hall at Pinnels to hear Lallie's voice raised in song in the duet "Thou
the stream and I the river," which she and Billy Chester, the would-be
land agent, were performing with great enthusiasm.
The drawing-room was almost as dark as the hall, for the lamps had not
yet been brought in, and the only lights were from two candles upon the
piano and the big fire of logs on the hearth. For years the present
owner of Pinnels had been considering the installation of an
electric-light plant, but he had never been able to bring himself to
such an innovation. "It would pull the old place about," he observed
apologetically, "and, after all, lamps are very handy, you can put 'em
wherever you want 'em."
Ballinger waited at the open door till the duet had come to a triumphant
and crescendoed conclusion, and then preceded the footman bearing tea.
He was the last to arrive, and the various greetings over Mrs. Chester
led him over to the fireplace, remarking:
"I think you know everybody here except Mrs. Atwood."
That lady, seated in a particularly dark corner, leant forward, saying
in her usual soft tones:
"Mr. Ballinger and I have met before; in fact, we are quite old
friends."
"Why did you never tell me?" asked Mrs. Chester, and left them.
Mrs. Atwood was in the shadow, but Ballinger was standing in the circle
of red light thrown by the fire, and that may have been the cause of his
crimson face as he bent over the lady's hand.
Lallie, standing back in the room beside the piano, noticed that he gave
a very perceptible start at the sound of Mrs. Atwood's voice, and that
his flushed face betrayed no pleasure at the meeting, for he shook hands
with the lady in somewhat perfunctory fashion and immediately moved back
to a chair near Mrs. Chester, who was making tea on the other side of
the hearth.
When the lamps were brought in Mrs. Atwood, who wore a most becoming
tea-gown, came forth from her corner and went and sat down near Lallie,
who shared a deep window-seat with Billy Chester and was squabbling with
him for the last toasted scone.
"You are a very wonderful person, Miss Clonmell," she said solemnly.
"I'm glad to hear it," Lallie replied politely. "I've long been of that
opinion myself, but hitherto I haven't been able to get people to share
it."
"Of course they won't share with you if you're so greedy about keeping
things to yourself--what about that last scone?" Billy exclaimed
reproachfully.
Mrs. Atwood ignored Billy.
"I suppose you have studied singing seriously?" she continued.
"I'm afraid I'm not very serious about anything. But I love music, if
that's what you mean."
"I mean a great deal more than that. You are possessed by it. The true
artist always is. Don't you feel every time you sing that you are
expressing in the fullest and most perfect form the essential you? That
your entity is completed--rounded off as it were; that your very soul
becomes tangible in song?"
Billy softly and silently vanished from Lallie's side; and she, wishing
with all her heart that Mrs. Atwood would go and talk to some one else,
said humbly:
"I'm afraid I don't feel nearly all that. I'm a very prosaic person
really, and sometimes the inane words one has to sing--well, they get
between me and the music and spoil it; though that, too, is inane enough
sometimes."
Mrs. Atwood leant back in her chair and smiled indulgently at Lallie.
"Oh, how I envy you," she exclaimed; "but at the same time I am quite
sure that we agree in _diathesis_: that although we may arrive at our
conclusions by different methods, they are practically identical. I
cannot conceive that you can possess such a power of self-revelation
without the artistic temperament, any more than I can allow that I,
lacking means of self-expression, must necessarily lack temperament. I
feel that we shall have much in common."
Lallie looked as though she feared this confidence on Mrs. Atwood's part
was somewhat misplaced and said gravely:
"I should never say that you lacked means of self-expression. You seem
to me to have an unusually large vocabulary."
Mrs. Atwood laughed. "Now you are making game of me, and I believe I
must have frightened Mr. Chester away--too bad. I suppose you know
every one here very well. This is my first visit, you know--all strange
except dear Mr. and Mrs. Chester, such kind people! Who is that man
sitting so close by her?"
Lallie's seat was considerably higher than Mrs. Atwood's, and the girl
looked down at her with a curiously appraising glance.
"I thought I heard you say just before tea that he is an old friend of
yours."
Mrs. Atwood laughed nervously.
"Oh, that one! Mr. Ballinger; yes, I know him. I meant the tall one
leaning against the chimneypiece."
"That is Mr. Arnold Chester. He was here at lunch, you know."
"So he was, how stupid of me. This lamplight is very confusing."
It seemed that although Mrs. Atwood spoke in her usual subdued tones
that Sidney Ballinger heard his name, for he turned right round and saw
Lallie sitting in the deep window-seat. Her head was sharply silhouetted
against the white casement curtain, and her eyes, star-sweet and
serious, met his in mute challenge. He did not see Mrs. Atwood, his
eager gaze was concentrated on the little figure in the window. Hastily
setting down his empty cup upon the tray he crossed the room and sat
down in Billy Chester's vacant place, and not even his pince-nez could
conceal the gladness in his eyes.
"When did you arrive?" he asked eagerly; "I've not had the chance to
speak to you yet; you might have told me your train----"
Then he saw Mrs. Atwood.
His face changed and clouded, and his sudden pause was so marked that
Lallie said hastily:
"I came very early; Mrs. Atwood and I arrived almost at the same time
from different directions. It was convenient, for it saved the motor
going in twice."
"And gave us an opportunity to become acquainted on our way out," Mrs.
Atwood added. She leant back in her low chair and with half-shut eyes
lazily looked at the two in the window.
Lallie longed to disclaim any sort of acquaintance with Mrs. Atwood,
Ballinger seemed possessed by a demon of glum silence, only Mrs. Atwood,
in graceful comfort, easily reclining in her deep chair, seemed
insensible of any tension in the atmosphere.
Lallie felt intensely impatient at Ballinger's sudden and inconvenient
taciturnity. Every one else in the room was talking. Why couldn't he?
Why couldn't she? For the life of her she couldn't think of a suitable
remark to make. Mrs. Atwood sat very still, a serene little smile just
tinging her face with a suspicion of ironical amusement.
Lallie became unendurably restless. She felt that if she sat where she
was another minute she would say or do something desperate. To get out
of her corner she had to pass in front of her neighbour and almost
squeeze behind Mrs. Atwood's chair; with a remark to the effect that it
was chilly sitting so far from the fire, she achieved the difficult feat
and joined the cheerful group round the tea-table.
"Well?" said Mrs. Atwood.
Ballinger looked at her rather helplessly. He had an irritating habit
when embarrassed of holding his hands out in front of him and feebly
dangling them from the wrists. He did this now as he remarked
obviously:
"I had no idea you were here."
Mrs. Atwood leaned suddenly toward him. "Don't talk banalities," she
said almost fiercely. "Have you nothing else to say to me after all
these months?"
He pulled himself together. "Well, really"--he spoke as though weighing
the question carefully--"I don't know that I have."
"Nevertheless, I shall have something to say to you," said Mrs. Atwood.
*CHAPTER XIX*
When Sidney Ballinger was at Trinity, Dr. Atwood had a practice in
Cambridge. Mrs. Atwood was by way of being guide, philosopher, and
friend to a good many undergraduates, and in Sidney Ballinger's case the
friendship had assumed proportions quite other than Platonic.
He was flattered and grateful, his feeling for her being a subtle
compound of inclination, gratified vanity, and a sort of pleased
surprise that he was such a devil of a fellow. For Sidney was not then
of much importance either in the world at large or in that smaller world
of University life. He was good in the schools and of no use whatever
in the athletic set. He did not speak at debates, nor act, nor perform
at any of the various Musical Societies; in fact, he was a hard-working,
rather simple-minded, inconspicuous young man until Mrs. Atwood got hold
of him and taught him to believe himself complex, unusual, and
misunderstood. She could not spoil his work, for he was shrewd enough in
some ways, but she did contrive to develop a great deal that was
artificial and petty in his character, whereas her feeling for him was
as nearly sincere as emotion ever is in a nature that continually poses,
as much to quicken its own spirit as to impress others.
They were both young and enthusiastic, but neither of them ever
contemplated any very vigorous flight in the faces of the conventional.
They saw each other constantly during term time, and often read
Swinburne together. In the vacations they wrote long letters, and
Sidney went about feeling very superior to the common herd of
undergraduates who merely fell in love with people's unmarried sisters
during May week.
The Atwoods left Cambridge during Sidney's fourth year there, which may
have accounted for his exceedingly good degree. After he was called to
the Bar he saw very little of Mrs. Atwood. As she put it, "they drifted
apart." She did occasionally come to London, where they would meet, and
he listened sympathetically to her complaints as to the "hebetude" of
the inhabitants of Carlisle, but their letters were brief and few; in
fact, the whole affair would have died a natural death but for his
sudden and unexpected inheritance of his uncle's property. In his case
all feeling for Mrs. Atwood, except a mildly reminiscent sort of
affectation, was dead, and being sincerely desirous of doing his duty in
the new station of life to which he had been called, he laid aside many
youthful follies and affections; in fact, he set himself seriously to
become the ideal landed proprietor.
On Mrs. Atwood, Sidney's sudden accession to a considerable fortune had
quite another effect. Vistas of a hitherto undreamt-of possibility
stretched before her; she beheld in imagination the world well lost and
herself and Sidney fleeing to sunnier climes in a yacht she would help
him to choose. She was a good sailor. He was not, but this she did not
know.
Everything would arrange itself. Her "unloving, unloved" husband would
doubtless soon get over it and she-- But it is fruitless to pursue Mrs.
Atwood's reflections. She wrote many letters to Sidney. To some he
replied with matter-of-fact civility, but he left a great many
unanswered, especially of late.
Time had precisely opposite effects upon their respective temperaments.
The flame of Mrs. Atwood's desire for Sidney burned stronger and
fiercer; while in him there remained but a few grey ashes upon the altar
of his love. Naturally tidy, he objected even to these frail reminders
of the past, and did his best to sweep them away. Then he met Lallie
and fell honestly and hopelessly in love. Mrs. Atwood's very existence
became a rather annoying trifle--a pin-prick that only occasionally
smarted.
When Mrs. Atwood met the Chesters she was beginning to feel desperate.
Her last three letters to Sidney were unanswered. When she happened to
hear Mrs. Chester say he was to be their guest so shortly, she felt that
the hand of destiny was outstretched on her behalf. She promptly set to
work to extract an invitation from Mr. Chester, and having succeeded,
felt that all would happen as she had pictured. She was convinced that
they only needed to meet once more when their relations would be as they
had been in the past--only more so.
"Take ship, for happiness is somewhere to be had," she quoted to
herself. She was sure that her happiness lay at Pinnels End, and
embarked upon her enterprise with a high heart.
By Saturday evening, the night of the Primrose meeting, the situation
was somewhat as follows: Mrs. Atwood, still striving vainly to secure a
few minutes alone with Sidney Ballinger; he, moving heaven and earth to
draw Lallie away from all the others, without success; Lallie, quite
aware of the tactics of both Ballinger and Mrs. Atwood and mischievously
delighting in the checkmate of each in turn. She infuriated Mrs. Atwood
by her extreme graciousness to Ballinger in public, and drove him to
desperation by her desire for Billy Chester's society whenever he hoped
to get her to himself.
Mrs. Chester was furious with Mrs. Atwood. She invaded her husband's
dressing-room just before dinner to voice her indignation.
"I have no patience with the woman," she exclaimed; "she's a regular
spoil-sport. Any one with half an eye or an ounce of sympathy can see
how the land lies between Lallie and young Ballinger, and yet she never
leaves them alone for an instant. She seems to me to follow them about
on purpose."
"I think you're a bit hard on her. She must go about with some one, you
couldn't expect her to stop in her room; and after all, how can she
divine that Lallie and Ballinger are in love? They're too well-bred to
show it if they are, and you have only your supposition to go on. I
think she has taken rather a fancy to Lallie, like the rest of us."
"Fancy!" Mrs. Chester repeated scornfully. "If there is one person in
this house that Mrs. Atwood cordially dislikes, it's Lallie. Mark my
words, she means mischief, though how or why I can't tell; but I am
convinced that she got you to ask her here simply that she might meet
Sidney Ballinger--and I wish I'd never seen her."
The Pinnels party went in an omnibus to the Primrose meeting in Fareham.
Ballinger secured a seat next Lallie, and under cover of the general
conversation demanded:
"Why will you never give me a minute alone? Why do you seem to avoid me
so?"
"Why, I'm with you all day long, it seems to me; and as I've nothing to
say to you that mightn't be shouted from the housetops, why should
solitude be necessary?"
"I have a great deal to say to you that couldn't possibly be shouted.
Will you come for a walk to-morrow afternoon? I'm sure you don't sleep
all Sunday afternoon. Will you promise? And without that chap,
Chester, mind--just you and me."
"What about your friend Mrs. Atwood? She may be fond of walking."
"Confound her! Will you promise?"
"I can't promise, but I'll try; there! Only you must be amusing and
agreeable."
"I'm only too afraid of being amusing. You generally seem to find me
that. I should like you to take me very seriously indeed--I beg your
pardon, Mrs. Atwood, what did you say?"
The Primrose meeting was well attended. A noble earl, chief landowner in
the neighbourhood, made a speech which mainly consisted of "hems" and
"ers" interspersed with platitudes about Empire and Tariff Reform. The
Unionist candidate spoke wittily and well, and certain local magnates
said the things local magnates usually do say. Then came the lighter
part of the evening's business--songs and recitations. Lallie sang her
topical ditty with immense _flair_. She looked so small, and slim, and
young in her really beautiful French frock, with pearls in her hair and
round her slender throat, that the hearts of the audience went out to
her before she opened her mouth. But when she did begin to sing, when
the big rich voice rolled out the ridiculous words with the marvellously
clear articulation that was one great charm in Lallie's singing, she
made every point with an archness that was delicious, that seemed to
take each member of the audience into her confidence, while that
confidence implied entire trust in their general shrewdness and
clear-sightedness.
At the triumphant conclusion the whole house rose at her and demanded an
encore with such noise and persistency that there was nothing for it but
to indulge them.
The organist of Fareham Church presided at the piano as accompanist, and
they saw him seemingly protest or expostulate at the song she gave him,
but Lallie was evidently peremptory, and it was to be that or nothing.
When she came forward to the front of the platform there was a sudden
silence as, without any prelude, very softly, every note clear and
poignantly sad, there fell upon the astonished ears of that comfortable
English company:
"Oh, Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that's
going round?"
Not one word could be missed or misunderstood.
"I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand,
And, says he, 'How's poor old Ireland, and how does
she stand?'"
How, indeed? A little uncomfortable doubt as to their dealings with
that most distressful country assailed even the most cock-sure
politician in that audience.
"Oh, the wearing of the green," sang Lallie, her heart in her voice.
The monotonous, melancholy tone, charged full in every measured cadence
with the sorrow of a people, held the good Fareham folk against their
wills.
The clever Conservative candidate sat forward in his chair on the
platform, his elbow on his knee, his hand shading his keen eyes as he
stared fixedly at the little figure who worked this strange miracle.
It was over.
Fareham took a long breath and ventured upon subdued applause. For a
moment there was a perceptible and uncomfortable pause. Then Billy
Chester leapt to his feet and saved the situation.
"He was glad," he said, "that the lady who had just been delighting them
with her great gift of song had reminded them of Ireland and her wrongs.
One thing above all others was needed to right those wrongs; to set
Ireland in her place among the kingdoms of the Empire; to give her
prosperity, self-respect, and peace within her own borders. This remedy
they had in their hands if they would only use it--the institution of a
judicious system of Tariff Reform. For no part of the Empire would it
do so much as for Ireland." Billy showed how it could be brought about.
He quoted statistics by the yard, he made jokes, he put Fareham on good
terms with itself again, and the meeting broke up with a special vote of
thanks to Miss Clonmell for her delightful music.
"Lallie, you horrid little Fenian, what on earth possessed you to sing
that song to-night of all nights?" Mrs. Chester demanded as they drove
home.
"It seemed to me," Lallie replied grimly, "that there was an intolerable
deal of sack to very little bread throughout the proceedings. So I
thought I'd give them a little bread--black bread and bitter, but
wholesome."
"But for Billy it might have been very awkward indeed," Mrs. Chester
continued.
"Perhaps," Mrs. Atwood suggested, "that natural instinct of the artist
to make a sensation at all costs was too strong for Miss Clonmell. She
certainly attained her object. The faces of the people were an
interesting study."
No one spoke for a moment, but Mrs. Chester, who was sitting next
Lallie, suddenly felt for the girl's hand under the rug and gave it an
affectionate squeeze.
"You're a sad pickle," she whispered, "you always were."
"I must speak up for my country when I get the chance," Lallie said
aloud. "It isn't often I find myself upon a political platform, but I
really believe I could sway the multitude better than most of them. If
only I'd danced an Irish jig, I believe I could have got the whole of
them to vote for Home Rule."
*CHAPTER XX*
On Sunday morning Lallie got a letter from Tony telling her how ill
Tarrant was. She read the letter over and over again, feeling restless
and unhappy. She wanted Tony. She would have liked to go back to B.
House that minute, to comfort him.
"When I was at B. House I was homesick for Bridget, and now I'm here I'm
homesick for Tony. Shall I always be homesick, I wonder?" Lallie
pondered.
She felt curiously nervous and ill at ease. Sidney Ballinger's
inevitable proposal was hanging over her, and she was no nearer any
decision as to her own answer. It was all very well "to be nice" to him
just to annoy Mrs. Atwood, as it plainly did; but quite another matter
to make up her mind "to be nice to him for ever and ever," as she
considered would be her duty if she accepted him. She wished she could
talk it over with Tony once more.
Mrs. Chester insisted that her husband should take Mrs. Atwood to
service at Fareham church while the rest of the party went with her to
the church in the village.
Mrs. Atwood protested against the motor being had out on her account,
but her hostess was firm; and as she had, when they first met, expressed
such an ardent desire to behold that ancient building, she could hardly
now declare that she no longer felt any inclination to gaze upon its
beauties.
"Won't you come too, Miss Clonmell?" she asked, as arrangements were
being made in the hall after breakfast.
"Lallie is coming with me," Mrs. Chester said firmly, without giving her
guest a chance to reply. "Every one is coming with me except you and my
husband. Then the vicar won't miss him so much."
All through the service Lallie thought of College chapel and longed to
be there. From her seat in the gallery she could see Tony, and she
liked to look down at him and admire his decorous demeanour. She always
regarded his schoolmastering as something quite apart from himself, and
now, although she had been living in B. House for nearly six weeks, she
still thought that when he was what she called "stiff" it was only a
manner adopted for the benefit of the boys.
Her Tony Bevan was the Tony of the holidays, in shabby Norfolk jacket
and old fishing-hat. She never quite got over her first amusement at his
sober Sunday garb and college gown. But even in this she liked him.
She liked him amazingly. Her eyes were very soft and kind as she
pictured Tony, stalwart and grave, leaning back in his college stall.
And Ballinger, watching her, wondered what would be her thoughts, and
hoped they might be of him.
They all walked back from church together meeting the motor as it turned
into the drive. Mrs. Atwood and Mr. Chester got out and the whole party
went round the gardens before lunch.
"Remember, we meet in the drawing-room at three--no one's ever there on
Sunday afternoon; you promised me a walk, you know--don't forget,"
Ballinger contrived to say to Lallie as they neared the house. She
nodded without speaking, and Mrs. Atwood who was close behind them--she
generally was--heard his reminder and noted Lallie's silent
acquiescence.
Her face was very sombre as she slowly went upstairs to take off her
hat.
She was leaving next day, and she was no nearer any explanation with
Sidney Ballinger than before she came. They had assuredly met once
more, but even her vanity hardly helped her to believe that the meeting
had, for him, been fraught with any pleasure.
Like Miss Foster, she considered Lallie "a designing girl," and blamed
her for Sidney's coldness.
"If I could only see him alone," was the thought that repeated itself
over and over again in her head; and the reflection that it was
Lallie--and not she--who would see him alone that very afternoon became
unbearable. Something must be done.
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."