love with you, and he wouldn't know how you would take it."
"That was evident. He did the one thing that I could never, never
forgive. And now let's have an end of this, Tony; you've done your duty
and pleaded his cause, and for your comfort I'll first tell you this:
that if I had cared for him and there had been twenty Mrs. Atwoods, and
each had come with a tale as long as your arm about him, it wouldn't
have moved me an inch provided he was straight with me and generous and
honest to them. As it happened I didn't care for him. I had decided
that before there was any fuss at all with Mrs. Atwood. But when she
came and, so to speak, put a pistol at my head, commanding me to give
him up, I wasn't going to tell her that I'd done it already."
"But why not, if you had? It would have saved all the fuss."
"If you think I'm going to knuckle under to any idiotic, hysterical
woman that chooses to bully me, just to save a fuss, you little know me,
or any woman."
Tony shook his head solemnly, but his heart was light, as he said:
"No one can pretend to understand a woman. I have no doubt whatever
that you did everything you could to annoy and rouse that poor lady, and
then, having achieved your object and forced Ballinger's hand, you turn
and rend him for crying out when he's hurt."
"It's only women who may cry out. A man that is a man suffers in
silence."
"H'm--I'm not so sure; it depends on the man."
"Well, I'll tell you this: that I _won't_ marry any one I can't lean
against in a crisis. If I think a man can't bear my light weight
without crumpling up, I've no use for him; and the man who goes back on
one woman will go back on another. _No_, thank you."
"Will you tell your father this?"
"Oh, dear, yes; and tell him you pleaded Mr. Ballinger's cause and made
my life a burden generally. I'll be a sister to him, Tony, and tell him
a few home truths; it would do him all the good in the world."
"Well, I sincerely trust no more young men will come to me about you;
upon my word, this sort of thing is twenty times worse than parents.
You're a frightful responsibility, Lallie."
Her lips trembled, she gave him a long reproachful look, and then seemed
to collapse into a pathetic little heap on the keyboard of the piano,
her arms spread out on the protesting notes, her head down on her arms.
Lallie was crying, and crying bitterly.
With a muttered and intensely sincere "God help me!" Tony went round and
stood beside her, patting her shoulder awkwardly, but very gently.
"My dear, my dear, what is it? Why do you cry?"
She lifted her little face, all tear-stained and piteous.
"I thought you'd be glad it was all at an end and done with," she
sobbed, "but your chief concern seems to be that you'll still have the
bother of me. I can't get married just to get out of the way. I've a
great mind to accept Cripps and see what you'd say then: _that_ would be
bother enough----"
"Cripps! What on earth do you mean?"
"Cripps is a gentleman, a dear, nice boy; he wrote to me--it was one of
the letters you forwarded, but he'd disguised his writing so you never
noticed--saying he thought I'd got into trouble through waving my hand
to him, and that was why I'd gone away; and he was dreadfully sorry, and
he'd go to you immediately if I gave him leave--he's going to Sandhurst
next term if he passes, you know--and that there was nobody in the
world--oh, you know the sort of thing----"
"Indeed, I don't," cried Tony, in vigorous disclaimer. "I never heard
such nonsense. And what did you do?"
"I wrote him ever such a pretty letter, but I pointed out that the
damsel destined for him is probably at this moment wearing a pinafore
and a pigtail. I was motherly and kind and judicious."
Lallie's face was still wet with tears, but her eyes sparkled and were
full of mischief again.
"I'm glad one of you showed a modicum of sense. Remember, I know
nothing of Cripps and his vagaries; don't send him to me, whatever you
do."
"_I_ didn't send Mr. Ballinger."
"I don't suppose you did; still, if you happen to know of any one else
likely to come and ask my assistance in his wooing, you might break it
to me gently--now, that I may be prepared."
Lallie looked down; she smiled and dimpled distractingly, as she said
softly:
"You must promise not to be cross--Mr. Johns wrote too, very seriously.
He asked me to live the higher life with him."
"The deuce he did! And you?"
"I think a sisterly feeling is all I can muster up for Mr. Johns at
present."
Tony groaned.
"Will he come to me, do you suppose? I warn you, _he'll_ hear some home
truths if he does."
"I don't think he'll worry you, Tony. He's on probation--as it were."
Softly, very softly, Lallie began to play the "Widdy Malone," and almost
unconsciously Tony found himself humming:
"She broke all the hearts of the swains in thim parts."
Lallie laughed.
"No 'Lucius O'Brian of Clare' has come as yet," she said.
She had turned her face back to Tony, with laughing challenge in her
eyes.
"Upon my soul, I can't stand this," cried Tony Bevan, and fled from the
room.
Lallie sat where she was, staring after him in speechless astonishment.
"I can't make out Tony these days at all, at all," she sighed.
But she did not get up and run after him as she would have done a month
ago.
Tony held old-fashioned and chivalrous notions regarding his duties as
host and guardian to his friend's daughter. It seemed to him that in no
way was it possible for him to declare his feeling for Lallie without
putting her in a false and painful position. And not to declare that
feeling emphatically and at length was becoming every day more
difficult. He knew the girl to be so fond of him in the dear, natural,
unrestrained fashion that had grown with her growth, that had become as
much a pleasant habit of mind as her love for Paddy or her father, that
he dreaded, should he ask more, lest she might mistake her present
feeling for something deeper, and in sheer gratitude and affection
promise what it was not really hers to give. Again, should she feel it
impossible even to consider him in the light of a lover, he made the
situation difficult--nay, impossible--for her. She could not then
return to B. House, and she had nowhere else to go.
Sometimes Tony let himself consider a third and glorious
contingency--that Lallie cared even as he cared. Even so, she could not
come back to B. House, but old Fitz would have to come back a bit
sooner, and she could stay with the Wentworths till he did; at such
moments as these Tony's lined face would grow boyishly radiant. But all
too soon the good moment passed and stern realities hemmed him in on
every side: loyalty to Fitz, the best and kindest thing to Lallie.
Yet, with the temptation to tell her all he felt for her assailing him
all day long, it was positive agony to think of her as out of his reach
with all the world free to make love to her.
The strain was telling on Tony. He looked old and harassed, and as the
Christmas term drew to an end the boys in his form declared that in all
their experience his temper had never been so fiendish.
Even Miss Foster noticed that he was looking unwell and, quite rightly,
attributed his indisposition to the worry of having "that upsetting
girl" in the house.
Mr. Johns was not wholly discouraged by Lallie's sisterly attitude, and
in somewhat solemn fashion showed her plainly that he was there, ready
to respond to any warmer feeling on her part. Lallie was consistently
gracious to him, and the young man's smug acceptance of her favours
drove Tony to desperation.
Lallie spent a great deal of her time with the Wentworths. Mr.
Ballinger would not take no for an answer. He called frequently, he
managed to ingratiate himself with Mrs. Wentworth, and often met Lallie
there as Tony knew. He even, with artless belief in Tony's sympathy,
sought him again, begging for his good word.
Tony was bitterly conscious that all the world, that all his little
circle--boys, masters, and masters' wives--seemed to see more of Lallie
than he did, but he never sought her society, and lately she never came
to say good-night to him in his study as she always did at first.
*CHAPTER XXIII*
The winter term at Hamchester ends the day after the College concert.
There is always a great gathering of old Hamchestrians at this function,
and the accommodation of the houses is taxed to its utmost. B. House
sent more boys to Woolwich than any other in the College, but that year
the cadets did not get their leave till three days after the College,
and so could not manage to get down for it. Therefore B. House was not
quite so packed as usual, though there was a fair sprinkling of old boys
who were at the 'Varsity or out in the world.
Lallie sang at the concert, and received a tremendous ovation. She had,
herself, set to music four verses of Kipling's--
"Let us now praise famous men,
Men of little showing"--
and the tune, stately yet jubilant, marched in swinging measure to a
triumphant conclusion. Not one word in the whole four verses did the
audience miss, and the boys yelled "encore" with one prodigious voice.
The programme was a long one, encores were "strictly forbidden," and the
restriction was perfectly reasonable; but the boys simply refused to let
the next item on the programme begin. Hamchester School had made up its
mind that it wanted Lallie to sing again, and no power on earth can stop
six hundred boys with good lungs when they fairly get going.
Dr. Wentworth was annoyed; Tony Bevan was furious, for his house had
never before really got out of hand, and there was no doubt whatever
that it was ringleader in the tremendous din that followed Lallie's
singing. Of course she was radiant; this flying in the face of all
authority was after her own heart. She was trembling with excitement
when at last, in sheer desperation, Dr. Wentworth led her up on to the
platform to give the boys their way.
She chose as her song, "Should he upbraid," and sang at the Principal in
the most bare-faced manner. A ripple of mirth ran over the audience,
and then, as the liquid, seductive notes rolled out so smoothly and
soothingly, Dr. Wentworth's annoyance subsided and he actually turned
and beamed at his boisterous boys. Tony's grim face relaxed, and by the
time the song was ended the masters had recovered their good humour and
the boys were forgiven.
Next day the school went home, the bulk of the boys by a special train
at mid-day. Miss Foster was to leave at tea-time, and Lallie by an
afternoon train for Woolwich, where she was to stay with a certain
general and his wife, old friends of her father.
Tony Bevan had made no plans. He had half promised to go and shoot with
Paddy over in Kerry, but he was not sufficiently sure of himself to make
up his mind. He felt slack and tired, old and depressed.
When the last batch of boys had filled the last long string of cabs,
Lallie went up to the matron's room. That much-tried woman was sitting
exhausted at her table, turning over some of her interminable lists.
Lallie sat down opposite to her and laid her hand on the one that held
the list.
"You've done enough for one morning," she said. "Rest now for a minute
and listen to me. You've been endlessly good to me, Matron, dear, and I
don't know how to thank you. I have been so happy here, and now it has
all come to an end I feel very sad. I really think B. House is the
nicest place on earth, and I'm frightfully sorry to go."
"But you're coming back next term, Miss Clonmell--why, we'll all be
together again in no time. There's no need to look so melancholy about
it."
Lallie shook her head.
"I'm not at all sure that I'll come back. It seems to me, especially
lately, that my being here is rather a worry to Tony. I seem to vex him
without meaning to--and I suppose I _am_ a bit in the way. It has
lately begun to dawn upon me that Miss Foster is perfectly right. You
don't want 'stray girls' in a house like this."
The matron looked mysterious, she nodded her head thrice, and there was
an "I-could-an'-I-would" air about her extremely provocative of
curiosity.
"Why do you look like that, Matron, dear? I won't rest till you tell me.
Why do you wag your head so solemnly?"
"Have you no idea, Miss Clonmell, what is the matter with Mr. Bevan?"
"I don't know that there's anything the matter with him except that he's
a bit tired of term, and perhaps of me, and having to be Uncle Emileen
for such a long stretch of country."
"You're very fond of Mr. Bevan, aren't you, Miss Clonmell?"
"Fond of Tony? I adore Tony! there's nobody like him."
"Has it never occurred to you that perhaps Mr. Bevan----"
Matron paused. She was the soul of discretion, and in view of the
daring step she contemplated, she stopped short aghast.
"Perhaps what--What about Tony?"
"Has it never struck you that perhaps Mr. Bevan may be feeling like some
of those other young gentlemen who are so much taken up with you--only
in his case, being older, it's a much more serious matter."
The lovely colour flooded Lallie's face. Her hand tightened on
Matron's, and she gazed at her in breathless silence for a full minute.
"Do you mean," she whispered, "that you think Tony cares for me like
that?"
"I am perfectly sure of it," said Matron; "and if _you_ are sure you can
never care for him 'like that'; I certainly think it would be kinder of
you not to come back next term."
Lallie's eyes were shining; she was very pale again as she suddenly
leant across the little table and kissed the matron.
Without another word she went out of the room.
She had lunch alone with Tony and Miss Foster. It was a very quiet
meal, and when it was over she followed Tony into the study to receive
some last instructions about her journey. He was to see her off at the
train, and being a methodical person he had made all arrangements for
her journey to Ireland as well. He gave her marked time-tables and her
tickets, and then looking down at her as she stood small and meek and
receptive at his side, he said:
"Ballinger has been at me again, Lallie. He really does seem
tremendously in earnest; and I think that if you don't intend to have
anything more to do with him you should make it clearer than you have as
yet. It would be kinder to put him out of suspense."
"Short of knocking him on the head like a gamekeeper with a rabbit, I
don't see what more I can do."
"Perhaps if he had it in black and white he'd realise that you mean what
you say."
"But I can't write to him if he doesn't write to me. It's you he
bothers, not me. He has never said one syllable to me that all the
world mightn't hear, since I came back from the Chesters. You can't
expect me to go out of my way to refuse a man who has never asked me.
'He either fears his fate too much'----"
"Perhaps he's pretty certain he'd 'lose it all' poor chap," said Tony
gently; "I can sympathise with him."
Lallie made no answer.
He took her to the station, bought her papers, spoke to the guard, and
compassed her about with all the thousand-and-one observances that men
love to lavish on women for whom they care.
As the train began to move, Lallie leant out of the window.
"If you look," she began, then crimsoned to the roots of her hair, and
the train bore her from his sight.
"If you look--" Tony repeated over and over again as he walked slowly
home--what could she have been going to say?
He went into the town and restlessly did several quite unnecessary
errands at various shops. It was tea-time when he got back, and he had
it with Miss Foster in the drawing-room. When she had gone he went into
his study and sat down at his desk.
On his blotting-pad lay a volume of Shakespeare. It was not one of his
own little leather edition that he always used, but a fat, calf-bound
book from the set in the drawing-room.
He lifted it and saw that it contained one of Lallie's markers--a piece
of white ribbon with a green four-leaved shamrock embroidered at each
end. He opened it at the place marked, and there was a faint pencil
line against the following passage:
"O, by your leave, I pray you;
I bade you never speak again of him:
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that,
Than music from the spheres."
The College Shakespeare Society had read _Twelfth Night_ at B. House
only a fortnight before, and Lallie had pestered Tony to let her read
Viola, but only boys and masters were permitted to perform.
Tony laid the book down on his desk and put the marker in his breast
pocket. He looked at his watch and wrote a telegram to an old
Hamchestrian who was one of the Under Officers at the Shop.
"If you possibly can, get me a ticket for the dance to-night. Can't get
there till eleven; leave it with sergeant at door."
He rang furiously for Ford and told her to pack his bag. He was
unexpectedly called away.
He caught the six-fifteen, which reached Paddington soon after nine,
drove to a hotel, dressed, dined, and went down by train to Woolwich.
The porters marvelled at his lavish tips, and the cabman who drove him
from the Arsenal station to the Shop came to the conclusion that the
gentleman was undoubtedly drunk when he surveyed his fare.
His ticket awaited him, on production of his visiting card, and he was
allowed to make his way to the gym., where the ball was held.
As he surveyed the brilliant scene his heart failed him for the first
time that night. There were not half a dozen black coats in the crowded
room, and just for a moment Tony again felt old and plain and
uninteresting. He was far too big, however, to remain unnoticeable.
One after another of his old boys found him and gave him astonished but
hearty greeting.
At last he caught sight of Lallie. She was waltzing with
Paddy--conspicuously handsome Paddy; and even at that ball, where good
dancing is the rule and not the exception, there was something
harmoniously distinguished in the dancing of these two.
Lallie looked white and tired. Presently Paddy felt her sway in his
arms. "Stop!" she cried breathlessly; "am I mad, or is that Tony
standing on the other side of the room?"
Paddy piloted her skilfully over to Tony. One glance at their faces was
enough for that astute youth.
"How ripping of you to come!" he exclaimed; "but Lallie's a mean little
minx not to tell me you were coming."
"She didn't know. I didn't know myself five hours ago. But I have
something very important to say to Lallie--something that couldn't
possibly wait."
Paddy chuckled.
"You may have the rest of this dance," he said; "and you may trust
Lallie for knowing the best places for sitting out."
"Will you come?" asked Tony.
"To the end of the world," said Lallie, as she slipped her hand under
his arm; "but I warn you, Tony, dear, with me you won't have altogether
a tranquil journey."