at his boisterous boys. Tony's grim face relaxed, and by the time the song was ended the masters had recovered their good humour and the boys were forgiven.
Next day the school went home, the bulk of the boys by a special train at mid-day. Miss Foster was to leave at tea-time, and Lallie by an afternoon train for Woolwich, where she was to stay with a certain general and his wife, old friends of her father.
Tony Bevan had made no plans. He had half promised to go and shoot with Paddy over in Kerry, but he was not sufficiently sure of himself to make up his mind. He felt slack and tired, old and depressed.
When the last batch of boys had filled the last long string of cabs, Lallie went up to the matron's room. That much-tried woman was sitting exhausted at her table, turning over some of her interminable lists. Lallie sat down opposite to her and laid her hand on the one that held the list.
You've done enough for one morning, she said. "Rest now for a minute and listen to me. You've been endlessly good to me, Matron, dear, and I don't know how to thank you. I have been so happy here, and now it has all come to an end I feel very sad. I really think B. House is the nicest place on earth, and I'm frightfully sorry to go."
But you're coming back next term, Miss Clonmell--why, we'll all be together again in no time. There's no need to look so melancholy about it.
Lallie shook her head.
I'm not at all sure that I'll come back. It seems to me, especially lately, that my being here is rather a worry to Tony. I seem to vex him without meaning to--and I suppose I am a bit in the way. It has lately begun to dawn upon me that Miss Foster is perfectly right. You don't want 'stray girls' in a house like this.
The matron looked mysterious, she nodded her head thrice, and there was an "I-could-an'-I-would" air about her extremely provocative of curiosity.
Why do you look like that, Matron, dear? I won't rest till you tell me. Why do you wag your head so solemnly?
Have you no idea, Miss Clonmell, what is the matter with Mr. Bevan?
I don't know that there's anything the matter with him except that he's a bit tired of term, and perhaps of me, and having to be Uncle Emileen for such a long stretch of country.
You're very fond of Mr. Bevan, aren't you, Miss Clonmell?
Fond of Tony? I adore Tony! there's nobody like him.
Has it never occurred to you that perhaps Mr. Bevan----
Matron paused. She was the soul of discretion, and in view of the daring step she contemplated, she stopped short aghast.
Perhaps what--What about Tony?
Has it never struck you that perhaps Mr. Bevan may be feeling like some of those other young gentlemen who are so much taken up with you--only in his case, being older, it's a much more serious matter.
The lovely colour flooded Lallie's face. Her hand tightened on Matron's, and she gazed at her in breathless silence for a full minute.
Do you mean, she whispered, "that you think Tony cares for me like that?"
I am perfectly sure of it, said Matron; "and if you are sure you can never care for him 'like that'; I certainly think it would be kinder of you not to come back next term."
Lallie's eyes were shining; she was very pale again as she suddenly leant across the little table and kissed the matron.
Without another word she went out of the room.
She had lunch alone with Tony and Miss Foster. It was a very quiet meal, and when it was over she followed Tony into the study to receive some last instructions about her journey. He was to see her off at the train, and being a methodical person he had made all arrangements for her journey to Ireland as well. He gave her marked time-tables and her tickets, and then looking down at her as she stood small and meek and receptive at his side, he said:
Ballinger has been at me again, Lallie. He really does seem tremendously in earnest; and I think that if you don't intend to have anything more to do with him you should make it clearer than you have as yet. It would be kinder to put him out of suspense.
Short of knocking him on the head like a gamekeeper with a rabbit, I don't see what more I can do.
Perhaps if he had it in black and white he'd realise that you mean what you say.
But I can't write to him if he doesn't write to me. It's you he bothers, not me. He has never said one syllable to me that all the world mightn't hear, since I came back from the Chesters. You can't expect me to go out of my way to refuse a man who has never asked me. 'He either fears his fate too much'----
Perhaps he's pretty certain he'd 'lose it all' poor chap, said Tony gently; "I can sympathise with him."
Lallie made no answer.
He took her to the station, bought her papers, spoke to the guard, and compassed her about with all the thousand-and-one observances that men love to lavish on women for whom they care.
As the train began to move, Lallie leant out of the window.
If you look, she began, then crimsoned to the roots of her hair, and the train bore her from his sight.
If you look-- Tony repeated over and over again as he walked slowly home--what could she have been going to say?
He went into the town and restlessly did several quite unnecessary errands at various shops. It was tea-time when he got back, and he had it with Miss Foster in the drawing-room. When she had gone he went into his study and sat down at his desk.
On his blotting-pad lay a volume of Shakespeare. It was not one of his own little leather edition that he always used, but a fat, calf-bound book from the set in the drawing-room.
He lifted it and saw that it contained one of Lallie's markers--a piece of white ribbon with a green four-leaved shamrock embroidered at each end. He opened it at the place marked, and there was a faint pencil line against the following passage:
"O, by your leave, I pray you;
I bade you never speak again of him:
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that,
Than music from the spheres."
The College Shakespeare Society had read Twelfth Night at B. House only a fortnight before, and Lallie had pestered Tony to let her read Viola, but only boys and masters were permitted to perform.
Tony laid the book down on his desk and put the marker in his breast pocket. He looked at his watch and wrote a telegram to an old Hamchestrian who was one of the Under Officers at the Shop.
If you possibly can, get me a ticket for the dance to-night. Can't get there till eleven; leave it with sergeant at door.
He rang furiously for Ford and told her to pack his bag. He was unexpectedly called away.
He caught the six-fifteen, which reached Paddington soon after nine, drove to a hotel, dressed, dined, and went down by train to Woolwich.
The porters marvelled at his lavish tips, and the cabman who drove him from the Arsenal station to the Shop came to the conclusion that the gentleman was undoubtedly drunk when he surveyed his fare.
His ticket awaited him, on production of his visiting card, and he was allowed to make his way to the gym., where the ball was held.
As he surveyed the brilliant scene his heart failed him for the first time that night. There were not half a dozen black coats in the crowded room, and just for a moment Tony again felt old and plain and uninteresting. He was far too big, however, to remain unnoticeable. One after another of his old boys found him and gave him astonished but hearty greeting.
At last he caught sight of Lallie. She was waltzing with Paddy--conspicuously handsome Paddy; and even at that ball, where good dancing is the rule and not the exception, there was something harmoniously distinguished in the dancing of these two.
Lallie looked white and tired. Presently Paddy felt her sway in his arms. "Stop!" she cried breathlessly; "am I mad, or is that Tony standing on the other side of the room?"
Paddy piloted her skilfully over to Tony. One glance at their faces was enough for that astute youth.
How ripping of you to come! he exclaimed; "but Lallie's a mean little minx not to tell me you were coming."
She didn't know. I didn't know myself five hours ago. But I have something very important to say to Lallie--something that couldn't possibly wait.
Paddy chuckled.
You may have the rest of this dance, he said; "and you may trust Lallie for knowing the best places for sitting out."
Will you come? asked Tony.
To the end of the world, said Lallie, as she slipped her hand under his arm; "but I warn you, Tony, dear, with me you won't have altogether a tranquil journey."
The End