Part 11

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.

It was therefore a great relief when he was ushered into the dark old 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."