call upon Lallie while she is with you, be decent to him, will you? He
fell hopelessly in love with her at Fareham last winter, and followed us
to Ireland for fishing in the spring, when he proposed and she refused
him. Consequently she is unlikely ever to have mentioned his name. The
frankest and most garrulous creature about all that concerns herself,
she is extraordinarily reticent as to things concerning other people,
especially if she thinks it might be in any way unpleasant for them to
have their affairs discussed. They parted quite good friends, and I
take it as not unlikely that she might be brought to reconsider her
decision. You will probably think him a bit of a crock--old son of Anak
that you are! So he is in some ways, but he is also quite a good sort,
refined, kind-hearted, and a gentleman; a Trinity man, with somewhat
scholarly tastes. I am sure he would make her a good and indulgent
husband. Besides, he has an uncommonly nice place in Garsetshire, and
about eight thousand a year. He came into this money quite recently
through the death of an uncle, and having now a 'stake in the country'
he feels, I suppose, that he ought to be a bit of a sportsman, and he
does his best to achieve that character, although I don't believe he has
a single sporting instinct in him. He broke his collar-bone the second
time he came out hunting last season; but he hunted again the minute it
was mended, and rode as queerly as ever. He followed us to Kerry for
fishing in April, and flogged the stream all day without getting a
single rise; but he contrived to see something of Lallie, which was what
he came for.
"Should he appear in Hamchester I'd like to know how he strikes you.
I'm so horribly afraid she may want to marry some impecunious soldier
chap imported by Paddy, who will carry her off to a vile climate where
she would assuredly go under in a year or two, that it would be a real
comfort to me to see her safely married to a good fellow who could give
her all the pleasures she most cares for and has been accustomed to; and
even if he isn't a sportsman himself would not be averse from her fond
father occasionally sharing in the same--but this is a very secondary
consideration. A son-in-law will be such an incubus that nothing he can
bring in his hand will mitigate the nuisance much.
"Perhaps he won't turn up at all, but if he does, don't cold-shoulder
him--he has my blessing. Give him his chance. She'll follow her own
line of country in any long run, but there's no harm in giving her an
occasional lead in the most desirable direction. I wish he hadn't been
called Sidney, it's a name I detest; still, we can call him by his
middle name if it ever reaches the necessity for a familiar appellation.
"_Salve atque vale_.
"From yours.
"Fitz."
Tony knit his brows and pondered. Had Mr. Sidney Bargrave Ballinger
already arrived? he wondered. Was that why Lallie was so ardently
desirous of going out with the hounds on Thursday? No; he acquitted her
of any form of stratagem. If she had seen the man she would have
mentioned it. She always made a bee-line for anything she wanted, and
intrigue was as foreign to her nature as mischief-making.
He was worried and irritable; he couldn't settle to his letters; and he
felt quite unaccountably annoyed with Fitz for thus shifting the burden
of responsibility from his own shoulders to Tony's. And Tony, being of
a just and charitable temperament, took himself seriously to task for
having instantaneously and irrevocably taken a violent dislike to the
unseen and unknown Sidney Bargrave Ballinger.
*CHAPTER XI*
That evening Dr. and Mrs. Wentworth dined alone. This was quite an
unusual occurrence, for their circle of friends was large and they were
exceedingly hospitable. As there was nobody to entertain after dinner
Mrs. Wentworth went and sat in her husband's study and "relaxed her mind
over a book," while he wrote some of the innumerable and inevitable
letters that fall to the lot of every headmaster. The answers to
parental missives were generally submitted to Mrs. Wentworth's
criticism, and she insisted upon his softening the asperities occasioned
by their frequent ineptness. Dr. Wentworth did not suffer fools gladly,
but his wife regarded such things from the maternal standpoint;
consequently the headmaster of Hamchester got credit for a sympathetic
attitude he by no means deserved.
At that moment he was dealing with the case of one Pinner, an extremely
stupid boy of seventeen in a low form, whose mother wrote saying she
would like him to begin at once to specialise with a view to entering
the Indian Civil Service later on.
Suddenly Mrs. Wentworth laid down her book and sat listening.
"Isn't that one of the children?" she asked.
Dr. Wentworth, deep in the demolition of Pinner's prospects, did not
answer.
"I'm sure it's one of the children," Mrs. Wentworth repeated, and
hastened upstairs.
Dismal wails smote upon her ear as she neared the night nurseries, and
she found Punch sitting up in bed flushed and tearful, and not to be
pacified by his devoted nurse who was standing by his cot alternately
soothing and remonstrating.
"Hush, Punch! you'll wake Pris and Prue in the next room. What is the
matter? Did you have a bad dream? Were you frightened?"
"No," Punch proclaimed in a muffled sort of roar, "I'm not fitened, but
I can't sleep because she won't sing Kevin. I can't mimember it and I
can't sleep. Oh, do sing Kevin."
"I don't know what he means, mum," nurse exclaimed distractedly. "Is it
a hymn, do you think?"
"No," bawled Punch indignantly; "t'int a hymn. Oh, do sing Kevin," he
wailed, standing up in his cot with his arms round his mother's neck and
his hot, tear-stained little face pressed against hers.
"But, Punch, dear, what is Kevin? Of course I'll sing it if you'll only
explain."
"But you can't," lamented Punch; and inconsequent as inconsolable he
reiterated, "Oh, do sing Kevin."
"But who can sing this song?" Mrs. Wentworth asked. "Where have you
heard it?"
"Lallie singed it. Oh, do get Lallie. Lallie knows Kevin."
"I can't get Lallie to come and sing for you in the middle of the night.
You mustn't be unreasonable. You must wait until next time you see
her--perhaps to-morrow--then you can ask her to sing for you."
"T'int the miggle of the night," Punch retorted scornfully, "or you'd be
wearing a nighty gown. Please, dear mudger, get Lallie, ven she'll sing
Kevin and I'll go to sleep."
Mrs. Wentworth and the nurse exchanged glances across the cot.
"'Tis but a step across the playground to B. House," the nurse said in a
low voice. "I know the young lady would pop over. He's been goin' on
like this for over an hour."
Punch had ceased to wail; now he loosed his arms from about his mother's
neck, sat back on his pillow, and looked from one to the other of the
anxious faces on either side of him.
"He's such a obstinate boy," she murmured. "He'll never give up wanting
it, and she can sing Kevin."
Mrs. Wentworth tried hard to look stern.
"Daddie wouldn't like it; and what would Lallie think to be fetched out
at this time of night to sing to a tiresome little boy who ought to have
been asleep hours ago."
Punch screwed up his face and prepared to wail again, but caught his
breath and stopped in the middle of the first note to listen to his
adoring nurse as she suggested in a whisper:
"I'll pop over for her, mum, and she'll be here directly. I'm quite
worried about him. It seems to have got on his nerves; he's so
feverish."
Mrs. Wentworth felt one of the hot little hands and stroked his damp
hair back from his forehead. Punch stared unblinkingly at her, and
repeated mournfully:
"He's fevish, very fevish; but," more hopefully, "he won't be if
Lallie's feshed, 'cos then she'll sing Kevin."
"I know Daddie would disapprove," Mrs. Wentworth said weakly; "and,
Nana, imagine what people will say. What will Miss Foster think?"
"I'm sure the young lady's not one to go talking," said Nana stoutly,
"and she so fond of Master Punch and all. And he really has been
frettin' something dreadful, and we none of us can sing that outlandish
song; and you know how he keeps on, mum."
"Nobody knows it but Lallie," Punch repeated. "Lallie can sing Kevin.
Oh, do sing Kevin."
Mrs. Wentworth nodded to the nurse, who departed hastily.
Punch sat on his pillow, wide-eyed and wakeful, with flushed round face
and tired, unblinking eyes.
"Would you like to come and sit on my knee in the day nursery for a bit,
Sonnie? Then perhaps you'll feel sleepy. I'll sing you anything you
like."
"I'll come and sit on your knee till Lallie comes, then she'll sing
Kevin. I don't want no other song."
"How do you know Lallie will come? She may be dining out; she may not
be there."
"I fought you said it was the miggle of the night," Punch said sternly.
"If it is she'll be back again."
"It is the middle of the night for little boys."
"But not for Lallie; I fink she'll come."
Mrs. Wentworth arrayed him in his blue dressing-gown and carried him
into the big day nursery. She sat down in a low chair in front of the
fire, with Punch warm and cuddlesome on her knee snuggled against her
shoulder. He lay quite still in her arms, staring at the red glow
through the bars of the high nursery fender.
"Do you think that little boys who wear beautiful pyjama suits just like
their daddie's, ought to wake up and cry in the night?" Mrs. Wentworth
inquired dreamily, her chin resting on the top of Punch's head, her eyes
fixed on the fire.
"I fink I could sleep till Lallie comes," Punch announced in
particularly wide-awake tones. "Hush!"
For nearly ten minutes they sat still and silent, then Punch suddenly
gave a little wriggle and sat up on his mother's knee, stiff and
expectant: every nerve tingling, every muscle taut.
"I fink I hear Lallie," he cried excitedly.
There was a swish and _frou-frou_ of skirts in the passage outside as
Lallie, followed by the triumphant Nana, came swiftly into the room.
She flung her heavy cloak on a chair, and ran across and knelt by Mrs.
Wentworth, exclaiming:
"How dear of you to send! I do so sympathise with Punch; I nearly go
crazy if I half remember a tune and there's no way of getting the rest
of it."
"T'int the chune; it's it all," said Punch magisterially. "Now you can
sing Kevin."
"But do you know what he means?" Mrs. Wentworth asked.
"I should think I do. Oh, might I hold him? It's a longish song."
She was dressed in a little straight white silk dress embroidered with
green, and her favourite green ribbon was threaded through her hair.
Slender arms and neck were bare, and her cheeks flushed with her run
across the playground in the cold air. She might have been Deirdre
herself, product of sun and dew and woodland moss, so fresh and
sparkling was she. Punch held out his arms to her.
"I knowed you'd come," he cried triumphantly; "an' you wouldn't be in
bed, nor out, nor nuffin' like they said. I knowed you'd come."
Mrs. Wentworth gave Lallie her chair, and then Punch to cuddle, and
forthwith Lallie burst into a rollicking tune and the legend:
"As Saint Kevin was a wanderin' by the shores of Glendalough,
He met one King O'Toole and he axed him for a schough;
Says the King, 'You are a sthranger and your face I've never
seen,
But if you've got a bit of weed I'll lend you my dhudeen!"
To Punch the whole thing was vivid as an experience. He saw as in a
vision the wind-swept shores of Glendalough. The only "lough" he had
ever really seen was an ornamental lake in the town gardens, but Lallie
had told him that King O'Toole's lough was a hundred times as big as
that, so Punch pictured something very vast indeed. She had not
explained what "schough" was and he had not asked, for he concluded it
was some kind of bonfire from the context.
"As the Saint was lighting up the fire the monarch heaved a
sigh.
'Is there anyt'ing the matter,' says the Saint, 'that makes you
cry?'
Says the King, 'I had a ghander as was left me by my mother,
An' this mornin' he turned up his toes with some disase or
other.'"
So Punch pictured a bonfire that crackled like those the gardner made
with rubbish in the kitchen garden. The saint agrees to cure the
ghander on condition that should the bird recover, he shall receive
"the bit o' land the ghander will fly round."
"'Faix I will and very welcome,' says the King, 'give what you ask,' and
departs forthwith to the palace to fetch the "burd."
"So the Saint then tuk the ghander from the arrums of the King,
And first began to twig his beak and then to stretch his wing.
He cushed the bird into the air! he flew thirty miles around,
Says the Saint, 'I'll thank yer Majesty for that little thaste
of ground!'"
But the king was in no mind to part with such a large slice of his
property, and he called his "six big sons" to heave St. Kevin in a
ditch.
"'Nabocklish,' says the saint, 'I'll soon finish them young urchins,'
and he forthwith transformed King O'Toole and his sons into the Seven
Churches of Glendalough.
Meanwhile Dr. Wentworth had finished his letter to Pinner's mother, and
longed to read it to his wife, for he felt that the pill of truth was
gilded with charity in quite angelic fashion, and he thirsted for her
appreciation and applause. Minutes passed, and still she did not come.
The house was very quiet and he felt sure she must have been mistaken
about the children, and wondered what on earth she could be doing; then
suddenly, into the silence, there floated a voice uplifted in most
cheerful song: a melody that set the head nodding and the heels
drumming.
Not for one instant did Dr. Wentworth even wonder as to the owner of the
voice. No one who had heard Lallie sing once could fail to recognise
her singing when he heard it again. The siren song drew him from his
letters and up the stairs to the half-open door of the nursery, and
there he stood watching the pretty picture by the fire.
Punch, majestic and satisfied at last, sat bolt upright on Lallie's
knee. Her arms were round him; but she leant back in her chair that she
might the better watch his serious baby face. Mrs. Wentworth and nurse
stood on the other side of the hearth, both absorbed in adoring
contemplation of the small figure in the blue dressing-gown. Neither of
them saw the doctor, but Lallie did, and gave him a merry nod of
greeting.
"An' if ye go there any day at the hour of one o'clock,
You'll see the ghander flyin' round the Lake of Glendalough."
The song ceased, and Punch turned himself to look earnestly in Lallie's
face, demanding:
"Have you seen him?"
"Well, no, I can't say I have, but then I've never been there just at
that time."
"Sing it again," Punch suggested sweetly.
"NO, NO, NO," Mrs. Wentworth cried sternly; "Punch must go to bed this
instant."
"I said I would if she singed it, an' I will," said Punch. "Lallie can
carry me."
"NO, NO, NO," said another voice, and Punch's father came into the room.
"You're far too heavy for Miss Lallie, I'll take you; but I'd like to
know what you mean by being awake at this hour, and how you manage to
get young ladies to sing for you?"
"I came over," Lallie replied hastily; "I was lonely and he was awake,
and worrying because no one could sing St. Kevin, so I sang it, and I
have enjoyed myself so much, but I must fly back now. Good-night, you
darling Punch."
Dr. Wentworth escorted Lallie back to B. House, and to this day does not
know that she was "feshed." Neither did Miss Foster, for she was
upstairs discussing the probability of an outbreak of chicken-pox with
Matron when Lallie was "feshed"; and finding the drawing-room untenanted
on her return, concluded that Lallie had gone to bed, and went herself
in something of a huff. It was one thing for her to leave Lallie for
the whole evening, but it was quite another matter for Lallie to retire
without bidding her a ceremonious good-night. Lallie crept in at the
side door--Ford had left it unbolted for her--and went upstairs by the
back staircase.
Punch, warm and soft, with that indescribably delicious perfume of clean
flannel and violet powder that pervades cherished infancy, had filled
her heart with charity and loving-kindness towards all the world.
"I was a pig about the stairs," she said to herself; "I'll use these for
the future. Perhaps if I try to be less tiresome she'll not dislike me
so much. Oh, dear, why is it so easy to do what some people want? Now
if Mrs. Wentworth asked me to climb up a ladder every time I went to my
room I'd do it joyfully, and poor Miss Foster asks me to use a good
wooden staircase when it's a dirty day and it seems utterly impossible
to do it. I'll really try and be nice to her--but she won't let me.
Never mind, I can but try."
*CHAPTER XII*
Next morning Lallie went into the town between twelve and one. She had
a real and legitimate errand, inasmuch as she needed more silk for the
waistcoat she was working for Tony.
Since Mrs. Wentworth's remonstrance she had never once walked down the
promenade alone between twelve and one, and to-day she felt particularly
virtuous and light-hearted. She would go straight to the shop, match the
silk, and come home at once. "I'll walk up and down with nobody," she
said to herself, "not even if the band's playing 'Carmen.'"
As it happened, the band was playing selections from "The Merry Widow"
when she reached the shops, and she was not tempted to break her good
resolutions, for she met no friends at all until she had bought her
silks. "I'll go just to the bottom of the promenade and walk up again,"
she thought, "it's such a cheerful morning."
It was. The sun shone as it sometimes will shine at the beginning of
the gloomiest month. The air was soft and humid, and though the roads
were shocking the wide pavement of Hamchester promenade was clean.
Lallie looked down anxiously at her shapely strong brown boots. No,
they had not suffered; they were smart and trim, and did no shame to the
well-hung short skirt above them. She squared her shoulders, held her
head very high, and strolled along serene in the assurance that in all
essentials she presented a creditable appearance. So evidently thought a
young man coming up the promenade towards her.
He was a man of middle height, slight and fair, and wearing pince-nez;
clean-shaven, with full prominent blue eyes, a large head, pinkish
complexion, and an amiable, if weak, mouth. Admiring friends told him
that he greatly resembled the poet Shelley, and he prided himself upon
the likeness while in no way dressing to the part. He had an extremely
long neck, which rather emphasised the fact that his shoulders were
narrow and sloping. He wore a stock and was generally sporting in his
attire, and his face and figure seemed curiously at variance with his
clothes. In academic cap and gown his personality would have been
congruous and even dignified, but clad as he was in a well-made tweed
suit with riding-coat, and wearing upon his head a straight brimmed
bowler, in spite of the fact that there was nothing exaggerated or
_outré_ in his garments he yet made upon the beholder a curious
impression of artificiality, and seeing him for the first time one's
first thought was, "Why does he dress like that?"
Immediately he caught sight of Lallie he hurried forward with
outstretched hand and joy writ large upon his countenance.
"You, Miss Clonmell! What unspeakably good luck! I have been hoping to
meet you for the last three days, and never caught a glimpse of you."
"How do you do, Mr. Ballinger?" Lallie said demurely, "and what brings
_you_ to these parts? Are you over for the day, or what?"
"I've come here for a bit. I'm going to hunt here for a month or
two--all the season if I like it. I suppose you're coming out
to-morrow?"
"Why aren't you hunting in your own country?" Lallie asked him
reproachfully. "What has Fareham done that you should desert it? Do you
suppose the hunting here is better?"
"I believe it's quite decent here, really; and I know a good many
people, and I thought I'd like a bit of a change--and there are other
reasons. Of course you're coming out with us to-morrow?"
Lallie shook her head.
"No, I'm not hunting--yet."
"Not hunting, Miss Clonmell! What on earth is the matter? Have you
lost your nerve?"
"No," snapped Lallie, "but I've lost my horse. Dad's in India, as you
know; the horses are in Ireland; and I'm staying with friends who don't
hunt and won't let me hunt without them."
"Oh, but that's nonsense! Were you going this way--may I walk with you?
I've got a little mare here that would carry you perfectly if you would
honour me by riding her to-morrow. She has been ridden by a lady, and I
believe she has excellent manners and is a good jumper. I'm putting up
at the Harrow, the stables are so good. They're just at the back here.
Won't you come round and look at the horses and see the little mare?
It's not three minutes' walk."
Mr. Ballinger talked fast and eagerly, in short, jerky sentences, as
though he were nervous.
"I'd love to see the horses," said Lallie, turning with him into the
lane where the stables were, quite forgetful of her good resolutions to
"walk with nobody."
"And if you like the look of the mare you'll come out to-morrow?"
"Ah, that's quite another matter. I don't think I can do that. Tony
wouldn't like it."
"Why wouldn't Tony, whoever he is, like it?"
"Because he can't come with me."
"And why not?"
"Because he's shut up in school."
"Now really, Miss Clonmell, that is going too far. I know how you
always spoil any boys you come across, but that you should give up a
day's hunting because some wretched little schoolboy doesn't like you to
go without him is absurd. Even you must see how ridiculous it is, and
how bad for him. Let him attend to his work and mind his own business."
Mr. Ballinger spoke with considerable heat, and Lallie burst into
delighted laughter, exclaiming:
"But he's not a little schoolboy that anybody could ignore, I assure
you. Besides, I'm devoted to him."
"I have no doubt of it, but he wants putting in his place. Here are the
stables."
Once among the horses, Lallie forgot everything except her delight in
them; but not even the charms of Kitty, the mare, could make her promise
to ride her the next day. So persistent was Mr. Ballinger, however,
that to get rid of him she said she would send him a note that night
should she happen to change her mind. He escorted her back to the very
gate of B. House, and of course she met almost every one she knew in
Hamchester while in his company.
She dismissed him at the gate, nor did she ask him in to lunch as she
assuredly would have done had it been her father's house. She stood for
a minute watching his somewhat slow and disappointed departure, gazing
earnestly at his retreating back. Then she shook her head decidedly and
went into the house.
Up the back stairs did she go in her honest desire to conciliate Miss
Foster. One window on that staircase looks out on to the playground,
and as she passed she caught sight of Cripps standing with two other
prefects. The window was open and she looked out. All three boys
looked up and capped her.
"The dears!" said Lallie to herself, and kissed her hand to them gaily
as she passed.
At that very moment Miss Foster, followed by Mr. Johns, came through the
swing-door at the top of the stairs. Miss Foster stopped short some
four steps above Lallie, and of course Mr. Johns had to stop too, for he
couldn't push past her, and to turn back would have looked odd.
"Miss Clonmell," said Miss Foster, in tones that could be heard to the
farthest corner of the playground, "I really must protest against your
corrupting the boys of this house by vulgar flirtation of that kind."
Lallie stood still in her turn, absolutely petrified by indignant
astonishment.
Cripps crimsoned to the roots of his hair, caught each of his friends by
the arm and hurried them indoors.
"How dare you speak to me like that?" Lallie gasped out; "and before the
boys too? How dare you insult me so?"
"I shall continue to do what I consider my duty whether it be agreeable
to you or not, Miss Clonmell, and I tell you again that I will not have
these vulgar flirtations."
"It is you who put a vulgar interpretation on the simplest actions,"
Lallie exclaimed furiously, and with that she turned and ran down the
stairs again and across the hall and out at the front door before Miss
Foster fully realised that she was gone.
At Miss Foster's first words poor Mr. Johns had turned and fled upstairs
again, through the swing door, and out to the landing from which he
could look down into the hall, and he saw Lallie's swift and furious
exit. Down the sacred front stairs he dashed and out into the drive
after her, catching her just as she turned into the road.
As he joined her she lifted to him her white miserable face with tragic
eyes all dark with grief and anger.
"I must walk and walk," she said breathlessly. "I am so angry; if I had
stayed another minute I should have done that woman an injury. You
heard what she said?"
"I quite understand," Mr. Johns said soothingly. "I hope you'll allow me
to come with you. I won't talk."
"It's very nice of you, but really I'd be better alone."
"I think not," Mr. Johns said gently; "I hope you won't forbid me to
come."
He looked so big, and kind, and honest, and withal so hopelessly
uncomfortable, that Lallie's face softened and laughter crept back into
her eyes.