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 menothingfor 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 whenshetold 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.CHAPTER XXINearly 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 youcouldstand, 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?Iam," 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 hiscongé, 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--ifshe 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."CHAPTER XXII"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 pæan 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.Hedidn'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 hisflirtationwith the lady that I objected to? Did he say that now?""Well, naturally.""Then he lied.""Lallie, my dear child!""Sincehehas 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 Iwon'tmarry 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:thatwould 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.""Ididn'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'llhear 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.CHAPTER XXIIIThe 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 Iama 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 ifyouare 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 readTwelfth Nightat 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."
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 menothingfor 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 whenshetold 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.
CHAPTER XXI
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 youcouldstand, 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?Iam," 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 hiscongé, 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--ifshe 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."
CHAPTER XXII
"My heart, my heart is like a singing bird,Whose nest is in a watered shoot,"
"My heart, my heart is like a singing bird,Whose nest is in a watered shoot,"
"My heart, my heart is like a singing bird,
Whose nest is in a watered shoot,"
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,"
"Because my love, my love has come to me,"
"Because my love, my love has come to me,"
she carolled.
The melody--exulting, triumphant, a very pæan 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.Hedidn'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 hisflirtationwith the lady that I objected to? Did he say that now?"
"Well, naturally."
"Then he lied."
"Lallie, my dear child!"
"Sincehehas 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 Iwon'tmarry 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:thatwould 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."
"Ididn'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'llhear 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."
"She broke all the hearts of the swains in thim parts."
"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.
CHAPTER XXIII
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"--
"Let us now praise famous men,Men of little showing"--
"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 Iama 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 ifyouare 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."
"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."
"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 readTwelfth Nightat 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."