embarked upon a sea of speculation so deliciously problematical, so
wholly removed from such sober themes as duty and expediency, that it
was hopeless just then by the clearest call to reach ears that were deaf
to all but the siren song.
"I wonder," mused Tony, "if I'd met her now for the first time, if she
hadn't always put me down as a friend of her father's, worlds away from
any touch of sentiment--I wonder if, as a mere man, I might have had a
chance. Upon my soul I'd have tried for it."
For a good half hour Tony sat dreaming; then he stooped and patted Val,
remarking, "I'm d--d if she's in love with Ballinger," and Val wagged
his tail in cordial assent.
*CHAPTER XVI*
"_From_ LALLIE CLONMELL, B. HOUSE, HAMCHESTER COLLEGE, TO FITZROY
CLONMELL, c/o MESSRS. KING AND Co., BOMBAY, INDIA.
"MY DARLING DAD,
"It's eleven o'clock at night and I ought to be getting to bed, but it's
mail day to-morrow and I'm going to the Chesters at Fareham quite early,
so I'll do your letter to-night. I'm sleepy enough, for I've been out
with the Hamchester hounds to-day. Mr. Ballinger has come to hunt here,
why, I leave you to imagine, and he mounted me and took me. Tony had
forbidden me to go till we heard from you, but he went to Oxford; then I
met Mr. Ballinger; then I had ever such a row with Miss Foster, and I
felt reckless; and as Tony was not there to make me feel conscientious
or repentant I went. I didn't enjoy it much, though the day and the
little mare and the run were all as good as they could be. Mr.
Ballinger is going to the Chesters also. There's a Primrose meeting
to-morrow night, and I've got to sing some absurd tum-ti-tum sort of
Jingo song about Empire and Tariff Reform and a large loaf. They call
it a 'topical' song over here. I'd much rather sing them 'The Vicar of
Bray' or 'Love's Young Dream' or 'Rory O'More,' but they won't let me.
I offered to.
"Dad, dear, you will have gathered from my letters that Miss Foster and
I do not exactly hit it off. I could forgive her not liking me, though
I think it's bad taste on her part, if only she wouldn't treat me as
though I were a contagious disease. The boys call her Germs, but indeed
it's me that she makes feel a mass of microbes of the most noxious kind.
She's rude, Dad, downright rude; and it would be absurd to say she
doesn't mean it, for she does. And what's more, she takes care that I
know she means it. I wouldn't mind a bit if she was ever so pernicketty
and peppery if only she would be kind and pleasant sometimes, but she
never is pleasant--to me. And yet I can't help admiring her for the way
she looks after B. House. She really loves the boys, and if one of them
is the least little bit ill Miss Foster is in a dreadful way. Both she
and Tony are very worried just now because a boy is ill. They fear he
has got scarlet fever. There has been a case in another house.
"Miss Foster has taken it into her head that I am bad for the boys, and
that's one reason why she dislikes me. In what way I'm bad for them I
don't know, and any that I have met seem to like talking to me, but
whenever they do, I can see she is worried. I think she likes Tony
awfully--but who doesn't? Yet she doesn't seem to make a really
comfortable home for him somehow. As for poor Paunch! she hates him as
much as she hates me, and never says a civil word to him.
"Paunch and I are great friends; we sit and shiver together in the chill
blast of Miss Foster's displeasure, and 'a fellow feeling makes us
wondrous kind,' especially Paunch. He is a most earnest young man, Dad;
all day long he is thinking of the influence he may be on others, and
the result is that Tony, who never thinks about himself at all, makes
far more impression when he tells a boy he's a silly young ass than
Paunch would if he talked about ideals till Doomsday. It's very odd how
the boys really care what Tony thinks; of course they don't say so, but
any one can see it. Mr. Johns is awfully good at games, so the boys
respect that. The other day I asked Mr. Hamilton, one of the pre's, if
Tony ever gave them a 'pi-jaw' as they call it.
"He looked very funny for a minute, and then he said, 'I don't know any
one I'd sooner go to than old Bruiser if I was in a very bad mess.' It
wasn't an answer to my question, but it was enlightening all the same.
Tony makes me think of those lines at the beginning of 'Stalky':
"'For they taught us common sense,
Tried to teach us common sense,
Truth and God's own common sense,
Which is more than knowledge.'
"I was reading 'Stalky' last night, and that seemed to me to explain
Tony. The queer thing is that both Mr. Johns and Miss Foster, though
they love him dearly, think Tony is a bit of a slacker. Miss Foster,
because he will not work himself up into a fever whenever there's a
rumour of mumps or chicken-pox; and Mr. Johns because Tony never talks
about moral training, and never seems to be watching or prying about the
boys; and yet I remember Paddy saying that somehow undesirable chaps
never come back to B. House, though how or why nobody never knows, and
I'm certain Tony's ideals are quite as high as Mr. Johns', although he
never talks about them.
"I think it's rather a great thing, don't you, to send so many boys out
into the world so that they keep straight and work and are useful
members of the community, and so that they remember you and know you'd
be awfully sorry if things went wrong. All the years I've known Tony,
I've thought it such a pity he was anything so humdrum as a
schoolmaster. Since I've been here I don't think that any more. I think
it's such a jolly good thing for all the boys who've come under him. I
wish he'd had the house all the time Paddy was there; but then, Paddy
had him in the holidays, so it didn't matter so much.
"Paddy seems very happy at the Shop. He knows a lot of gunner people
outside, and he goes out every Saturday and Sunday, but he's rather sick
that they don't ride till their second term.
"Please don't fancy I'm unhappy here, I like it awfully. Every one is
as kind and jolly as possible, and the attitude of Germs just gives the
necessary touch of excitement to the situation. She positively dislikes
music, poor woman, so I must be a trying guest. I'm obliged to practise,
for I'm always singing somewhere. The music-hater is decidedly in the
minority in this world.
"I'm afraid, Dad, that Mr. Ballinger means to propose again very
shortly, and Tony says I ought not to marry any one I'm not really in
love with, and I can't imagine myself in love with Mr. Ballinger, though
I do like him, really, he's so kind and nice and says such agreeable
things.
"Tony is not so amusing here as at home. He's a tiny bit stiff
sometimes. I suppose it's the atmosphere. It must be awful to think
all the time about setting an example, like Mr. Johns--so tiring. But
he seems to thrive under it, and Tony says he'll be stout if he doesn't
take care.
"I hope you'll bring back a lot of nice skins. They're a mangy lot in
the drawing-room over in Kerry, some new ones will be a great
improvement.
"Please write me longer letters, dear Dad. I'm very homesick sometimes,
and I miss Bridget, but she could never have got on with Miss Foster;
and if she heard Miss Foster speak nastily to me there would be wigs on
the green indeed. It's a good thing Biddy is not here.
"I wonder why extreme monotony in the matter of meals is considered so
beneficial to the youthful palate. It wouldn't cost a penny more to
have a little variety, but they never do in the houses. There's heaps
and heaps to eat, even the boys own that, but it is so dull for them
having the same things over and over again. I'd love to go into Tony's
kitchen and teach that cook of his how to make real good soup and a
proper haricot. Dinner is always a nice meal, but Miss Foster has no
imagination. I wonder what she'd do if she had to keep house for you.
She'd probably grovel to you because you'd bully her. Now, as it is,
she bullies Tony, and he can't call his soul his own. They say, (Who
are they? I hear you ask), well, rumour hath it that if Tony ever wants
to get married he'll have to do it in the holidays secretly, and then
bring his wife home to have it out with Miss Foster. I can't imagine
Tony married, can you? Oh, I'd hate it. I do hope he won't.
"Good-night, my dearest Dad. I'm really quite good here on the whole,
though I did disobey Tony about hunting just this once.
"Your own loving daughter,
"LALLIE."
*CHAPTER XVII*
Tarrant had got scarlet-fever, and very badly too.
He was removed to the fever hospital on Friday, and by Sunday morning it
looked as though things would go hardly with Tarrant. There were
complications, and the boy seemed to have no power, either mental or
physical, to resist the disease.
So ill was he that the Principal went to see him after morning chapel.
Tarrant was quite conscious, and made whispered, suitable answers to Dr.
Wentworth's kind and serious remarks.
"Keep your heart up," said the Principal just before he left; "remember
that we are all thinking about you and praying that you may get well."
"Did they pray for me in chapel?" Tarrant asked.
On being assured that this was so, the boy turned his face to the wall,
feeling that all was over for him. Like a good many older folk who
ought to know better, Tarrant thought that to be prayed for in public
proved that the case was indeed desperate.
He had been prayed for in chapel!
Only people who were very ill, who were going to die, were ever prayed
for in chapel. Chaps had told him so.
There was a chap died in the Easter term, and he'd been prayed for in
chapel for a fortnight.
Tarrant was too weak to be much upset. It was a footling thing to do,
to die in one's first term, but it couldn't be helped. Rotten luck
though! Old Bruiser would be awfully cut up. Fellows had told him how
cut up old Nick was when that chap died in his house, and Bruiser was a
jolly sight decenter than old Nick.
What ought a chap to think about when he was dying? Religion and that,
he supposed. He tried to remember a hymn, but the only hymns that really
appealed to Tarrant were those with "_ff_." against several of the
verses, when the Coll. all sang at the tops of their voices and nearly
lifted the roof off the chapel. And somehow he didn't feel very jubilant
just then.
Again he tried to think of something soothing and suitable, but the only
thing he could remember was a bit of a French exercise--"The nature of
Frederick William was harsh and bad." And this he found himself saying
over and over again.
The kind nurse bent down to hear what he was muttering, but all she
could catch was "harsh and bad," and she wondered if he had been bullied
in B. House.
From the nature of Frederick William, Tarrant's wandering thoughts
turned to Germs.
What a stew old Germs would be in!
She was kind though; he remembered that with dreamy gratitude. She
hated chaps to be ill, and did her level best to make them comfortable.
All the house said that. But my aunt! she was afraid of infection, and
fever was awfully infectious. Now Dr. Wentworth wasn't afraid, and he
had kids. Bruiser wasn't afraid either; but you wouldn't expect Bruiser
to be afraid of things. He had a comfortable big hand, had Bruiser.
Tarrant wasn't capable of wishing for much, but he rather wished Bruiser
could have stayed. He felt less like floating away into space when
Bruiser held him.
What was it Bruiser had said?
"You must buck up, you know. Think of your father and mother in India,
how worried they'll be."
Poor mater, it would be a bad knock for her. The pater, too, he'd been
at the good old Coll.--his name was up in the big Modern.
Tarrant supposed the chaps would subscribe for a wreath. They did for
that other chap. Briggs minor told him. He wondered what sort of a
wreath it would be; he hoped it would be nice and large.
What was that hymn they had in chapel last Sunday evening? Ah, he had
thought of a hymn at last--
"Sweet Saviour, bless us ere we go;
Thy word into our minds instil,
And make our luke-warm hearts to glow
With lowly love and fervent will...."
He wished his heart would have glowed, but somehow it refused to do
anything of the kind.
It had a nice cheerful tune, that hymn, especially the last two lines--
"Through life's long day and death's dark night,
O gentle Jesus, be our light."
Would it be very dark? he wondered. Perhaps for him, seeing his life
had been so short, the gentle Jesus of the hymn might see to it that it
was not so dark as to be frightening...
* * * * *
When Tony Bevan got back from the hospital that afternoon Miss Foster
was waiting for him in the hall. She wore a long travelling-cloak and a
most imposing hat, and she appeared very much upset. Tony's sad, worn
face did nothing to reassure her.
"He is just slipping away," he said sadly, as he followed her into the
drawing-room. "There seems no real reason why he should die, but he
seems to have no stamina, and they give very little hope. Everything
has been done. The nurses are most devoted, the doctors have tried
everything. The next few hours will decide it."
"You will have to manage without me for a day or two," Miss Foster said
abruptly; "I'm going to that boy. It's just providential that Miss
Clonmell is out of the house. I've put on a cotton dress, which can be
burnt before I leave the hospital, so can everything I wear in his room,
but I'm going. My cab will be here directly. I could never forgive
myself or rest easy another hour if I don't go and see after that boy
myself. I have no faith in trained nurses, nor much in doctors for the
matter of that. I believe they carry about all sort of horrid microbes
in their clothes. They never change or disinfect or anything. I've no
doubt Tarrant rubbed up against some doctor when he was watching
football and caught it from him. I wish all those doctors were
forbidden the field; that I do."
Miss Foster spoke very crossly, but there was something underlying her
irascible manner suspiciously like tears, and Tony held out his hand to
her, saying in an almost inaudible mumble:
"It's very good of you. It's particularly hard for us--the little
chap's first term, and his people so far away. It will be an
inexpressible comfort to me to think that some kind woman----"
Tony's voice gave out, and he turned away just as Ford came in to
announce that Miss Foster's cab was at the door.
Tarrant dozed and dreamed and then came back to realities with a start;
and the queer light feeling of being suspended in space became so acute
that he plucked at the sheet to assure himself that there was a bed and
that he was lying in it.
A very firm hand closed over his; a smooth hand and soft, but yet with a
purposeful quality about it that seemed to send a little intangible
current of some kind through his arm right to his very brain, so that he
was seized by a quite definite curiosity as to the personality belonging
to the hand.
Lazily he opened his tired eyes and looked along the sheet at the hand
covering his own.
It was white, with particularly well-tended nails: surely, too, the
rings were familiar. He was certain he had seen those rings before, and
had noticed them in the sub-conscious way one does observe such things.
It seemed far too great an effort to raise his eyes so that he could
take in the entire figure that sat beside his bed, so he contented
himself with looking along the sleeve that belonged to the hand--a grey
linen sleeve, and the nurses wore pale blue. Who could this be? With a
mighty effort Tarrant lifted his eyes and at the same moment gasped out
"Germs!"
It was a very faint little gasp, and Miss Foster, being unaware of her
nickname among the boys, thought he said something about "terms," and
concluded that he was worrying about his work, which was indeed the very
last thing that Tarrant was ever concerned about.
She was about to take her hand away, when the hot little hand within it
clutched at it feverishly.
"It's all right, my dear boy, I'm not going away," she said gently.
Tarrant opened his eyes wider. If Germs was here he certainly couldn't
have fever, couldn't be infectious. No one was so afraid of infection
as old Germs--it was a mania with her. Could the doctors and everybody
have been mistaken? Perhaps he had only a common throat after all. But
it was nasty to feel so queer and light. Yes; Germs was still holding
his hand. Back again came that beastly old sentence about the nature of
Frederick William; he was in French form, and the master said sharply,
"Next word, Tarrant," and he awoke with a start, staring with large
frightened eyes at Miss Foster, who said:
"Can you hear me, dear boy?"
He made a little inarticulate sound.
"You must rouse yourself," said Miss Foster. "You mustn't give in. You
keep a firm hold of me, and never mind French exercises or anything
else. You've been dreaming about a French lesson. Now I forbid you to
dream about anything of the kind. You're to dream about being strong
and well, if you dream at all. But you'd much better just sleep and get
rested."
Miss Foster spoke with immense decision, and sat there looking so
portly, and solid, and rational that Tarrant began to wonder if he had
dreamt of the Principal's visit.
"Was I prayed for in chapel?" he whispered.
"Of course you were," Miss Foster answered briskly; "that's why you are
going to get well. Don't you think about yourself at all, leave that to
us."
"Haven't I got fever?" Tarrant persisted in his faint husky whisper.
"Of course you have. But that's no reason to give in. Lots of boys
have had scarlet fever and are running about now, not a jot the worse
for it. But I'm not going to allow you to talk."
"But why," gasped Tarrant, "are you here?"
"Because I choose," Miss Foster replied; "and that's every single
question I'm going to answer. Be quiet, like a good boy, and think--if
you think at all, but you'd really better not--what you'd like to do
when you're allowed to sit up."
"Aren't you afraid you'll catch it?" he insisted.
"Good gracious, no! What does the boy take me for? I'm terrified of
infection for the HOUSE--but not for myself. Dear, dear, to think you
could imagine that! Now, not another word."
There was a sturdy conclusiveness about Miss Foster that was very
reassuring. It was impossible to reflect upon wreaths and funeral
services in College chapel while she sat there looking so robust, and
capable, and determined. It is probable that no one else could have had
quite the same effect upon Tarrant.
It really seemed as though the grip of her firm, capable hand literally
held his frail little barque of life to the shore, in spite of the
strong backward tide that was drawing it out to sea.
He submitted to this new view of his case. He was too weak to argue with
any one. If Germs said he was going to get well he supposed he must be.
Besides, he couldn't be so awfully infectious, else she wouldn't be
there.
* * * * *
At midnight Miss Foster called Tony up on the telephone.
"We think he is going to pull through," was the message. "He needed
cheering up, so it's just as well I came."
*CHAPTER XVIII*
The Chesters of Pinnels End were as much an institution in the Fareham
neighbourhood as the Abbey Church, itself. Hospitality was a religion
with them, and William Chester and Olivia his wife were never so happy
as when their big wandering house was absolutely full. They had six
grown-up sons scattered about the world who were forever sending their
friends to "cheer up the old people," so they were seldom lonely. They
were not particularly rich, certainly not smart--the interior of Pinnels
was almost conspicuously shabby--but they were the youngest and
cheeriest old people imaginable, and their house was comfortable as are
few houses. Those who had once enjoyed its entertainment were fain to
return with gleeful frequency.
For nearly four hundred years there had been Chesters at Pinnels
End--large families of Chesters, and however they may have differed as
to politics, religion, or personal taste, they were supremely unanimous
in one matter: they none of them could bear any changes at Pinnels.
Mrs. Chester used to declare that until a carpet there actually fell to
pieces and tripped up her husband and sons, she was never allowed to
replace it. That done, it was months before they became resigned, years
before they consented to regard it with any but the most grudging
toleration, and even then it was compared unfavourably with its
predecessors.
The party to be assembled at Pinnels consisted of three of the sons--two
on leave from India and Egypt respectively; the third an Oxford man who
had just taken his degree and was marking time at home while his father
sought out an agent with whom to place him to learn estate
management--Lallie, Sidney Ballinger, who was asked because he was a
neighbour, and because kind Mrs. Chester knew that he would rather be in
the same house with Lallie Clonmell than anywhere else on earth. There
was Celia Jones, the usual "nice girl" of house parties, who possessed
no striking characteristics whatsoever; and the remaining guest was a
Mrs. Atwood, the wife of a busy doctor in Carlisle.
Her host would have found it rather difficult to explain Mrs. Atwood's
presence. He met her while he and his wife were spending a few days in
a house of a mutual friend about a fortnight before; and somehow,
although he could never remember exactly how it came about, Mrs. Atwood
had extracted an invitation from him for this particular week-end.
"Did you take such a fancy to her, father?" Mrs. Chester asked, when
informed of the lady's projected visit. "I didn't care much for her
myself, and I shouldn't have thought she was your sort either."
"I can't say I was greatly attracted, though there's something rather
pleasing and pathetic about her, and she wanted so badly to fill in
those four days between two visits. It's such a deuce of a way back to
Carlisle--and she 'longed' so to see Fareham--historic old town, you
know--and consulted me about hotels there, and so on. You've often done
the same thing yourself; you know you have."
"Oh, I shall be most pleased to see her and, of course I've told her so.
Only--I wonder how she'll fit in with the others."
"She'll fit in right enough; the more the merrier."
"I can't imagine Mrs. Atwood merry under any circumstances."
"All the more reason to try and cheer her up," Mr. Chester remarked
optimistically, and the subject dropped.
Eileen Atwood was thirty-six years old, and looked at least five years
younger. She was tall, slender, and fair, with a graceful, well-set
head, large heavy-lidded and generally downcast blue eyes, a small close
mouth, and a chin that would have been markedly receding had she not so
persistently drooped her head forward. It is only people with firm chins
who can afford to carry their heads in the air. She spoke very low, and
was fond of discussing what she was pleased to call "psychic things."
She herself would have said that she "bore an aura of unhappiness"; and
the world in general concluded that Dr. Atwood was not simpatico. She
had no children nor, apparently, many domestic claims, for she spent a
large portion of her time in paying visits. Simple people considered
her intellectual because she used such long and unusual words. Others
of proved ability, such as her husband, had a different opinion.
Lallie arrived at Pinnels before luncheon. She left B. House by the
first available train in the morning--partly because she knew Tony and
Miss Foster to be very anxious about Tarrant, who was to be moved to the
hospital that morning, and she thought they would be glad to have her
out of the way; and partly because she was quite certain that Sidney
Ballinger would not travel by such an early train, and she did not
desire him as an escort. When they rode to the meet together he had
implored her to give him an idea of what time next day she would travel
to Fareham, but she persisted that her plans were too uncertain to admit
of any information on this point. Therefore did he choose a train that
would get him to Fareham in time for tea at Pinnels End, rightly
thinking that this was the usual and agreeable time to arrive. He
nearly lost his train through procrastination in the matter of taking
his seat, having walked the whole length of the train several times
peering into every carriage in a vain search for Lallie; and he endured
a miserable journey, assailed by dismal doubts and fears lest Lallie had
changed her mind and decided not to go at all.