CHAPTER XVIITarrant 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 glowWith 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."CHAPTER XVIIIThe 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 indiathesis: 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.CHAPTER XIXWhen 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 immenseflair. 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'sgoing 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 doesshe 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."CHAPTER XXOn 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.
CHAPTER XVII
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 glowWith lowly love and fervent will...."
"Sweet Saviour, bless us ere we go;Thy word into our minds instil,And make our luke-warm hearts to glowWith lowly love and fervent will...."
"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."
"Through life's long day and death's dark night,O gentle Jesus, be our light."
"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."
CHAPTER XVIII
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 indiathesis: 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.
CHAPTER XIX
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 immenseflair. 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'sgoing round?"
"Oh, Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that'sgoing round?"
"Oh, Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that's
going round?"
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 doesshe stand?'"
"I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand,And, says he, 'How's poor old Ireland, and how doesshe stand?'"
"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?'"
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."
CHAPTER XX
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.