attention to the dear Cripps' tie," and she turned round on the stool,
once more leant her back against Tony's knees, and the busy needles went
to click again.
"I'd finish those papers if I were you," she suggested, "and then we can
talk, or play picquet, or I'll sing to you, whichever you prefer."
"You," said Tony sedately, "must go to bed almost directly."
"Which means that you can't work in this room, and that I worry you,
poor dear; but I'll go, and I'll be down to breakfast to-morrow and pour
out your coffee for you. I know just how you like it--don't I?"
Lallie rose from her stool, looking, as she always contrived to do, far
taller than she really was, in her clinging green draperies.
"You'll let me give tea to some boys to-morrow, won't you? Paddy said
you always have chaps to tea in the drawing-room on Sundays, and
precious dull it is with Miss Foster; but to-morrow it won't be
dull--you just see how I'll entertain them. I think I'd like the nice
boys who were dining with you when I came. They'll do for a start."
"We'll see what can be done," said Tony, with unaccountable meekness.
"Good-night, my child; sleep well."
He held the door open for her, and she passed out, only pausing on the
threshold to remark:
"There! I've never attempted to kiss you; I'll get quite used to it
soon!"
*CHAPTER VI*
For five terms, in fact ever since Miss Foster had been housekeeper at
B. House, she had never left that house during term time for a single
night. And on her arrival at Hamchester station on Tuesday afternoon,
having been away from the previous Friday, she almost ran down the long
platform to collect her luggage, hustled her porter, nor rested a moment
till she had seized upon the first available cab to take to her
destination.
After years of generally unsuccessful ventures in various directions,
Miss Foster had at last found a post entirely after her own heart, and
the whole of her by no means inconsiderable energy was absorbed by B.
House. She declared that it gave her scope. She was convinced that
she, and she alone, "ran" B. House. She regarded Tony merely as an
amiable figure-head. She liked him; she knew him to be honourable and
well-meaning, and had found him generous in his business relations, and
of course he was necessary, as otherwise she, herself, might not have
been there; nevertheless, in her heart of hearts she was convinced that
she, and she alone, kept the machinery of B. House in working order.
Tony was far too easy-going, far too easily imposed upon. She
distrusted the matron, and for Mr. Johns she felt an irritated sort of
contempt, which she was at small pains to conceal: did not this
misguided young man dare to entertain the incredibly conceited notion
that he ran B. House? This in itself was more than enough to condemn
him in Miss Foster's eyes.
A handsome woman, tall, plump, fresh-coloured, she made no attempt to
look younger than her forty-nine years. She wore her plentiful grey
hair dressed high over a cushion, well waved and beautifully arranged;
no one ever saw Miss Foster with an untidy head. Her hats were always
large and imposing, and occasionally becoming; her dresses rich,
rustling, sober in colour, and thoroughly well made.
"All must have gone smoothly in my absence," she thought complacently as
she sat in the jolting cab. "Mr. Bevan faithfully promised that if
there was illness of any kind he would telegraph at once. Cripps can't
have got the mumps. He probably won't get it, and if he does it can't
spread as he was quarantined at once. I hope Matron has been strict
about the quarantine. I always mistrust these hospital-trained people
when left to themselves; one has to be ever on the watch. Ah, here we
are!"
Before Miss Foster could descend from the cab Ford appeared to help her
with her smaller baggage. Ford looked particularly trim and smiling
that afternoon in a nice new muslin apron and cap.
"All well, Ford?" Miss Foster remarked genially, without waiting for an
answer. "You may bring tea at once to the drawing-room; I'll have it
before I go upstairs."
She crossed the hall and opened the drawing-room door, but she did not
enter the room. Instead she stood transfixed upon the threshold and
sniffed dubiously.
The windows were open according to her instructions whenever the room
was untenanted. Notwithstanding this, there was a very strong smell of
violets. To most people this is an agreeable odour, but Miss Foster
mistrusted the presence of violets at all. Why should there be violets
in her drawing-room during her absence?
A few steps farther revealed to her astonished gaze that the room was
not as she had left it. The furniture had been changed as to position,
disarranged, increased!
Miss Foster was not fond of music, and she beheld with positive dismay
that a grand piano, open, with long lid slanted upwards, was placed
athwart the inner wall. A huge harp stood just behind it, and an
unfamiliar bulging green silk bag was flung on the Chesterfield, where
it sprawled in flagrant publicity. The overpowering scent of violets
was easily traceable to a large china bowl, full of that modest flower,
which stood on a little table, moved from its accustomed place against
the wall close to a big chair by the fireplace. Moreover, on that table,
cheek by jowl with the violets, lay a tin of "Player's Navy Cut," a
common box of kitchen matches, an ash-tray, and a very brown meershaum
pipe. Miss Foster passed her hand over her eyes to make sure that these
things were not an hallucination, and at that moment Ford came in,
bearing tea.
"What on earth is the meaning of all this, Ford?" poor Miss Foster
exclaimed, waving her hand in the direction of the piano.
"It's been got for Miss Clonmell, 'm. This morning the men brought the
piano; she brought 'er 'arp with her."
"_Who_ brought a harp?" Miss Foster cried irritably, as though she could
hardly believe her ears. "Ford, what are you talking about?"
"Miss Clonmell, miss--the young lady as have come to live here."
"A young lady! To live here! But who is she, and when did she come,
and why have I been told nothing about it?"
"She's sister to the Mr. Clonmell what was here last term, 'm, and she
came unexpected like on Friday evening, while Mr. Bevan was at dinner.
He didn't expect her any more than you, miss."
"But what in the world has she come for? She can't stay here. Where is
she?"
"I don't exactly know 'm," Ford answered, with demure enjoyment of the
situation. "Mrs. Wentworth came directly after luncheon, 'm, and took
her out. Miss Clonmell said as I was to ask you not to wait tea if you
came before she got back, as she'll probably have hers with Mrs.
Wentworth."
"Wait tea!" Miss Foster repeated, in tones that expressed volumes of
determination to do nothing of the kind. "This is the most
extraordinary thing I ever heard of. What is she like?"
"Oh, a very nice young lady, 'm. No one could _'elp_ liking 'er. The
'ouse seems a different place since she come, so much livelier; and she
sings and plays something beautiful----"
"I should think it does seem a different place," Miss Foster remarked
grimly; "that horrible harp makes my drawing-room look like the deck of
a penny steamer. It can't stay here, that's certain. However, I'll
have tea now--I need it. Whenever Mr. Bevan comes in, Ford, ask him to
be good enough to speak to me at once."
Miss Foster sat in her accustomed chair and made tea. The tea was good
and refreshing, but although she had purposely turned her back to the
obnoxious musical instruments she felt uncomfortably conscious of their
presence. There they were like a draught blowing down her back. A harp,
too! In Miss Foster's mind harps were associated mainly with mendicity
and the bars of public-houses. Not that she had the smallest personal
knowledge of such objectionable places; but she was certain that the
horrid people who frequented them played and listened to the harp. It
was probably their favourite instrument, and it was more likely that
during their disreputable orgies they even danced to its throbbing
strains.
Miss Foster, who had never been out of her own country, was one of those
persons who inevitably associate Scotland with plaids and porridge, and
Ireland with pigs and shillelaghs.
"An unsatisfactory, ungrateful, untrustworthy race, the Irish," she
reflected; "and if the sister is half as troublesome as the brother--and
being a girl she is certain to be ten times more so; I detest girls--the
prospect is far from pleasing. What I cannot understand is the
underhand behaviour of Mr. Bevan. This girl can't have dropped from the
clouds, and I consider it most ungentlemanly of him not to have given me
some warning. He might at least have written to tell me of her arrival,
and I would have come back yesterday. However, I don't fancy her visit
will be a very long one now that I have come back."
She took a vigorous bite out of her piece of bread and butter, and
stirred her tea with a determination that boded ill for the interloper.
Yet, resolute woman as she was, she still smelt the violets and was
aware of the grand piano in the background.
She had just finished her second cup of tea when Tony came in.
"Ah, Miss Foster, it's nice to see you back again. I hope the wedding
went off well--you had a lovely day. I'm just in time to beg for a cup
of tea. I suppose Ford has told you of the addition to our party; I
didn't write, as you were away for such a brief holiday; it seemed too
bad to bother you."
Somehow Miss Foster found it impossible to say all the bitter things to
Tony that she had been preparing. He was so friendly, so kind, so
interested in all her doings. Besides, he explained at once how
Lallie's sudden appearance had been as great a surprise to him as to
Miss Foster, and she was fain to believe him; but none the less did she
determine that the said visit should be brief as unexpected.
Tony took it for granted she would do her best for the girl. So she
would. It would certainly be best for the girl and for B. House that
the girl's visit should not be unduly prolonged. When Tony left the
drawing-room that afternoon Miss Foster was more than ever persuaded
that he badly needed some one to stand between him and those who took
advantage of his good nature, and she there and then valiantly resolved
that, so far as in her lay, she would act as that buffer. She was still
glowing at the prospect of the friction such fortitude on her part would
assuredly entail when Tony came back into the room. He might almost be
said to have crept back, so shamefaced was his appearance.
"I fear that I have left some of my belongings in here," he mumbled
apologetically. "I must have put them down when I came in to speak to
Lallie, after lunch--and forgotten them."
Oh, mendacious Tony! when he knew perfectly well that those "belongings"
had been left on that table ever since Lallie's second evening in B.
House, and he had smoked there ruthlessly every evening since.
"It doesn't matter in the least," Miss Ford said graciously; "one
couldn't smell even tobacco with these overpowering flowers. I really
must ask Ford to throw them out; they are enough to give us all
hay-fever."
Tony fled.
*CHAPTER VII*
An hour later Tony sat at his study table offering sacrifices
propitiatory to parental anxiety amid clouds of smoke, with a pile of
unanswered letters at his elbow.
Lallie peeped in.
"Has she come, Tony?" she whispered.
"She has," he remarked briefly, whereupon Lallie vanished again, with a
muttered exclamation.
In the passage she met Mr. Johns on his way to take prep.; she seized
him by the arm, whispering beseechingly:
"Come with me to the drawing-room just for a minute, there's a dear kind
man. I'm petrified with terror, and Tony's busy. Don't leave me to go
in all by myself."
"Certainly not," Mr. Johns replied reassuringly; "I can't stay, I'm
afraid, but I'll come into the drawing-room with you with pleasure. If
it's the dark you're afraid of, and it soon gets dark now, I'll turn on
the light; it's just inside the door."
Lallie gave a smothered laugh, but nevertheless she kept a tight hold of
Mr. Johns till he had opened the drawing-room door and turned on the
light. Then she drew her hand from his arm and sailed into the room
with her head in the air. The room was untenanted.
"She's not here at all," Lallie said blankly; then to the somewhat
flustered young master who had followed her in: "I'll not detain you
further, Mr. Johns," she remarked airily; "I know you are much occupied.
It was kind of you to show me the way."
Somewhat huffed at this abrupt dismissal after so effusive a greeting,
Mr. Johns swung round hastily, only to cannon with considerable violence
against Miss Foster, who, unheard by him, had just entered the room.
Lallie stood magisterially upon the hearthrug while they disentangled
themselves, and Mr. Johns muttered apologies which were loftily ignored
by the lady.
Miss Foster was intensely annoyed. No one appears to advantage who has
just been vigorously humped into by an International forward; and
although Miss Foster's ample form was calculated both to sustain and
repel a considerable impact, she was distinctly ruffled.
Mr. Johns almost banged the door behind him.
"I hope he didn't hurt you, the clumsy fellow," exclaimed Lallie, in
sweetly sympathetic tones, as she came forward with outstretched hand.
"I must introduce myself, dear Miss Foster, and apologise for invading
B. House in your absence."
"I suppose you are but a bird of passage," Miss Foster remarked, when
she had given Lallie's hand a limp and chilly shake.
"That depends," said Lallie gaily, "whether you're all very good to me
or not. If I like it, I may stay till Dad comes back from India. He
likes me to be with Tony."
"I wonder," Miss Foster said thoughtfully, when she had seated herself,
"whether your father has fully considered Mr. Bevan's many
responsibilities. A house like this--" Miss Foster paused.
"It seems a comfortable house," Lallie suggested helpfully, "though 'tis
a bit cold. Shall I set a match to the fire?" and Lallie flew to the
little table--but the matches were gone.
"Pray don't," Miss Foster exclaimed, "I never start fires before the
first of October."
"But if it's cold?" Lallie expostulated.
"That, Miss Clonmell, is my invariable rule."
"But it might be warm on the first of October."
"If it is warm on the first of October I shall certainly not have a
fire."
"But we've _had_ a fire every night since I came."
"I thought the room smelt rather stuffy," Miss Foster said coldly.
"Won't you sit down, Miss Clonmell? You look so uncomfortable standing
there."
Lallie sat down obediently, and unconsciously folded her hands in the
devout attitude in which she had been wont to listen to the discourses
of the Mother Superior in her convent.
"It would be well," Miss Foster continued, in a head voice, "if, before
we go any farther, I explain to you how rigid--necessarily rigid--rules
must be in a house of this description. It will save trouble and futile
argument afterwards. You must see, yourself, that the arrangements in a
College boarding-house containing fifty boys and over a dozen servants
can't chop and change; the ordinary routine can't be relaxed as in an
ordinary private house--though in the best managed private houses things
are almost equally regular."
"But why should people be colder in a College house than in any other
sort, if they can afford a fire?" Lallie persisted. "Tony _liked_ the
fire."
"I never argue," Miss Foster observed, with superior finality; "we will
change the subject. How is your brother getting on at Woolwich? I hope
he is settling down well."
"I don't know about 'settling,' Miss Foster, we're not a very settled
family, but he's well and happy, and the dearest boy. Didn't you think
him a dear boy, and isn't he good to look at?"
"From what I remember of your brother he was quite good-looking--fair,
wasn't he? You are not in the least like him."
"No, indeed, more's the pity," Lallie said simply. "He is the image of
Dad. You've met my father, I think, Miss Foster?"
"I believe your father stayed a night here some time last winter, but I
don't remember him very distinctly. We see so many parents, you know,
and it's hard to keep them separate in one's mind unless they have very
definite qualities, or are distinguished people."
"Most people think Dad is very distinguished," said Lallie, much
incensed at the implied slight upon her father; "but I suppose he
appeals most to brilliant people like himself. May I have my work-bag,
Miss Foster? I think you are sitting on it, and I may as well get on
with Tony's tie as sit here doing nothing. Thank you; I hope no needle
has run into you."
Silence fell upon the twain: a fighting silence, charged with unrest.
Dinner that night was not exactly a hilarious meal. Mr. Johns still
smarted under a sense of injury at the trick he considered Lallie had
played him. He held her responsible for his collision with Miss Foster,
and he came to table determined not to address a single word to her till
she should apologise. All the time he was mentally rehearsing that
apology and the form it should take. In some solitude--place not yet
specified--she would ask him what she had done to offend him.
Reluctantly he would allow her to drag from him the real cause of his
aloofness, and through the veil of his reticence she would perceive the
enormity of her offence--veils have an enlarging effect. Being really
good at heart and full of generous impulses--he was certain of Lallie's
generosity--she would frankly apologise, and he would, as frankly,
refuse to allow her to do so. Mr. Johns saw himself, muscular, large,
and magnanimous, in the very flower of his young English manhood--gently
and imperceptibly raising little Lallie's moral tone until her soul
should reach the altitude upon which it could meet his on equal terms.
After that, who knows what might happen? And it was dinner time.
At table, however, he couldn't harden his heart against Lallie, who sat
opposite in a high white blouse that made her look like a schoolgirl.
Her eyelids were pink; so was her nose with its confiding tip; and she
never once looked across at Mr. Johns.
Miss Foster _would_ discuss the dates of various quarantines, and the
preventative measures that should be taken if any of the usual
infectious diseases invaded the other houses. Tony tried in vain to
head her off to other topics. By the time they had reached the
contagious, or non-contagious nature of tonsilitis, Lallie began to look
about her. From time to time she caught Tony's eyes, and her own were
so merry and well amused that Tony, himself, began to see another side
to the germ question, which as a rule bored him to extinction. Mr.
Johns found himself trying to intercept some of Lallie's glances, but
without success; and when the meal came to an end he had assuredly not
addressed a single remark to Lallie, but it was from lack of opportunity
and not because he was any longer offended. How could one be offended
with an irresponsible creature whose dimples were so bewitching?
Tony retired to his study; Mr. Johns went back to the boys; and Lallie,
who longed to go with Tony but didn't dare, meekly followed Miss Foster
into the drawing-room. Tony was troubled about Lallie. The child look
pinched and low-spirited, he thought, and she was such a good child.
She had tried so hard, so kind-hearted Tony assured himself, to fall in
with their ways, to keep rules and regulations that were all strange to
her. He wished he could have her in here with him, but he supposed it
wouldn't do; Miss Foster might be offended. She was such a quiet little
mouse--it was pleasant to work by the fire with her leaning against his
knees, with one of those everlasting ties in her hands. By Jove! it was
a cold night; he'd light his fire. Poor little Lallie! would Miss
Foster be friendly and motherly? He hoped to goodness she wouldn't talk
any more about illnesses; he felt rather as though he were going to have
mumps himself. Tony pressed his neck on both sides anxiously. The wood
sparkled and crackled, he drew his chair up to the fire and lit his
pipe.
"You must excuse me, Miss Clonmell," said Miss Foster, when they reached
the drawing-room; "I have many things to see to upstairs. In a house
like this it is impossible to devote one's whole evening to social
intercourse. I fear I must leave you for half an hour or so."
"Of course," Lallie said solemnly, not quite knowing why. "Please, Miss
Foster, would it disturb any of the children--the boys, I mean--if I
play the piano while you're gone?"
"The boys' part of the house is quite separate; you _may_ disturb Mr.
Bevan, who is usually busy at this time--but----"
"Oh, I shan't disturb Tony; he'll probably leave his door open to hear
me; he loves music."
"He has not, hitherto, made any parade of his partiality," Miss Foster
said coldly, and left the room, shutting the door carefully after her.
Lallie flew across to the door and opened it wide, gazing after Miss
Foster's portly form ascending the staircase.
"In a house like 'this,'" said Lallie to herself, and made a face, "St.
Bridget herself would lose patience, and I very much fear there's more
than a spice of the devil in me. Anyway, I'm not going to freeze for
twenty Miss Fosters; I'll get a cloak to cover me."
She ran upstairs and reappeared clad in a wonderful theatre coat of
rose-coloured satin, embroidered in silver, a most incongruous garment
considering the severe simplicity of her frock, but it appeared to give
her great satisfaction; and again leaving the door wide open she seated
herself "with an air" at the piano, and began to sing.
It was surprising that so small and slight a creature as Lallie could
have such a big voice--a rich, carrying mezzo soprano voice; the sort of
voice usually associated with the full-bosomed, substantially built
women that one encounters on concert platforms or in grand opera.
Portali, the great singing-master in Paris to whom her father had taken
her when she was seventeen, explained it thus:
"She sings as a bird sings, but she would never make a public singer.
She hasn't the physique, she hasn't the industry; above all, she hasn't
the temperament; but she can sing now as no amount of training could
ever make her. Give her good lessons--occasionally--but only the best;
never let any provincial teacher come near her. If she ever has a bad
illness she'll probably lose her voice altogether, but if she only sings
for pleasure--for her own, and yours, and that of the fortunate people
thrown with her, never as a business--she may keep it till she is quite
an old woman. Let her choose her own songs--Folk songs are what she can
sing--but let her sing what she pleases; she will never go wrong. Let
her keep her wild-bird voice; don't try to tame or train it too much."
Lallie began to sing very softly "Synnove's Lied"--the andante that is
sung as if humming to one's self; then suddenly she let her voice go.
"Oh to remember the happy hours!" Right through the house it rang,
passionate, pathetic, pleading.
Tony leapt to his feet and opened his study door; at the same instant he
heard some one prop open the swing door that shut off the study passage
from his part of the house, and down the long corridor every door was
opened.
"Our world was bounded by the garden trees,
Then came the churchyard and the river."
The big, beautiful voice died down, and once more came the quaint
humming refrain. Again--musical, intensely melancholy--the voice rang
out.
"But now the garden is white with snow,
At night I wait, I stand and shiver,"
sang Lallie most realistically, for the drawing-room really was rather
cold.
"The place is frosty, the cold winds blow,
Oh love, my love, but you come never."
Lallie sang in English, for she could not speak Norwegian, and every
word was clearly enunciated and distinct; the soft humming refrain
followed, and died away into silence.
"Heavens!" thought Tony, "the child is homesick alone in there with Miss
Foster; she sounds cold too--this is dreadful!"
He hurried to the drawing-room, expecting to find Lallie in the tearful
state her pathetic voice had indicated.
"I thought that would bring you," Lallie remarked complacently. "Come
here, Tony, and admire my theatre coat Dad brought me from Paris."