She could see May's raised face looking very expressive—full of thoughts. Lady Dashwood rose from her chair confident that inspired words would come to her lips—and they came!
"My dear Jim," she heard herself saying, "your mentioning the High Gods has made me remember that I left about some letters that ought to be answered. Horribly careless of me—I must go and find them. I'll only be away a moment. So sorry to interrupt when you are just getting interesting!" And still murmuring Lady Dashwood made her escape.
She had done the best she could under the circumstances, and she smiled broadly as she went through the corridor.
"That for Belinda and Co.!" she exclaimed half aloud, and she snapped her fingers.
And what was going to happen after Belinda and Co. were defeated, banished for ever from the Lodgings? What was going to happen to the Warden? He had been successfully rescued from one danger—but what about the future? Was he going to fall in love with May Dashwood?
"It sounded to me uncommonly like a metaphysical wooing of May," said Lady Dashwood to herself. "ThatI must leave in the hands of Providence;" and she went up to her room smiling. There she found Louise.
"Madame is gay," said the Frenchwoman, catching sight of the entering smile. "Gay in this sad Oxford!"
"Sad!" said Lady Dashwood, her smile stilllingering. "The hospitals are sad, Louise, yes, very sad, and the half-empty Colleges."
"Oh, it is sad, incredibly sad," said the maid. "What kind of city is it, it contains only grey monasteries, no boulevards, no shops. There is one shop, perhaps, but what is that?"
Lady Dashwood had gone to the toilet table, for she caught sight of the letters lying on the top of the jewel drawers. She had seen them several times that day, and had always intended tearing them up, for neither of them needed an answer. But they had served a good purpose. She had escaped from the drawing-room with their aid. She took them up and opened them and looked at them again. Louise watched her covertly. She glanced at the first and tore it up; then at the second and tore that up. She opened the third and glanced at it. And now the faint remains of the smile that had lingered on her face suddenly vanished.
"My dear Gwen," (Lena badly written, of course).
"I hope you understood that Lady Dashwood will keep you till the 3rd. You don't mention the Warden! Does that mean that you are making no progress in that direction? Perhaps taking no trouble! The question is——"
Here Lady Dashwood stopped. She looked at the signature of the writer. But that was not necessary—the handwriting was Belinda Scott's.
For a moment or two Lady Dashwood stood as if she intended to remain in the same position for the rest of her life. Then she breathed rather heavily and her nostrils dilated.
"Ah! Well!" said Louise to herself, and she nodded her head ominously.
Soon Lady Dashwood recovered herself and folded up the letter. She looked at the envelope. It wasaddressed to Miss Gwendolen Scott. She put the letter back into its envelope.
Had she opened the letter and then laid it aside with the others, without perceiving that the letter was not addressed to her and without reading it? Was it possible that she, in her hurry last evening, had done this? If so, Gwen had never received the letter or read it.
Of course she could not have read it. If she had, it would not have been laid on the toilet table. If Gwen had read it and left it about, it would have either been destroyed or taken to her room.
"DoesMadamewish to go to bed immediately?" asked Louise innocently. She had been waiting nearly twenty-four hours for something to happen about that letter. She was beginning to be afraid that it might be discovered when she would not be there to see the effect it had onMadame. Ah! the letter was all that Louise's fancy had painted it. See the emotion inMadame'sback! How expressive is the back! What abominable intrigue! It was not necessary, indeed, to go to Paris to find wickedness. And, above all, the Warden—— Oh, my God! Never, never shall I repose confidence even in the Englishman the most respectable!
"Presently," said Lady Dashwood, in answer to Louise's question.
Lady Dashwood had made up her mind. She must have opened all three letters but only read two of them. There was no other explanation possible. What was to be done with Gwen's letter? What was to be done with this—vile scribble?
Lady Dashwood's fingers were aching to tear the letter up, but she refrained. It would need some thinking over. The style of this letter was probably familiar to Gwendolen—her mind had already been corrupted. And to think that Jim might have hadBelinda and Co., and all that Belinda and Co. implied, hanging round his neck and dragging him down—till he dropped into his grave from the sheer dead weight of it!
"Yes, immediately," said Lady Dashwood. She would not go downstairs again. It was of vital importance that Jim and May should be alone together, yes, alone together.
Lady Dashwood put the letter away in a drawer and locked it. She must have time to think.
A few minutes later Louise was brushing out her mistress's hair—a mass of grey hair, still luxuriant, that had once been black.
"I find that Oxford does not agree withMadame'shair," said Louise, as she plied vigorously with the brush.
Lady Dashwood made no reply.
"I find that Oxford does not agree withMadame'shair at all, at all," repeated Louise, firmly.
"Is it going greyer?" said Lady Dashwood indifferently, for her mind was working hard on another subject.
"It grows not greyer, but it becomes dead, like the hair of a corpse—in this atmosphere of Oxford," said Louise, even more firmly.
"Try not to exaggerate, Louise," said Lady Dashwood, quite unmoved.
"Madamecannot deny that the humidity of Oxford is bad both for skin and hair," said Louise, with some resentment in her tone.
"Damp is not bad for the skin, Louise," said her mistress, "but it may be for the hair; I don't know and I don't care."
"It's bad for the skin," said Louise. "I have seenMadamelooking grave, the skin folded, in Oxford. It is the climate. It is impossible to smile—in Oxford. One lies as if under a tomb."
"Every place has its bad points," said Lady Dashwood. "It is important to make the best of them."
"But I do not like to seeMadamedepressed by the climate here," continued Louise, obstinately, "andMadamehas been depressed here lately."
"Not at all," said Lady Dashwood. "You needn't worry, Louise; any one who can stand India would find the climate of Oxford admirable. Now, as soon as you have done my hair, I want you to go down to the drawing-room, where you will find Mrs. Dashwood, and apologise to her for my not coming down again. Say I have a letter that will take me some time to answer. Bid her good night, also the Warden, who will be with her, I expect."
Louise had been momentarily plunged into despair. She had been unsuccessful all the way round. It looked as if the visit to Oxford was to go on indefinitely, and as to the letter—well—Madamewas unfathomable—as she always was. She was English, and one must not expect them to behave as if they had a heart.
But now her spirits rose! This message to the drawing-room! The Warden was alone with Mrs. Dashwood! The Warden, this man of apparent uprightness who was the seducer of the young! Lady Dashwood had discovered his wickedness and dared not leave Mrs. Dashwood, a widow and of an age (twenty-eight) when a woman is still young, alone with him. So she, Louise, was sent down,bien entendu, to break up thetête-à-tête!
Louise put down the brush and smiled to herself as she went down to the drawing-room.
She, through her devotion to duty, had become an important instrument in the hands of Providence.
When Lady Dashwood found herself alone, she took up her keys and jingled them, unable to make up her mind.
She had only read the first two or three sentencesof Belinda's letter; she had only read—until the identity and meaning of the letter had suddenly come to her.
She opened the drawer and took out the letter. Then she walked a few steps in the room, thinking as she walked. No, much as she despised Belinda, she could not read a private letter of hers. Perhaps, because she despised her, it was all the more urgent that she should not read anything of hers.
What Lady Dashwood longed to do was to have done with Belinda and never see her or hear from her again. She wanted Belinda wiped out of the world in which she, Lena Dashwood, moved and thought.
What was she to do with the letter? Jim was safe now, the letter was harmless—as far as he was concerned. But what about Gwen? Was it not like handing on to her a dose of moral poison?
On the other hand, the poison belonged to Gwen and had been sent to her by her mother!
The matter could not be settled without more reflection. Perhaps some definite decision would frame itself during the night; perhaps she would awake in the morning, knowing exactly what was the best to be done.
She put away the letter again, and again locked the drawer. She was putting away her keys when the door opened and she heard her maid come in.
There was something in the way Louise entered and stood at the door that made Lady Dashwood turn round and look at her. That excellent Frenchwoman was standing very stiffly, her eyes wide and agitated, and her features expressive of extreme excitement. She breathed loudly.
"What's the matter?" demanded Lady Dashwood.
"MadameDashwood was not visible in the drawing-room!" said Louise, and she tightened her lips after this pronouncement.
"She had gone up to her bedroom?"
"MadameDashwood is not in her bedroom!" said Louise, with ever deepening tragedy in her voice.
"Did you look for her in the library?" demanded Lady Dashwood.
"MadameDashwood is not in the library!" said Louise. She did not move from her position in front of the door. She stood there looking the personification of domestic disaster, her chest heaving.
"Mrs. Dashwood isn't ill?" Lady Dashwood felt a sudden pang of fear at her heart.
"No,Madame!" said Louise.
"Then what is the matter?" demanded Lady Dashwood, sternly. "Don't be a fool, Louise. Say what has happened!"
"How can I tellMadame? It is indeed unbelievably too sad! I did not seeMadameDashwood but I heard her voice," began Louise. "Oh,Madame, that I should have to pronounce such words to you! I open the door of the drawing-room! It is scarcely at all lighted! No one is visible! I stand and for a moment I look around me! I hear sounds! I listen again! I hear the voice ofMadameDashwood! Ah! what surprise! Where is she? She is hidden behind the great curtains of the window, completely hidden! Why? And to whom does she speak? Ah,Madame, what frightful surprise, what shock to hear reply the voice, also behind the curtain, ofMonsieurthe Warden! I cannot believe it, it is incredible, but also it is true! I stop no longer, for shame! I fly, I meet Robinson in the gallery, but I pass him—like lightning—I speak not! No word escapes from my mouth! I come direct toMadame'sroom! In entering, I know not what to say, I say nothing! I dare not! I stand with the throat swelling, the heart oppressed, but with the lips closed! I speak only becauseMadameinsists, she commands me to speak, to say all! I trust in God!I obeyMadame'scommand! I speak! I disclose frankly the painful truth! I impart the boring information!"
While Louise was speaking Lady Dashwood's face had first expressed astonishment, and then it relaxed into amusement, and when her maid stopped speaking for want of breath, she sank down upon a chair and burst into laughter.
"My poor Louise?" she said. "You never will understand English people. If Mrs. Dashwood and the Warden are behind the window curtains, it is because they want to look out of the window!"
Louise's face became passionately sceptical.
"In the rain,Madame!" she remarked. "In a darkness of the tomb?"
"Yes, in the rain and darkness," said Lady Dashwood. "You must go down again in a moment, and give them my message!"
After the Warden had closed the door on his sister he came back to the fireplace. He had been interrupted, and he stood silently with his hand on the back of the chair, just as he had stood before. He was waiting, perhaps, for an invitation to speak; for some sign from Mrs. Dashwood that now that they were alone together, she expected him to talk on, freely.
She had no suspicion of the real reason why her Aunt Lena had gone away. May took for granted that she had fled at the first sign of a religious discussion. May knew that General Sir John Dashwood, like many well regulated persons, was under the impression that he had, at some proper moment in his juvenile existence now forgotten, at his mother's knee or in his ancestral cradle, once and for all weighed, considered and accepted the sacred truths containing the Christian religion, and that therefore there was no need to poke about among them and distrust them. Lady Dashwood had encouraged that sentiment of silent loyalty: it left more time and energy over for the discussion and arrangement of the practical affairs of life. May knew all this.
May, sitting by the fire, with her eyes on her work, observed the hesitation in the Warden's mind. She knew that he was waiting. She glanced up.
"What was it you were saying?" she asked in thesoftest of voices, for now that they were alone there was no one to be annoyed by a religious discussion.
The Warden moved round and seated himself. But even then he could not bring his thoughts to the surface: they lay in the back of his mind urgent, yet reluctant. Meanwhile he began talking about the portrait again. It served as a stalking horse. He told her some of the old college stories, stories not only of Langley, but of other Wardens in the tempestuous days of the Reformation and of the Civil War.
"And yet," he said suddenly, "what were those days compared with these? Has there been any tragedy like this?" He gazed at her now; with his narrow eyes strained and sad.
"Just at the beginning of the war," he said, "I heard—— It was one hot brilliant morning in that early September. It was only a passing sound—but I shall never forget it, till I die."
May Dashwood's hands dropped to her lap, and she sat listening with her eyes lowered.
"There was a sound of the feet of men marching past, though I could not see them. Their feet were trampling the ground rhythmically, and all to the 'playing' of a bugler. I have never heard, before or since, a bugle played like that! The youth—I could picture him in my mind—blew from his bugle strangely ardent, compelling notes. It was simple, monotonous music, but there came from the bugler's own soul a magnificent courage and buoyancy; and the trampling feet responded—responded to the light springing notes, the high ardour and gay fearlessness of youth. There was such hope, such joy in the call of duty! No thought of danger, no thought of suffering! All hearts leapt to the sounds! And the bugler passed and the trampling feet! I could hear the swift, high, passionate notes die in thedistance; and I knew that the flower of our youth was marching to its doom."
The Warden got up from his chair, and walked away, and there was silence in the room.
Then he came up to where May sat and looked down at her.
"The High Gods," she said, quietly quoting his own phrase, "wanted them."
He moved away again. "I have no argument for my faith," he said. "The question for us is no longer 'I must believe,' but 'Dare I believe?' The old days of certainty have gone. Inquisitions, Solemn Leagues and Covenants have gone—never to return. All the clamour of men who claim 'to know' has died down."
And as he gazed at her with eyes that demanded an answer she said simply: "I am content with the silence of God."
He made no answer and leaned heavily on the back of his chair. A moment later he began to walk again. "I don't think Icanbelieve that the heroic sacrifice of youth, their bitter suffering, will be mixed up indistinguishably with the cunning meanness of pleasure-seekers, with the sordid humbug of money-makers—in one vast forgotten grave. No, I can't believe that—because the world we know is a rational world."
May glanced round at him as he moved about. The great dimly-lit room was full of shadows, and Middleton's face was dark, full of shadows too, shadows of mental suffering. She looked back at her work and sighed.
"Even if we straighten the crooked ways of life, so that there are no more starving children, no men and women broken with the struggle of life: even if we are able, by self-restraint, by greater scientific knowledge to rid the earth of those diseases that mean martyrdom to its victims; even if hate is turned tolove, and vice and moral misery are banished: even if the Kingdom of Heaven does come upon this earth—even then! That will not be a Kingdom of Heaven that is Eternal! This Earth will, in time, die. This Earth will die, that we know; and with it must vanish for ever even the memory of a million years of human effort. Shall we be content with that? I fail to conceive it as rational, and therefore I cling to thehopeof some sort of life beyond the grave—Eternal Life. But," and here he spoke out emphatically, "I have no argument for my belief."
He came and stood close beside her now, and looked down at her. "I have no argument for my belief," he repeated.
"And you are content with the silence of God," he added. Then he spoke very slowly: "I must be content."
If he had stretched out his hand to touch hers, it would not have meant any more than did the prolonged gaze of his eyes.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked—its voice alone striking into the silence. It seemed to tick sometimes more loudly, sometimes more softly.
The Warden appeared to force himself away from his own thoughts. With his hands still grasping the back of his chair, he raised his head and stood upright. The tick of the clock fell upon his ear; a monotonous and mechanical sound—indifferent to human life and yet weighted with importance to human life; marking the moments as they passed; moments never to be recalled; steps that are leading irretrievably the human race to their far-off destiny.
As the Warden's eyes watched the hands of the clock, they pointed to five minutes to eleven. A thought came to him.
"All the bells are silent now," he said, "except in the safe daylight."
May looked up at him.
"Even 'Tom' is silent. The Clusius is not tolled now."
He got up and walked along the room to the open window. There he held the curtain well aside and looked back at her. Why it was, May did not know, but it seemed imperative to her to come to him. She put her work aside and came through into the broad embrasure of the bay. Then he let the curtain fall and they stood together in the darkness. The Warden pushed out the latticed frame wider into the dark night. The air was scarcely stirring, it came in warm and damp against their faces.
The quadrangle below them was dimly visible. Eastwards the sky was heavy with a great blank pale space stretching over the battlemented roof and full of the light of a moon that had just risen, but overhead a heavy cloud slowly moved westwards.
They both leaned out and breathed the night air.
"It will rain in a moment," said the Warden.
"In the old days," he said, "there would have been sounds coming from these windows. There would have been men coming light-heartedly from these staircases and crossing to one another. Now all is under military rule: the poor remnant left of undergraduate life—poor mentally and physically—this poor remnant counts for nothing. All that is best has gone, gone voluntarily, eagerly, and the men who fill their places are training for the Great Sacrifice. It's the most glorious and the most terrible thing imaginable!"
May leaned down lower and the silence of the night seemed oppressive when the Warden ceased speaking.
After a moment he said, "In the old days you would have heard some far-off clock strike the hour, probably a thin, cracked voice, and then it would have been followed by other voices. You would haveheard them jangle together, and then into their discordance you would have heard the deep voice of 'Tom' breaking."
"But he is at his best," went on the Warden, "when he tolls the Clusius. It is his right to toll it, and his alone. He speaks one hundred and one times, slowly, solemnly and with authority, and then all the gates in Oxford are closed."
Drops of rain fell lightly in at them, and May drew in her head.
"Oxford has become a city of memories to me," said the Warden, and he put out his arm to draw in the window.
"That is only when you are sad," said May.
"Yes," said the Warden slowly, "it is only when I give way to gloom. After all, this is a great time, it can be made a great time. If only all men and women realised that it might be the beginning of the 'Second Coming.' As it is, the chance may slip."
He pulled the window further in and secured it.
May pushed aside the curtain and went back into the glow and warmth of the room.
She gathered up her knitting and thrust it into the bag.
"Are you going?" asked the Warden. He was standing now in the middle of the room watching her.
"I'm going," said May.
"I've driven you away," he said, "by my dismal talk."
"Driven me away!" she repeated. "Oh no!" Her voice expressed a great reproach, the reproach of one who has suffered too, and who has "dreamed dreams." Surely he knew that she could understand!
"Forgive me!" he said, and held out his hand impulsively. At least it seemed strangely impulsive in this self-contained man.
She put hers into it, withdrew it, and together they went to the door. For the first time in her life May felt the sting of a strange new pain. The open door led away from warmth and a world that was full and satisfying—at least it would have led away from such a world—a world new to her—only that she was saying "Good night" and not "Good-bye." Later on she would have to say "Good-bye." How many days were there before that—five whole days? She walked up the steps, and went into the corridor. Louise was there, just coming towards her.
"Madamedesires me to say good night," said Louise, giving May's face a quick searching glance.
"I'll come and say good night to her," said May, "if it's not too late."
No, it was not too late. Louise led the way, marvelling at the callous self-assurance of English people.
Louise opened her mistress's door, and though consumed with raging curiosity, left Mrs. Dashwood to enter alone.
"Oh, May!" cried Lady Dashwood. She was moving about the room in a grey dressing-gown, looking very restless, and with her hair down.
"You didn't come down again," said May; "you were tired?"
"I wasn't tired!" Here Lady Dashwood paused. "May, I have, by pure accident, come upon a letter—from Belinda to Gwen. I don't know how it came among my own letters, but there it was, opened. I don't know if I opened it by mistake, but anyhow there it was opened; I began reading the nauseous rubbish, and then realised that I was reading Belinda. Now the question is, what to do with the letter? It contains advice. May, Gwen is to secure the Warden! It seems odd to see it written down in black and white."
Lady Dashwood stared hard at her niece—who stood before her, thoughtful and silent.
"Shall I give it to Gwen—or what?" she asked.
"Well," began May, and then she stopped.
"Of course, I blame myself for being such a fool as to have taken in Belinda," said Lady Dashwood (for the hundredth time). "But the question now is—what to do with the letter? It isn't fit for a nice girl to read; but, no doubt, she's read scores of letters like it. The girl is being hawked round to see who will have her—and she knows it! She probably isn't nice! Girls who are exhibited, or who exhibit themselves on a tray ain't nice. Jim knows this; he knows it. Oh, May! as if he didn't know it. You understand!"
May Dashwood stood looking straight into her aunt's face, revolving thoughts in her own mind.
"Some people, May," said Lady Dashwood, "who want to be unkind and only succeed in being stupid, say that I am a matchmaker. Ihavealways conscientiously tried to be a matchmaker, but I have rarely succeeded. I have been so happy with my dear old husband that I want other people to be happy too, and I am always bringing young people together—who were just made for each other. But they won't have it, May! I introduce a sweet girl full of womanly sense and affection to some nice man, and he won't have her at any price. He prefers some cheeky little brat who after marriage treats him rudely and decorates herself for other men. I introduce a really good man to a really nice girl and she won't have him, she 'loves,' if you please, a man whom decent men would like to kick, and she finds herself spending the rest of her life trying hard to make her life bearable. I dare say your scientists would say—Nature likes to keep things even, bad and good mixed together. Well, I'm against Nature. My under-housemaid develops scarlet fever,and dear old Nature wants her to pass it on to the other maids, and if possible to the cook. Well, I circumvent Nature."
May Dashwood's face slowly smiled.
"But I did not bring Gwendolen Scott to this house—she was forced upon me—and I was weak enough to give in. Now, I should very much like to say something when I give the letter to Gwen. But I shall have to say nothing. Yes, nothing," repeated Lady Dashwood, "except that I must tell her that I have, by mistake, read the first few lines."
"Yes," said May Dashwood.
"After all, what else could I say?" exclaimed Lady Dashwood. "You can't exactly tell a daughter that you think her mother is a shameless hussy, even if you may think that she ought to know it."
"Poor Gwen and poor Lady Belinda!" said May Dashwood sighing, and moving to go, and trying hard to feel real pity in her heart.
"No," said Lady Dashwood, raising her voice, "I don't say 'poor Belinda.' I don't feel a bit sorry for the old reprobate, I feel more angry with her. Don't you see yourself—now you know Jim," continued Lady Dashwood, throwing out her words at her niece's retreating figure—"don't you see that Jim deserves something better than Belinda and Co.? Now, would you like to see him saddled for life with Gwendolen Scott?"
May Dashwood did not reply immediately; she seemed to be much occupied in walking very slowly to the door and then in slowly turning the handle of the door. Surely Gwendolen and her mother were pitiable objects—unsuccessful as they were?
"Now, would you?" demanded Lady Dashwood. "Would you?"
"I should trust him not to do that," said May, as she opened the door. She looked back at the tallerect figure in the grey silk dressing-gown. "Good night, dear aunt." And she went out. "You see, I am running away, and I order you to go to bed. You are tired." She spoke through the small open space she had left, and then she closed the door.
"Trust him! Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Lady Dashwood, in a loud voice.
But she was not altogether displeased with the word "trust" in May Dashwood's mouth. "She seems pretty confident that Jim isn't going to make a martyr of himself," she said to herself happily.
The door opened and Louise entered with an enigmatical look on her face. Louise had been listening outside for the tempestuous sounds that in her country would have issued from any two normal women under the same circumstances.
But no such sounds had reached her attentive ears, and here was Lady Dashwood moving about with a serene countenance. She was even smiling. Oh, what a country, what people!
The next morning it was still raining. It was a typical Oxford day, a day of which there are so many in the year that those who have best known Oxford think of her fondly in terms of damp sandstone.
They remember her gabled roofs, narrow pavements, winding alleys humid and shining from recent rain; her mullioned windows looking out on high-walled gardens where the over-hanging trees drip and drip in chastened melancholy. They remember her floating spires piercing the lowering sodden sky, her grey courts and solemn doorways, her echoing cloisters; all her incomparable monastic glory soaked through and through with heavy languorous moisture, and slowly darkening in a misty twilight.
It is this sobering atmosphere that has brought to birth and has bred the "Oxford tone;" the remorseless, if somewhat playful handling of ideas.
Gwendolen Scott was no more aware of the existence of an "Oxford tone," bred (as all organic life has been) in the damp, than was the maidservant who brought her tea in the morning; but she perceived the damp. She could see through the latticed windows of the breakfast-room that it rained, rained and rained, and the question was what she should do to make the time pass till they must start for Chartcote? Noletter had yet come from her mother—and the old letter was still lost.
The best Gwen could hope for was that it had been picked up and thrown into the paper basket and destroyed.
Meanwhile what should she do? Lady Dashwood was always occupied during the mornings. Mrs. Dashwood did not seem to be at her disposal. What was she to do? Should she practise the "Reverie"? No, she didn't want to "fag" at that. She had asked the housemaid to mend a pair of stockings, and she found these returned to her room—boggled! How maddening—what idiots servants were! She found another pair that wanted mending. She hadn't the courage to ask Louise to mend it. If she tried to mend it herself she would only make a mess of it—besides she hadn't any lisle thread or needles.
She would look at her frocks and try and decide what to wear at lunch. If she couldn't decide she would have to consult Lady Dashwood. Her room was rather dark. The window looked, not on to the quadrangle, but on to the street. She took each piece of dress to the window and gazed at it. The blue coat and skirt wouldn't do. She had worn that often, and the blouse was not fresh now. That must go back into the wardrobe. The likely clothes must be spread on the bed, where she could review them.
She ran her hand down a stiff rustling costume of brown silk. It gave her a pleasurable sensation. It was dark brown and inconspicuous, and yet "dressy." But would, after all, the blue coat and skirt be more suitable, as Oxford people never dressed? Yes; but she might meet other sort of people at Chartcote! It was a difficult question.
She passed on to a thin black and white cloth that was very "smart" and showed off her dark beauty. That and the white cloth hat would do! She hadworn it once before and the Warden had talked a great deal to her when she had it on. She took out the dress and laid it on the bed, and she laid the hat upon it. Mrs. Dashwood had not seen the dress! By the by, Mrs. Dashwood and the Warden had scarcely talked at all at breakfast! He had once made a remark to her, and she had looked up and said "Yes," in a funny sort of way, just as if she agreed of course! H'm, there was really no need to be afraid of that! Supposing and if she, Gwen, were ever to be Mrs. Middleton, what sort of new clothes would she buy? Oh, all sorts of things would be necessary! And yet—the Warden seemed to be quietly drifting farther and farther away from her. Was that talk in the library a dream? Then if not, why didn't he say something? Did he say nothing, because in the library he had said, "If you want a home, etc., etc.?" Did he mean by that, "If you come and tell me that you want a home, etc., etc.?"
Gwen was not sure whether he meant "If you come andsayyou want a home, etc., etc.," or only, "If you want a home, etc., etc." How tiresome! He knew she wanted a home! But perhaps he wasn't sure whether she really wanted a home! Ought she to go and knock at the door and say that she really did want a home? Was he waiting for her to come and knock on the door and say, "I really do want a home, etc., etc.," and then come near enough to be kissed?
But after what Mr. Boreham had said, even if she did go and knock at the door and say that she really did want a home, etc., etc., and go and stand quite near him, the Warden might pretend not to understand and merely say, "I'm sorry," and go on writing.
How did girls make sure that a proposal was binding? Did they manage somehow to have it in writing? But how could she have said to the Warden,"Would you mind putting it all down in writing"? She really couldn't have said such a thing!
Gwen could not quite make up her mind what to wear. She had put the brown silk and one or two more dresses on the bed without being able to come to any conclusion.
It would be necessary to ask advice. Having covered the bed with "possible" dresses, Gwen went out to search for Lady Dashwood.
She had not to go far, for she met her just outside the door.
"Oh, Lady Dashwood," began Gwen, "could you, would you mind telling me what I am to wear for lunch? I'm so sorry to be such a bother, but I'm——"
Here Gwen stopped short, for her eyes caught sight of a letter in Lady Dashwood's hand—the letter! If Gwen had known how to faint she would have tried to faint then; but she didn't know how it was done.
"I found this letter addressed to you," said Lady Dashwood, "in my room—it had got there somehow." She held it out to the girl, who took it, reddening as she did so to the roots of her hair. "I found it opened—I hope I didn't open it by mistake?"
"Oh no," said Gwen, stammering. "I—lost it—somehow. Oh, thanks so much! Oh, thanks!"
Tears of embarrassment were starting to the girl's eyes, and she turned away, letter in hand, and went towards her door like a beaten child.
Lady Dashwood gazed after her, pity uppermost in her heart—pity, now that Belinda and Co. were no longer dangerous.
Safely inside the door, Gwen gave way to regret, and from regret for her carelessness she went on to wondering wildly what effect the letter might have had on Lady Dashwood! Had she told the Warden its contents? Had she read the letter to him?
Gwen squirmed as she walked about her room. There was a look in Lady Dashwood's face! Oh dear, oh dear!
The dresses lay neglected on the bed; the sight of them only made Gwen's heart ache the more, for they reminded her of those bright hopes that had flitted through her brain—hopes of having more important clothes as the Warden's wife. Gwen had even gone as far as wondering whether Cousin Bridget might not give her some furs as a wedding present. Cousin Bridget had spent over a thousand pounds in new furs for herself that first winter of the war, when the style changed; so was it too much to expect that Cousin Bridget, who was the wealthy member of the family, though her husband's title was a new one, might give her a useful wedding present? Now, the mischance with this letter had probably destroyed all chances of the Warden marrying her!
She was glad that he had gone away to-day, so that she would not see him again till the next morning; that gave more time.
She did not want to go to Chartcote to lunch. She would not be able to eat anything if she felt as miserable as she did now, and she would find it impossible to talk to any one.
Even her mother's letter of advice might not help her very much—now that old letter had been seen.
Gwen walked about her room, sometimes leaning over the foot of her bed and staring blankly at the dresses spread out before her, and sometimes stopping to look at herself in a long mirror on the way, feeling very sorry for that poor pretty girl whose image she saw reflected there. When she heard a knock at the door she almost jumped. Was it Lady Dashwood? Gwen's answering voice sounded very soft and meek, as if a mouse was saying "Come in" to a cat that demanded entrance.
It was Mrs. Dashwood who opened the door and walked in.
"You want advice about what to wear for lunch?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "Lady Dashwood is finishing off some parcels, and asked me to come and offer you my services—if you'll have me?" and she actually laughed as she caught sight of the display on the bed.
"Very business-like," she said, walking up to the bed. She did not seem to have noticed Gwen's distracted appearance, and this gave Gwen time and courage to compose her features and assume her ordinary bearing.
"Thanks so much," she said, going to the foot of the bed. "I was afraid I bothered Lady Dashwood when I asked about the lunch."
"It really doesn't much matter what it is you wear for Chartcote," said May Dashwood slowly, as her eye roamed over the bed. She did not appear to have heard Gwen's last remark.
"People do dress so funnily here," said Gwen, beginning to feel happy again, "but I thought perhaps that——"
"I think I should recommend that dark brown silk," said Mrs. Dashwood, "and if you have a black hat——"
"Yes, I have!" cried Gwen, with animation, and she rushed to the wardrobe. After all she did like Mrs. Dashwood. She was not so bad after all.
May received the black hat into her hands and praised it. She put it on the girl's head and then stood back to see the effect.
Gwen stood smiling, her face and dark hair framed by the black velvet.
"The very thing," said Mrs. Dashwood.
"Do try it on. You'd look lovely in it," gushed Gwen. The expression "You'd look lovely in it" came from her lips before she could stop it. Herinstinctive antagonism to Mrs. Dashwood was fast oozing away.
May took the hat and put it on her own head, and then she looked round at the mirror.
"There!" said Gwen. "I told you so!"
May Dashwood regarded herself critically in the mirror and no smile came to her lips. She looked at her tall slender figure and the auburn hair under the black velvet brim as if she was looking at somebody else. May took off the hat and placed it on the bed by the dark brown silk.
"Now, you're complete," she said. "Quite complete;" but she looked out of her grey eyes at something far away, and did not see Gwendolen.
"If only I had a nice fur!" exclaimed the girl. "Mine is old, and it's the wrong shape, of course," she went on confidentially. She found herself suddenly desirous of making a life-long friend of Mrs. Dashwood. In spite of her age and the fact that she was very clever and all that, and that the Warden had begun by taking too much notice of her, Mrs. Dashwood was nice. Gwen wanted at that moment to "tell her everything," all about the "proposal," and see what she thought about it!
Gwen's emotions came and went in little spurts, and they were very absorbing for the moment.
"Don't be ashamed of yours," said Mrs. Dashwood, and as she spoke she went towards the door. "I can't say I admire the sisterhood of women who spend their pence on sham or their guineas on real fur and jewellery just now."
Gwen stared. She was not quite sure what the remark really meant—the word "sisterhood" confused her.
"If I were you," said Mrs. Dashwood, smiling, "I should begin to dress; we are to be ready at one punctually."
"Oh, thanks so much," said Gwen. "I know I take an age. I always do," she laughed.
As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had gone Gwen found it necessary to sit down and think whether she really liked Mrs. Dashwood so very much, or whether she only "just liked her," and this subject brought her back to the letter and the Warden, and all her lost opportunities! Gwen was startled by a knock at the door which she knew was produced by the knuckles of Lady Dashwood's maid.
"Oh,Mademoiselle!" cried Louise. "You have not commenced, andMadameis ready."
"The brown one," exclaimed Gwen, as Louise rushed towards the bed.
Louise fell upon the bed like a wild beast and began dressing Gwen with positive ferocity, protesting all the time in tones of physical agony mingled with moral indignation, her astonishment atMademoiselle'sindifference to the desires ofMadame.
"I didn't know it was so late," said Gwen, who was not accustomed to such freedom from a servant.
More exclamations from Louise, who was hooking and buttoning and pulling and pushing like a fury.
"Well, leave off talking," said Gwen, looking very hot, "and don't pull so much."
More exclamations from Louise and more pulling, and at last Gwen stood complete in her brown dress and black hat. While she was thinking about what shoes she should put on, Louise had already seized a pair and was now pulling and pushing at her feet.
Lady Dashwood was giving instructions to Robinson in the hall, when Gwen came precipitately downstairs. The taxi was at the door, and Mrs. Dashwood was already seated in it.
It was still raining. Of course! Everything was wretched!
Now, what about an umbrella? Gwen gazed about her and seized an umbrella, earnestly trusting that it was not one that Lady Dashwood meant to use. How hot and flushed and late she was, and then—the letter! Oh, that letter! How horrible to be obliged to sit opposite to Lady Dashwood!
She ran down the steps without opening the umbrella, and dashed into the taxi, Lady Dashwood following under an umbrella held by Robinson.
"Here we are!" said Lady Dashwood. She seemed to have forgotten all about the letter, and she smiled at Gwen.
They passed out of the entrance court of the Lodgings and into the narrow street, and then into the High Street. The sky and the air and the road and the pavements and the buildings were grey. The Cherwell was grey, and its trees wept into it. The meadows were sodden; it was difficult to imagine that they could ever stand in tall ripe hay. There was a smell of damp decay in the air.
Gwen stared fixedly out of the window in order to avoid looking at the ladies opposite her. They seemed to be occupied with the continuance of a conversation that they had begun before. Now, Gwen's mind failed and fainted before conversation that was at all impersonal, and though she was listening, she did not grasp the whole of any one sentence. But she caught isolated words and phrases here and there, dreary words like "Education," "Oxford methods," and her attention was absorbed by the discovery that every time Mrs. Dashwood spoke, she said: "Does the Warden think?" just as if she knew what the Warden would think!
This was nasty of her. If only she always talked about Gwen's hat suiting her, and about other things that were really interesting, Gwen believed she could make a life-long friend of her, in spite of her age; butshe would talk about stupid incomprehensible things—and about the Warden!
The Warden was growing a more and more remote figure in Gwen's mind. He was fading into something unsubstantial—something that Gwen could not lean against, or put her arms round. Would she never again have the opportunity of feeling how hard and smooth his shirt-front was? It was like china, only not cold. As she thought Gwen's eyes became misty and sad, and she ceased to notice what the two ladies opposite to her were saying.
Boreham was in his dressing-room at Chartcote looking at himself in the mirror. The picture he saw in its depths was familiar to him. Had he (like prehistoric man) never had the opportunity of seeing his own face, and had he been suddenly presented with his portrait and asked whether he thought the picture pleasing, he would have replied, as do our Cabinet ministers: "The answer is in the negative."
But the figure in the mirror had always been associated with his inmost thoughts. It had grown with his growth. It had smiled, it had laughed and frowned. It had looked dull and disappointed, it had looked flattered and happy in tune with his own feelings; and that rather colourless face with the drab beard, the bristly eyebrows, the pale blue eyes and the thin lips, were all part of Boreham's exclusive personal world to which he was passionately attached; something separate from the world he criticised, jeered at, scolded or praised, as the mood took him, also something separate from what he secretly and unwillingly envied. The portrait in the mirror represented Boreham's own particular self—the unmistakable "I."
He gave a last touch with a brush to the stiff hair, and then stood staring at his completed image, at himself, ready for lunch, ready—and this was whatdominated his thoughts—ready to receive May Dashwood.
Some eight or nine years ago, when he had first met May, he had as nearly fallen in love with her as his constitution permitted; and he had been nettled at finding himself in a financial position that was, to say the best of it, rather fluctuating. He knew he was going to have Chartcote, but aunts of sixty frequently live to remain aunts at eighty. May had never shown any particular interest in him, but he attributed her indifference to the natural and selfish female desire to acquire a wealthy husband. As it was impossible for him to marry at that period in his life, he adopted that theory of marriage most likely to shed a cheerful light upon his compulsory bachelorhood. He maintained that the natural man tries to escape marriage, as it is incompatible with his "freedom," and is only "enchained" after much persistent hunting down by the female, who makes the most of the conventions of civilisation for her own protection and profit. He was able, therefore, at the age of forty-two to look round him and say: "I have successfully escaped—hitherto," and to feel that what he said was true. But now he was no longer poor. He was an eligible man.
He was also less happy than he had been. He had lived at Chartcote for some interminable weeks! He had found it tolerable, only because he was well enough off to be always going away from it. But now he had again met May, free like himself, and if possible more attractive than she had been eight years ago!
He had met her and had found her at the zenith of womanhood; without losing her youth, she had acquired maturer grace and self-possession. Had there been any room for improvement in himself he too would have matured! The wealth he had acquired was sufficient. And now the question was: whether with all his masculine longing to preserve hisfreedom he would be able to escape successfully again? This was why he was giving a lingering glance in the mirror, where his external personality was, as it were, painted with an exactness that no artist could command.
Should this blond man with the beard and the stiff hair, below which lay a splendid brain, should he escape again?
Boreham stared hard at his own image. He repeated the momentous question, firmly but inaudibly, and then went away without answering it. Time would show—that very day might show!
Mrs. Greenleafe Potten had already arrived. Now Mrs. Greenleafe Potten was a cousin of Boreham's maternal aunt. She lived in rude though luxurious widowhood about a quarter of a mile from Chartcote, and she was naturally the person to whom Boreham applied whenever he wanted a lady to head his table. Besides, Mrs. Potten was a very old friend of Lady Dashwood's. Mrs. Potten was a little senior to Lady Dashwood, but in many ways appeared to be her junior. Mrs. Potten, too, retained her youthful interest in men. Lady Dashwood's long stay in Oxford had brought with it a new interest to Mrs. Potten's life. It had enabled her to call at King's College and claim acquaintance with the Warden. Mrs. Potten admired the Warden with the sentiment of early girlhood. Now Mrs. Potten was accredited with the possession of great wealth, of which she spent as little as possible. She practised certain strange economies, and on this occasion, learning that the Dashwoods were coming without the Warden, she decided to come in the costume in which she usually spent the morning hours, toiling in the garden.
The party consisted of the three ladies from King's, Mr. Bingham, Fellow of All Souls, and Mr. and Mrs. Harding.
Mr. Bingham was a man of real learning; he was a bachelor, and he made forcible remarks in the soft deliberate tone of a super-curate. He laughed discreetly as if in the presence of some sacred shrine. In the old pre-war days there had been many stories current in Oxford about Bingham, some true and some invented by his friends. All of them were reports of brief but effective conversations between himself and some other less sophisticated person. Bingham always accepted invitations from any one who asked him when he had time, and if he found himself bored, he simply did not go again. Boreham had got hold of Bingham and had asked him to lunch, so he had accepted. It was one of the days when he didnotgo up to the War Office, but when he lectured to women students. He had to lunch somewhere, and he had bicycled out, intending to bicycle back, rain or no rain, for the sake of exercise.
Then there were Mr. and Mrs. Harding. Harding, who had taken Orders (just as some men have eaten dinners for the Bar), was Fellow and Tutor of a sporting College. His tutorial business had been for many years to drive the unwilling and ungrateful blockhead through the Pass Degree. His private business was to assume that he was a "man of the world." It was a subject that engrossed what must (in the absence of anything more distinctive), be called the "spiritual" side of his nature. His wife, who had money, lived to set a good example to other Dons' wives in matters of dress and "tenue," and she had put on her best frock in anticipation of meeting the "County." Indeed, the Hardings had taken up Boreham because he was not a college Don but a member of "Society." They were, like Bingham, at Chartcote for the first time. It was an unpleasant shock to Mr. Harding to find that instead of the County, other Oxford people had been asked to luncheon. Fortunately, however, the Oxford people were the Dashwoods!The Hardings exchanged glances, and Harding, who had entered the room in his best manner, now looked round and heaved a sigh, letting himself spiritually down with a sort of thump. Bingham his old school-fellow and senior at Winchester, was, perhaps, the man in all Oxford to whom he felt most antipathy.
Mrs. Harding very much regretted that she had not come in a smart Harris tweed. It would have been a good compromise between the Dashwoods and the pretty girl with them, and Mrs. Greenleafe Potten with her tweed skirt and not altogether spotless shirt. But it was too late!
Boreham was quite unconscious of his guests' thoughts, and was busy plotting how best to give May Dashwood an opportunity of making love to him. He would have Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Harding on each side of him at table, giving to Mrs. Potten, Harding and Bingham. Then May Dashwood and Miss Scott would be wedged in at the sides. But, after lunch, he would give the men only ten minutes sharp for their coffee, and take off May Dashwood to look over the house. In this way he would be behaving with the futile orthodoxy required by our effete social system, and yet give the opportunity necessary to the female for the successful pursuit of the male.
Only—and here a sudden spasm went through his frame, as he looked round on his guests—did he really wish to become a married man? Did he want to be obliged to be always with one woman, to be obliged to pay calls with her, dine out with her? Did he want to explain where he was going when he went by himself, and to give her some notion as to the hour when he would return, and to leave his address with her if he stayed away for a night? No! Marriage was a gross imposition on humanity, as his brother had discovered twice over. The woman in the world who would tempt him into harness would have to beexquisitely fascinating! But then—and this was the point—May Dashwoodhadjust that peculiar charm! Boreham's eyes were now resting on her face. She was sitting on his left, next Mrs. Harding, and Bingham's black head was bent and he was saying something to her that made her smile. Boreham wished that he had put Harding, the married man, next her! Harding was commonplace! Harding was safe! Look at Harding doing his duty with Mrs. Potten! Useful man, Harding! But Bingham was a bachelor, and not safe!
And so the luncheon went on, and Boreham talked disconnectedly because he forgot the thread of his argument in his keenness to hear what May Dashwood and Bingham were saying to each other. He tried to drag in Bingham and force him to talk to the table, but his efforts were fruitless. Bingham merely looked absently and sweetly round the table, and then relapsed into talk that was inaudible except to his fair neighbour.
Gwendolen Scott watched the table silently, and wondered how it was they found so much to talk about. Harding did not intend to waste any time in talking to an Oxford person. He put his elbow on the table on her side and conversed with Mrs. Potten. He professed interest in her agricultural pursuits, told her that he liked digging in the rain, and by the time lunch was over he had solemnly emphasised his opinion that the cricket bat and the shot gun and the covert and the moderate party in the Church of England were what made our Empire great. Mrs. Potten approved these remarks, and said that she was surprised and pleased to hear such sound views expressed by any one from Oxford. She was afraid that very wild and democratic views were not only tolerated, but born and bred in Oxford. She was afraid that Oxford wasn't doing poor, dear, clever Bernard anygood, though she was convinced that the "dear Warden" would not tolerate any foolishness, and she was on the point of rising when her movements were delayed by the shock of hearing Mr. Bingham suddenly guffaw with extraordinary suavity and gentleness.
She turned to him questioningly.
"It depends upon what you mean by democratic," he said, smiling softly past Mrs. Potten and on to Harding. "The United States of America, which makes a point of talking the higher twaddle about all men being free and equal, can barely manage to bring any wealthy pot to justice. On the other hand, Oxford, which is slimed with Toryism, is always ready to make any son of any impecunious greengrocer the head of one's college. In Oxford, even at Christ Church"—and here Bingham showed two rows of good teeth at Harding,—"you may say what you like now. Oxford now swarms with political Humanitarians, who go about sticking their stomachs out and pretending to be inspired! Now, what do you mean by Democratic?"
Mrs. Potten would have been shocked, but Bingham's mellifluous voice gave a "cachet" to his language. She looked nervously at Boreham; seeing that he had caught the talk and was about to plunge into it, she signified "escape" to Lady Dashwood and rose herself.
"We will leave you men to quarrel together," she said to Harding. "You give it to them, Mr. Harding. Don't you spare 'em," and she passed to the door.
For a moment the three men who were left behind in the dining-room glanced at each other—then they sat down. Boreham was torn between the desire to dispute whatever either of his guests put forward, and a still keener desire to get away rapidly to the drawing-room. Harding had already lost all interest in the subject of democracy, and was passing on theclaret to Bingham. Bingham helped himself, wondering, as he did so, whether Mrs. Dashwood was in mourning for a brother, or perhaps had been mourning for a husband. It seemed to Bingham an interesting question.
"Good claret this of yours," said Harding. "I conclude that you weren't one of those fanatics who tried to force us all to become teetotallers. My view is that at my age a man can judge for himself what is good for him."
"That wasn't quite the point," said Bingham. "The point was whether the stay-at-homes should fill up their stomachs, or turn it into cash for war purposes."
"Of course," sneered Harding, "you like to put it in that way."
"It isn't any man's business," broke in Boreham, "whether another man can or can't judge what's good for him."
Boreham had been getting up steam for an attack upon Christ Church because it was ecclesiastical, upon Balliol because it had been Bingham's college, and upon Oxford in general because he, Boreham, had not been bred within its walls. In other words, Boreham was going to speak with unbiassed frankness. But this sudden deviation of the talk to claret and Harding's cool assumption that his view was like his host's, could not be passed in silence.
"What I say is," said Harding again, "that when a man gets to my age——"
"Age isn't the question," interrupted Boreham. "Let every man have his own view about drink. Mine is that I'm not going to ask your permission to drink. If a man likes to get drunk, all I say is that it's not my business. The only thing any of your Bishops ever said that was worth remembering was: 'I'd rather see England free than England sober.'"
Harding allowed that the saying was a good one. He nodded his head. Bingham sipped his claret. "You do get a bit free when you're not sober," he said sweetly. "I say, Harding, so you would rather see Mrs. Harding free than sober!"
Harding made an inarticulate noise that indicated the place to which in a future life he would like to consign the speaker.
"Every man does not get offensive when drunk," said Boreham, ignoring, in the manner peculiar to him, the inner meaning of Bingham's remark.
"That's true," said Bingham. "A man may have as his family motto: 'In Vino Suavitas'(Courteous though drunk, Boreham); but when you're drunk and you still go on talking, don't you find the difficulty is not so much to be courteous as to be coherent? In the good old drinking days of All Souls, of which I am now an unworthy member, it was said that Tindal was supreme in Common Roombecause'his abstemiousness in drink gave him no small advantage over those he conversed with.'"
"Talk about supreme in Common Room," said Boreham, catching at the opportunity to drive his dagger into the weak points of Oxford, "you chaps, even before the war, could hardly man your Common Rooms. You're all married men living out in the brick villas."
"Harding's married," said Bingham. "I'm thinking about it. I've been thinking for twenty years. It takes a long time to mature thoughts. By the by, was that a Miss Dashwood who sat next Harding? I don't think I have ever met her in Oxford."
"She is a Miss Scott," said Boreham, suddenly remembering that he wanted to join the ladies as soon as possible. He would get Bingham alone some day, and squeeze him. Just now there wasn't time. As to Harding—he was a hopeless idiot.
"Not one of Scott of Oriel's eight daughters? Don't know 'em by sight even. Can't keep pace with 'em," said Harding.
"She's the daughter of Lady Belinda Scott," said Boreham, "and staying with Lady Dashwood."
"I thought she didn't belong to Oxford," said Bingham.
Harding stared at his fellow Don, vaguely annoyed. He disliked to hear Bingham hinting at any Oxford "brand"—it was the privilege of himself and his wife to criticise Oxford. Also, why hadn't he talked to Miss Scott? He wondered why he hadn't seen that she was not an Oxford girl by her dress and by her look of self-satisfied simplicity, the right look for a well-bred girl to have.
"I promised to show Mrs. Dashwood my house," said Boreham. "We mustn't keep the ladies too long waiting. Shall we go?" he added. "Oh, sorry, Harding, I didn't notice you hadn't finished!"
The men rose and went into the drawing-room. Harding saw, as he entered, that his wife had discovered that Miss Scott was a stranger and she was talking to her, while Mrs. Greenleafe Potten had got the Dashwoods into a corner and was telling them all about Chartcote: a skeleton list of names with nothing attached to them of historical interest. It was like reading aloud a page of Bradshaw, and any interruption to such entertainment was a relief. Indeed, May Dashwood began to smile when she saw Boreham approaching her. Something, however, in his manner made the smile fade away.
"Will you come over the house?" he asked, carefully putting his person between herself and Lady Dashwood so as to obliterate the latter lady. "I don't suppose Lady Dashwood wants to see it. Come along, Mrs. Dashwood."
May could scarcely refuse. She rose. Hardingwas making his way to Gwendolen Scott and raising his eyebrows at his wife as a signal for her to appropriate Mrs. Potten. Bingham was standing in the middle of the room staring at Lady Dashwood. Some problems were working in his mind, in which that lady figured as an important item.
Gwendolen Scott looked round her. Mr. Harding had ignored her at lunch, and she did not mean to have him sitting beside her again. She was quite sure she wouldn't know what to say to him, if he did speak. She got up hurriedly from her chair, passed the astonished Harding and plunged at Mrs. Dashwood.
"Oh, do let me come and see over the house with you," she said, laying a cold hand nervously on May's arm. "I should love to—I simply love looking at portraits."
"Come, of course," said May, with great cordiality.
Boreham stiffened and his voice became very flat. "I've got no portraits worth looking at," said he, keeping his hand firmly on the door. "I have a couple of Lely's, they're all alike and sold with a pound of tea. The rest are by nobodies."
"Oh, never mind," said Gwen, earnestly. "I love rooms; I love—anything!"
Boreham's beard gave a sort of little tilt, and his innermost thoughts were noisy and angry, but he had to open the door and let Gwendolen Scott through if the silly little girl would come and spoil everything.
Boreham could not conceal his vexation. His arrangements had been carefully made, and here they were knocked on the head, and how he was to get May Dashwood over to Chartcote again he didn't know.
"What a nice hall!" exclaimed Gwen. "I do love nice halls," and she looked round at the renaissance decorations of the wall and the domed roof."Oh, I do love that archway with the statue holding the electric light, it is sweet!"
"It's bad style," said Boreham, walking gloomily in front of them towards a door which led into the library. "The house was decent enough, I believe, till some fool in the family, seeing other people take up Italian art, got a craze for it himself and knocked the place about."
"Oh," said Gwen, crestfallen, "I really don't know anything about how houses ought to look. I only know my cousin Lady Goosemere's house and mother's father's old place, my grandfather's and—and—I do like the Lodgings, Mrs. Dashwood," she added in confusion.
"So do I," said May Dashwood.
"This is the library," said Boreham, opening the door.
Boreham led them from one room to another, making remarks on them expressly for the enlightenment of Mrs. Dashwood, using language that was purposely complicated and obscure in order to show Miss Scott that he was not taking the trouble to give her any information. Whenever he spoke, he stared straight at May Dashwood, as if he were alone with her. He did not by any movement or look acknowledge the presence of the intruder, so that Gwendolen began to wonder how long she would be able to endure her ill-treatment at Chartcote, without dissolving into tears. She kept on stealing a glance at the watch on Mrs. Dashwood's wrist, but she could never make out the time, because the figures were not the right side up, and she never had time to count them round before Mrs. Dashwood moved her arm and made a muddle of the whole thing.
But no lunch party lasts for ever, and at last Gwendolen found herself down in the hall with the taxi grunting at the door and a bustle of good-byesaround her. The rain had stopped. Mrs. Greenleafe Potten and Bingham were standing together on the shallow steps like two children. The Hardings were already halfway down the drive. Lady Dashwood looked out of the window of the taxi at Boreham, as he fastened the door.
"Wait a minute, Mr. Boreham," she said. "Tell Mr. Bingham we can take him into Oxford."
"He's going to walk," said Boreham, coldly. "He's going to walk back with Mrs. Potten, who wants to walk, and then return for his bicycle."