"Oh, very well," said Lady Dashwood, leaning back. "Good-bye, so many thanks, Mr. Boreham."
Boreham's face wore an enigmatic look as he walked up the steps.
Bingham had opened a pocket-book and was making a note in it with a pencil.
"Excuse me just one moment, Mrs. Potten. I shan't remember if I don't make a note of it."
The note that Bingham jotted down was: "Sat. Lady Dashwood, dinner 8 o'clock."
Boreham glanced keenly and suspiciously at him, for he heard him murmur aloud the words he was writing.
Boreham did not see that Bingham had any right to the invitation.
"I've forgotten my waterproof," exclaimed Mrs. Potten, as she went down the steps.
Bingham dived into the hall after it and having found it in the arms of a servant, he hurried back to Mrs. Potten.
"I do believe I've dropped my handkerchief," remarked Mrs. Potten, as he started her down the drive at a brisk trot.
"Are you afraid of this pace?" asked Bingham evasively, for he did not intend to return to the house.
Boreham gazed after them with his beard at asaturnine angle. "You couldn't expect her to remember everything," he muttered to himself.
The sky was low, heavy and grey, and the air was chilly and yet close, and everything—sky, half-leafless trees, the gravelled drive too—seemed to be steaming with moisture. The words came to Boreham's mind:
"My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves,At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves."
"My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves,At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves."
"That won't do," he said to himself, as he still stood on the steps motionless. "It's no use quoting from Victorian poets. 'What the people want' is nothing older than Masefield or Noyes, or Verhaeren. Because, though Verhaeren's old enough, they didn't know about him till just now, and so he seems new; then there are all the new small chaps. No, I can't finish that article. After all, what does it matter? They must wait, and I can afford now to say, 'Take it or leave it, and go to the Devil!'"
He turned and went up the steps. There was no sound audible except the noise Boreham was making with his own feet on the strip of marble that met the parquetted floor of the hall. "It's a beastly distance from Oxford," he said, half aloud; "one can't just drop in on people in the evening, and who else is there? I'm not going to waste my life on half a dozen damned sport-ridden, parson-ridden neighbours who can barely spell out a printed book."
One thing had become clear in Boreham's mind. Either he must marry May Dashwood for love, or he must try and let Chartcote, taking rooms in Oxford and a flat in town.
If Boreham had found the morning unprofitable, the Hardings had not found it less so.
"Did Mrs. Potten propose calling?" asked Harding of his wife, as they sat side by side, rolling over a greasy road towards Oxford.
"No," said Mrs. Harding.
"It's quite clear to me," said Harding, "that Mrs. G. P. only regards Boreham as a freak, so thathewon't be any use."
"We needn't go there again," said Mrs. Harding, "unless, of course," she added thoughtfully, "we knew beforehand—somehow—that it wasn't just an Oxford party. And Lady Dashwood won't do anything for us."
"It's not been worth the taxi," said Harding.
"I wish you'd not made that mistake about Miss Scott," said Mrs. Harding, after a moment's silence.
"How could I help it?" blurted Harding. "Scott's a common name. How on earth could I tell—and coming from Oxford!"
"Yes, but you could see she powdered, and her dress! Besides, coming with the Dashwoods and knowing Mrs. Potten!" continued Mrs. Harding. "If only you had said one or two sentences to her; I saw she was offended. That's why she ran off with Mrs. Dashwood, she wouldn't be left to your tender mercies. I saw Lady Dashwood staring."
Harding made no answer, he merely blew through his pursed-up mouth.
"And we've got Boreham dining with us next Thursday!" he said after a pause. "Damn it all!"
"No. I didn't leave the note," said Mrs. Harding. "I thought I'd 'wait and see.'"
"Good!" said Harding.
"It was a nuisance," said Mrs. Harding, "that we asked the Warden of King's when the Bishop was here and got a refusal. We can't ask the Dashwoods and Miss Scott even quietly. It's for the Warden to ask us."
"Anyhow ask Bingham," said Harding; "just casually."
Mrs. Harding looked surprised. "Why, I thoughtyou couldn't stick him," she said; "and he hasn't been near us for a couple of years at least."
"Yes, but——"
"Very well," said Mrs. Harding. "And meanwhile I've got Lady Dashwood to lend me Miss Scott for our Sale to-morrow! And shall I ask them to tea? We are so near that it would seem the natural thing to do."
"Well, May," said Lady Dashwood, leaning back into her corner and speaking in a voice of satisfaction, "we've done our duty, I hope, and now, if you don't mind, we'll go on doing our duty and pay some calls. I ought to call at St. John's and Wadham, and also go into the suburbs. I've asked Mr. Bingham to dinner—just by ourselves, of course. Do you know what his nickname is in Oxford?"
May did not know.
"It is: 'It depends on what you mean,'" said Lady Dashwood.
"Oh!" said May. "Yes, in the Socratic manner."
"I dare say," said Lady Dashwood. "What did you think of the Hardings?"
May said she didn't know.
"They are a type one finds everywhere," said Lady Dashwood.
The afternoon passed slowly away. It was the busy desolation of the city, a willing sacrifice to the needs of war, that made both May and Lady Dashwood sit so silently as they went first to Wadham, and then, round through the noble wide expanse of Market Square opposite St. John's. Then later on out into the interminable stretch of villas beyond. By the time they returned to the Lodgings the grey afternoon light had faded into darkness.
"Any letters?" asked Lady Dashwood, as Robinson relieved them of their wraps.
Yes, there were letters awaiting them, and they had been put on the table in the middle of the hall; there was a wire also. The wire was from the Warden, saying that he would not be back to dinner.
"He's coming later," said Lady Dashwood, aloud. "Late, May!"
"Oh!" said May Dashwood.
There was a letter for Gwen. It was lying by itself and addressed in her mother's handwriting. She laid her hand upon it and hurried up to her room.
Lady Dashwood went upstairs slowly to the drawing-room. "H'm, one from Belinda," she said to herself, "asking me to keep Gwen longer, I suppose, on some absurd excuse! Well, I won't do it; she shall go on Monday."
She turned up the electric light and seated herself on a couch at one side of the fire. She glanced through the other letters, leaving the one from Belinda to the last.
"Now, what does the creature want?" she said aloud, and at the sound of her own voice, she glanced round the room. She had taken for granted that May had been following behind her and had sat down, somewhere, absorbed in her letters. There was no one in the room and the door was closed. She opened the letter and began to read:
"My dear Lena,"I am a bit taken by surprise at Gwen's news! How rapidly it must have happened! But I have no right to complain, for it sounds just like a real old-fashioned love at first sight affair, and I can tell by Gwen's letter that she knows her own mind and has taken a step that will bring her happiness. Well, I suppose there is nothing that a mother can do—insuch a case—but to be submissive and very sweet about it!"
"My dear Lena,
"I am a bit taken by surprise at Gwen's news! How rapidly it must have happened! But I have no right to complain, for it sounds just like a real old-fashioned love at first sight affair, and I can tell by Gwen's letter that she knows her own mind and has taken a step that will bring her happiness. Well, I suppose there is nothing that a mother can do—insuch a case—but to be submissive and very sweet about it!"
Lady Dashwood's hand that held the letter was trembling, and her eyes shifted from the lines. She clung to them desperately, and read on:
"I must try and not be jealous of Dr. Middleton. I must be very 'dood.' But just at the moment it is rather sudden and overpowering and difficult to realise. I had always thought of my little Gwen, with her great beauty and attractiveness, mated to some one in the big world; but perhaps it was a selfish ambition (excusable in a mother), for the Fates had decreed otherwise, and one must say 'Kismet!' I long to come and see you all. It is impossible for me to get away to-morrow, but I could come on Saturday. Would that suit you? It seems like a dream—a very real dream of happiness for Gwen and for—I suppose I must call him 'Jim.' And I must (though I shouldn't) congratulate you on so cleverly getting my little treasure for your brother. I know how dear he is to you.
"I must try and not be jealous of Dr. Middleton. I must be very 'dood.' But just at the moment it is rather sudden and overpowering and difficult to realise. I had always thought of my little Gwen, with her great beauty and attractiveness, mated to some one in the big world; but perhaps it was a selfish ambition (excusable in a mother), for the Fates had decreed otherwise, and one must say 'Kismet!' I long to come and see you all. It is impossible for me to get away to-morrow, but I could come on Saturday. Would that suit you? It seems like a dream—a very real dream of happiness for Gwen and for—I suppose I must call him 'Jim.' And I must (though I shouldn't) congratulate you on so cleverly getting my little treasure for your brother. I know how dear he is to you.
"Yours affectionately,"Belinda Scott."
Lady Dashwood laid the letter on her knees and sat thinking, with the pulses in her body throbbing. A dull flush had come into her cheeks, and just below her heart was a queer, empty, weak feeling, as if she had had no food for a long, long while.
She moved at last and stood upon her feet.
"I will not bear it," she said aloud.
Her voice strayed through the empty room. The face of the portrait stared out remorselessly at her with its cynical smile. All the world had become cynical and remorseless. Lady Dashwood moved to the door and went into the corridor. She passed Gwen's room and went to May Dashwood's. Thereshe knocked on the door. May's voice responded. She had already begun to dress.
"Aunt Lena!" she exclaimed softly, as Lady Dashwood closed the door behind her without a word and came forward to the fireplace, "what has happened?"
Lady Dashwood held towards her a letter. "Read that," she said, and then she turned to the fire and leaned her elbow on the mantelpiece and clasped her hot brow in her hands. She did not look at the tall slight figure with its aureole of auburn hair near her, and the serious sweet face reading the letter. What she was waiting for was—help—help in her dire need—help! She wanted May to say, "This can't be, must not be.Ican help you"; and yet, as the silence grew, Lady Dashwood knew that there was no help coming—it was absurd to expect help.
May Dashwood stood quite still and read the letter through. She read it twice, and yet said nothing.
"Well!" said Lady Dashwood, her voice muffled. As no reply came, she glanced round. "You have read the letter?" she asked.
"Yes," said May, "I've read it," and she laid the letter on the mantelpiece. There was a curious movement of her breathing—as if something checked it; otherwise her face was calm and she showed no emotion.
"What's to be done?" demanded Lady Dashwood.
"Nothing can be done," said May, and she spoke breathlessly.
"Nothing!" exclaimed Lady Dashwood. "May!"
"Nothing, not if it is his wish," said May Dashwood, and she cleared her throat and moved away.
"If he knew, it would not be his wish," said Lady Dashwood. "If he knew about the other letter; if he knew what those women were like! Of course," she went on, "men are such fools, that he mightthink he was rescuing her from Belinda! But," she burst out suddenly, yet very quietly, "can't he see that Gwen has no moral backbone? Can't he see that she's a lump of jelly? No, he can't see anything;" then she turned round again to the fire. "Society backs up fraud in marriage. People will palm off a girl who drinks or who shows signs of inherited insanity with the shamelessness of horse-dealers. 'The man must look out for himself,' they say. Very well," said Lady Dashwood, pulling herself up to her full height, "I am going to do—whatever can be done." But she did notfeelbrave.
May had walked to the dressing-table and was taking up brushes and putting them down again without using them. She took a stopper out of a bottle, and then replaced it.
Lady Dashwood stood looking at her, looking at the bent head silently. Then she said suddenly: "This letter was posted when?" She suddenly became aware that the envelope was missing. She had thrown it into the fire in the drawing-room or dropped it. It didn't matter—it was written last night. "Gwen must have posted her news at the latest yesterday morning by the first post. Then when could it have happened? He never saw her for a moment between dinner on Monday, when you arrived, and when she must have posted her letter." Lady Dashwood stared at her niece. "It must have happened before you arrived."
"No," said May. "He must havewritten—you see;" and she turned round and looked straight at Lady Dashwood for the first time since she read that letter.
"Written that same night, Monday, after Mr. Boreham left?"
May moved her lips a moment and turned away again.
"I don't believe it," said Lady Dashwood.
"If it is his wish—if he is in love," said May slowly, "you can do nothing!"
"He is not in love with her," said Lady Dashwood, with a short bitter laugh. "If she speaks to me about it before his return, I—well, I shall know what to say. But she won't speak; she knows I read the first sentences of her mother's letter, and being the daughter of her mother—that is, having no understanding of 'honour'—she will take for granted that I read more—that I read that letter through."
May remained silent. Just then the dressing gong sounded, and Lady Dashwood went to the door.
"May, I am going to dress," she said. "I shall fight this affair; for if it hadn't been for me, Jim would still be a free man."
May looked at her again fixedly.
"What shall you say to Lady Belinda?" she asked.
"I shall say nothing to Belinda—just now," said Lady Dashwood. "The letter may be—a lie!"
"Suppose she comes on Saturday?" said May.
Lady Dashwood's eyes flickered. "She can't come on Saturday," she said slowly. "There is no room for her, while you are here; the other bedrooms are not furnished. You"—here Lady Dashwood's voice became strangely cool and commanding—"you stay here, May, till Monday! I must go and dress."
May did not reply. Lady Dashwood paused to listen to her silence—a silence which was assent, and then she left the room as rapidly and quietly as she had entered.
Outside, the familiar staircase looked strange and unsympathetic, like territory lost to an enemy and possessed by that enemy—ruined and distorted to some disastrous end. Some disastrous end! The word "end" made Lady Dashwood stop and to think aboutit. Would this engagement that threatened to end in marriage, affect her brother's career in Oxford?
It might! He might find it impossible to be an efficient Warden, if Gwendolen was his wife! There was no telling what she might not do to make his position untenable.
Lady Dashwood went up the short stair that led to the other bedrooms. She passed Gwendolen's door. What was the girl inside that room thinking of? Was she triumphant?
Had Lady Dashwood been able to see within that room, she would have found Gwendolen moving about restlessly. She had thrown her hat and outdoor things on the bed and was vaguely preparing to dress for dinner. Mrs. Potten had not said one word about asking her to come on Monday—not one word; but it didn't matter—no, not one little bit! Nothing mattered now!
A letter lay on her dressing-table. From time to time Gwendolen came up to the dressing-table and glanced at the letter and then glanced at her own face in the mirror.
The letter was as follows:—
"My Darling Little Girl,"What you tell me puts me in a huge whirl of surprise and excitement. I suppose I am a very vain mother when I say that I am not one little bit astonished that Dr. Middleton proposes to marry you. But you must not imagine for a moment that I think you were foolish in listening to his offer. For many reasons, a very young pretty girl is safer under the protection and care of a man a good deal older than herself. Dr. Middleton in his prominent position in Oxford would not promise to share his life and his home with you unless he really meant to make you very, very happy, darling. May your future life as mistressof the Lodgings be a veritable day-dream. Tell him how much I long to come; but I can't till Saturday as I have promised to help Bee with a concert on Friday; it is an engagement of honour, and you know one must play up trumps. I rush this off to the post. My love, darling,
"My Darling Little Girl,
"What you tell me puts me in a huge whirl of surprise and excitement. I suppose I am a very vain mother when I say that I am not one little bit astonished that Dr. Middleton proposes to marry you. But you must not imagine for a moment that I think you were foolish in listening to his offer. For many reasons, a very young pretty girl is safer under the protection and care of a man a good deal older than herself. Dr. Middleton in his prominent position in Oxford would not promise to share his life and his home with you unless he really meant to make you very, very happy, darling. May your future life as mistressof the Lodgings be a veritable day-dream. Tell him how much I long to come; but I can't till Saturday as I have promised to help Bee with a concert on Friday; it is an engagement of honour, and you know one must play up trumps. I rush this off to the post. My love, darling,
"Your own"Mother."
Gwen had found a slip of paper folded in the letter, on which was written in pencil, "Of course you are engaged. Dr. Middleton is pledged to you. Tear up this slip of paper as soon as you have read it, and give my letter to you to the Warden to read. This is all-important. Let me know when you have given it to him."
Gwen had read and had burned the slip of paper, and had even poked the ashes well into the red of the fire.
When that was done, she had walked about the room excitedly.
How was it possible to dress quietly when the world had suddenly become so dreadfully thrilling? So, after all her doubt and despair, after all her worry, she was engaged. It was all right! All she had to do was to give her mother's letter to the Warden and the matter was concluded. She was going to be Mrs. Middleton, and mistress of the Lodgings. How thrilling! How splendid it was of her mother to make it so plain and easy! And yet, how was she to put the letter into the Warden's hands? What was she to say when she handed the letter to him?
When Louise appeared to attend to Gwen's dress, she found that young lady fastening up her black tresses with hands that showed suppressed excitement, and her eyes and cheeks were glowing.
She turned and glanced at Louise. "I'm late, as usual, I suppose," she said and laughed.
"Mademoisellehas the appearance of beingtrès gaie ce soir," said Louise.
"Oh, not particularly," said Gwen; "only my hair won't go right; it's a beast, and refuses," and she laughed again.
When she was Mrs. Middleton she would have a maid of her own, not a French maid. They were a nuisance, and looked shabby. Yes, she dared think of being engaged and of being married. It wasn't a dream: it was all real. She would buy a dog, a small little thing, and she would tie its front hair with a big orange bow and carry it about in her arms everywhere. It would be lovely to be dressed in a filmy tea-gown with the dog in her arms, and she would rise to meet callers and say, "I'm so sorry—the Warden isn't at home; but you know how busy he is," etc., etc., and the men who called would pull the dog's ears and say "Lucky beggar!" and she would scold them for hurting her darling, darling pet, and she would sit in the best place in the Chapel, wearing the most cunning hats, and she would appear not to see that she was being admired.
In this land of fairy dreams the Warden hovered near as a vague shadowy presence: he was there, but only as a name is over a shop window, something that marks its identity but has little to do with the delights to be bought within.
And why shouldn't she imagine all this? There was the letter to be given to the Warden—that must be done first. She must think that over. Louise's presence suggested a plan. Suppose the Warden came home so late that she didn't see him? She would write a tiny note and put her mother's letter within it, and send it down to the library by Louise. That would be far easier than speaking to him. So much easier did it seem to Gwen, that she determined to go to bed very early, so that she should escape meeting the Warden.
And what should she write in her little note?
How exciting the world was; how funny it was going down into the drawing-room and meeting Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Dashwood, both looking so innocent, knowing nothing of the great secret! How funny it was going down to the great solemn dining-room, entered by its double doors—her dining-room—and sitting at table, thinking all the time that the whole house really belonged to her, and that she would in future sit in Lady Dashwood's chair! How deliciously exciting, indeed! All the plate and glass on the table was really hers. Old Robinson and young Robinson were really her servants. What a shock for Lady Dashwood when she found out! Gwen's eyes were luminous as she looked round the table. How envious some people would be of her! Mrs. Dashwood would not be pleased! For all her clever talk, Mrs. Dashwood had not done much. What a bustle there would be when the secret was discovered, when the Warden announced: "I am engaged to Miss Scott, Miss Gwendolen Scott!" How young, how awfully young to be a Warden's wife! What an excitement!
During dinner, Lady Dashwood told Robinson to keep up a good fire in the library, as the Warden would probably arrive at about a quarter to eleven.
That decided Gwen. She would go to bed at ten, and that would give her time to write her little note and get it taken to the library before the Warden arrived home. He would find it there, awaiting him.
Dinner passed swiftly, though the two ladies were rather dull and silent. Gwen had so much to think of that she ate almost without knowing that she was eating. When they went upstairs to the drawing-room, the time went much more slowly, for there was nothing to do. Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Dashwood both took up books, and seemed to sink back into thevery depths of their chairs, and disappear. It was very dismal. Perhaps Lady Dashwood hadn't readthatletter all through. Anyhow she had not been able to interfere. That was clear!
Gwen went and fetched the book on Oxford, and read half a page of it, and when she had mastered that, she discovered that she had read it before. So she was no farther on for all her industry. How slowly the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece moved; how interminable the time was! Everybody was so silent that the clock could be heard ticking. That Lady Dashwood hadn't been able to interfere and make mischief with the Warden, showed how little power she had after all.
At last the clock struck ten, and Gwen got up from her chair.
"Ten," said Mrs. Dashwood, and she raised her face from her book.
"Ten," said Lady Dashwood.
"Yes, ten," said Gwendolen. "I think I'll go to bed, Lady Dashwood, if you don't mind."
"Do, my dear," said Lady Dashwood.
The girl stood up before her, slim and straight as an arrow. Both women sat and looked at her, and she glanced at both of them in silence. Her very beauty stung Lady Dashwood and made her eyes harden as she looked at the girl. What were May Dashwood's thoughts as she, too, leaning back in her large chair, looked at the dark hair and the flushed cheeks, the white brow and neck, the radiant pearly prettiness of eighteen!
Gwen was conscious that they were examining her; that they knew she was pretty—they could not deny her prettiness. She felt a glow of pride in her youth and in her power—her power over a man who commanded other men. And this drawing-room was hers. She glanced at the portrait over the fireplace.
"Mr. Thing-um-bob," she said dimpling, "is looking very sly this evening."
May Dashwood took up her book again and turned over a few pages, as if she had lost her place. Lady Dashwood did not smile or speak. Gwen made a movement nearer to Lady Dashwood.
"Good night," she said. She seemed to have a sudden intention of bending down, perhaps to kiss Lady Dashwood. Vague thoughts possessed the girl that this rather incomprehensible and imposing elderly woman, who wore such nice rings, was going to be a relation of hers. Would she be her sister-in-law? How funny to have anybody so old for a sister-in-law! It was a good thing she had, after all, so little influence over Dr. Middleton.
"Good night, Gwen," said Lady Dashwood, without appearing to notice the girl's movement towards her. "Sleep well, child," she added and she turned her head towards May Dashwood.
Gwen hesitated a brief moment, and then walked away. "I always sleep well," she said, with a laugh. "I once thought it would be so nice to wake up in the night, because one would know how comfy one was. But I did wake once—for about a quarter of an hour—and I soon got tired and hated it!"
At the door she turned and said, "Good night, Mrs. Dashwood. I quite forgot—how rude of me!"
"Good night," said May.
The door closed.
Lady Dashwood stared deeply at her book, and then raised her eyes suddenly to her niece.
May had risen from her chair. "Do you mind, dear Aunt Lena, if I go off too?" She came close to Lady Dashwood and laid a caressing hand on her shoulder.
Lady Dashwood looked up into her face, and May was startled at the expression of suffering in the eyes.
"Go, dear, if you want to! I shall stay up—till he comes in. Yes, go, May!"
"You won't feel lonely?" said May, and she sighed without knowing that she did so.
"No," said Lady Dashwood.
May bent down and kissed her aunt's brow. It was burning hot. She caressed her cheek with her hand, then kissed her again and went out. As May met the cooler air of the staircase, she murmured to herself, "I'm a coward to leave her alone—alone when she is so wretched. Oh, what a coward I am!"
She shivered as she went up the stairs, and as soon as she was in her own room she put up the lights, and then she locked the door, and having done this she took off her dress and put on her dressing-gown. She sat down by the fire. How was she to stay on here till Monday: how was she to endure it? It would be intolerable! May groaned aloud. What right had she to call it intolerable? What had happened to her? What was demoralising her, turning her strength into weakness? What was it that had entered into her soul and was poisoning its health and destroying its purpose?
A few days ago and she had been steadily pursuing her work. She had been stifling her sorrow, and filling the vacancy of her life with voluntary labour. Having no child of her own, she had been filling her empty arms with the children of other women. She had fed and nursed and loved babies that would never call her "Mother." She had had no time to think of herself—no time for regrets—for self-pity. And now, suddenly, her heart that had been quieted and comforted, her heart that had seemed quieted and comforted, her heart dismissed all this tender and sacred work and cried for something else—cried and would not be appeased. She felt as if all that she had believed fixed and certain in herself and in her life, was shakenand might topple over, and in the disaster her soul might be destroyed. She was appalled at herself.
No, no; she must wrestle with this sin, with this devil of self; she must fight it!
She got up from her chair and went to the dressing-table. There she took up with a trembling hand a little ivory case, and going back to her seat she opened it reverently and looked at the face of her boy husband. There he was in all the bloom of his twenty and six years. It was a young pleasant face. And he had been such a comrade of her childhood and girlhood. But strangely enough he had never seen the gulf widening between them as she grew into a woman older than her years and he into a man, young for his years; boyish in his view of life, mentally immature. He was quite unconscious that he never met the deeper wants of her nature; those depths meant nothing to him. There had been a tacit understanding between them from their childhood that they should marry; an understanding encouraged by their parents. When at last May found out her mistake; that this bondage was irksome and her heart unsatisfied, he had suddenly thrown the responsibility of his happiness, of his very life, upon her shoulders, not by threats of vengeance on himself, but by falling from his usual buoyant cheerfulness into a state of uncomplaining despondency.
May had had more than her share of men's admiration. Her piquancy and ready sympathy more even than her good looks attracted them. But she had gone on her way heart whole, and meanwhile she could not endure to see her old comrade unhappy.
They became formally engaged and he returned to his old careless cheerfulness. He was no longer a pathetic object, and she was a little disappointed and yet ashamed of her disappointment. Why should she have vague "wants" in her nature—these luxuries of the pampered soul? The face she now gazed upon,figured in the little ivory frame, was of a man, not over-wise, a man who was occupied with the enjoyment of life, yet without sinister motives. During those brief six months of married life, he had leant upon her, delighted and yet amused at her sterner virtues; and yet this man, not strong, not wise, when the call of duty came, when that ancient call to manhood, the call to rise up and meet the enemy, when that call came, he went out not shrinking, but with all honourable eagerness and fearlessness to offer his life. And his life was taken.
So that he whom in life she had never looked to for moral help, had become to her—in death—something sacred and unapproachable. In her first fresh grief she had asked herself bitterly what she—in her young womanhood—had ever offered to humanity? Nothing at all comparable to his sacrifice! Had she ever offered anything at all? Had she not, from girlhood, taken all the joys that life put in her way, and taken them for granted?
She had been aware of an underworld of misery, suffering and vice, had seen glimpses of it, heard its sounds breaking in upon her serenity. She had, like the travelling Levite, observed, noted, and had gone about her own business. So with passionate self-reproach she had thrown herself into work among the neglected children of the poor, and had tried to still the clamour of her conscience and fill the emptiness of her heart.
And until now, that life had absorbed her and satisfied her—until now!
"I am not worthy to look upon your face," she murmured, and she closed the ivory case, letting it fall upon her lap. She hid her face in her hands. Oh, why had she during those six months of marriage patronised him in her thoughts? Why had she told him he was "irresponsible," jestingly calling him"her son," and now after his death, was she to add a further injustice and become unfaithful to his memory—the memory of her boy, who would never return?
Sharp, burning tears oozed up painfully between her eyelids. She tried to pray, and into her whole being came a profound silent sense of self-abasement, absorbing her as if it were a prayer.
Lady Dashwood sat on in the drawing-room. Now that she was alone it was not necessary to keep up the show of reading a book. She put it down on a table close at hand and gave herself up to thought.
But what was the good of plans—until Jim came back? The first thing was to find out whether the engagement was a fact and not an invention of Belinda's. Then if it was a fact, whether Jim really wanted to marry Gwendolen? If he did want to, plans might be very difficult to make, and there was little time, with Belinda clamouring to come and play the mother-in-law. The vulture was already hovering with the scent of battle in its nostrils.
Then, on the other hand, supposing Jim didn't want to marry Gwen, but had only been run into it—somehow—before he had had time to see May Dashwood, then plans might be easier. But in any case there were almost overwhelming difficulties in the way of "doing anything." It was easy to say that she would never allow the marriage to take place, but how was she to prevent it?
"I must prevent it," she murmured to herself. "Must!"
What still amazed and confounded Lady Dashwood and made her helpless was: why her brother showed such obvious interest—more than mere interest—in MayDashwood, if he was in love with Gwendolen Scott and secretly pledged to her? Jim playing the ordinary flirt was unthinkable. It did look as if he had proposed in some impulsive moment, before May arrived, and then—— Why, that was why he had not announced his engagement! Was he playing a double game? No, it was unthinkable that he should not be absolutely straight. Gwendolen had somehow entangled him. The very thought of it made Lady Dashwood get up from her chair and move about restlessly. Then an idea struck her. Jim coveted Gwendolen for her youth and freshness and only admired May! Yes, only admired her, and regarding her as still mourning for her young husband, still inconsolable, he had treated her with frankness and had shown his admiration without the restraint that he would have used otherwise.
When would Jim return? How long would she have to wait?
She had told Robinson to take a tray of refreshments for the Warden into the library. Now that she was alone in the drawing-room she would have the tray brought in here. When Jim did come in, she would have to approach her subject gradually. She must be as wily as a serpent—wily, when her pulses were beating and her head was aching? It would be more easy and natural for her to begin talking here than to go into the library and force him into conversation after the day's work was done. Yet the matter must be thrashed out at once. She could not go about with Belinda's letter announcing the engagement and yet pretend that she knew nothing about it. Gwendolen probably knew that her mother had written; or if she didn't already know, would very likely know by the morning's post.
She rang the bell, and when Robinson appeared, she told him to bring the tray in, instead of taking it to the library.
"When the Warden comes in, tell him the tray is here," she said. Oh, how the last few minutes dragged! It was some distraction to have Robinson coming in and putting the tray down on the wrong table, and to be able to tell him the right table and the most suitable chair to accompany it. Then, when he had gone and all was ready, she chose a chair for herself. Not too near and not too far. She had Belinda's letter safe? Yes, it was here! She was ready, she was prepared. She was going to do something more difficult than anything she had experienced in her life, because so much depended on it, so much; and a great emotion is not easy to hide, it takes one's breath sometimes, it makes one's voice harsh, or indistinct, or worse still, it suddenly benumbs the brain, and thoughts go astray and tangle themselves, and all one's power of argument, all one's grip of the situation, goes.
And the minutes passed slowly and still more slowly. When at last she heard sounds on the stairs, the blood rushed to her cheeks and her hands became as cold as ice. That was a bad beginning! She went to the door and opened it. He had come in and had gone into the library. She called out to him to come into the drawing-room. She heard his voice answer "Coming!" She left the door open and went back to her chair, the chair she had chosen, and she stood by it, waiting, looking at the open door.
He came in. He looked all round the room, and closed the door behind him.
"All alone?" he said, and there was a question in his voice. Who was he thinking of? Who was absent? Whose absence was he thinking of?
She sat down. "You're not cold?" she asked.
"Not at all," he said, and he walked to the table arranged for him and sat down.
"Did you have a satisfactory day?" she asked.
"On the whole," he said slowly, "yes."
"You're not tired?" she asked.
"Not a bit," he answered. "Why should I be?" and he looked at her and smiled.
"I don't know why you should be, Jim. I'm glad you're not. My guests seemed to be tired, for they both went off long ago."
She was now making the first step in the direction which she must boldly travel.
"I expect you are tired too," he said, "only—as usual—you wait up for me."
The Warden poured himself out a cup of coffee, and took up a sandwich, adding: "I managed to get a scrappy dinner before seven; if I had waited longer I should have missed my train."
"We were very dull at dinner without you," she said, bringing him back again to the point from which she was starting.
The Warden looked pleased, and then pained. Lady Dashwood was watching him with keen tired eyes.
"We lunched at Chartcote, and then we did all that you particularly wanted me to do," she said. "And then something rather amazing happened—I found a letter waiting me from Belinda Scott!"
She paused. The Warden glanced at her: his face became coldly abstracted.
"I don't mean that it was strange that she should write, but that what she said was strange."
He glanced at her again, and she saw that he was arrested. She went on. It seemed now easier to speak. A strange cold despair had seized her, and with that despair a fearlessness.
"I can't help thinking that there is some mistake, because you would have told me if—well, anything had happened to you—of consequence! You would not have left me to be told by an—an outsider."
The Warden raised the cup of coffee to his lips, and then put it down carefully.
"Anything that has happened," he said, "has not been communicated by me to anybody. It did not seem to me that—there was anything that ought to be."
Lady Dashwood waited and finding her lips would stiffen and her voice sounded hollow, measured her words.
"Will you read Belinda's letter, and then you will see what I mean?" she said, and she rose and held the paper out to him.
His features had grown tense and severe. He half rose, and reached out over the table for the letter, and took it without a word. Then he put on his eye-glasses and read it through very slowly.
Lady Dashwood sat, staring at her own hands that lay in her lap. She was not thinking, she was waiting for him to speak.
He read the letter through, and sat with it in his hand, silent for a minute. For years he had been accustomed to looking over the compositions of men who had begun to think, and of men who never would begin to think. He was unable to read anything without reading it critically. But his criticism was criticism of ideas and the expression of ideas. He had no insight either by instinct or training for the detection of petty personal subterfuges, nor did he suspect crooked motives. But the discrepancy between this effusion of maternal emotion and Gwendolen's assertion that she had no home and that nobody cared was glaring.
The writer of the letter was a bouncing, selfish woman of poor intelligence. That fact, indeed, had become established in the Warden's mind. The letter was in hopelessly bad taste. It became pretty plain, therefore, that Gwendolen had spoken the truth, and the lie belonged to the mother.
Already, yes, already he was being drawn into an atmosphere of paltry humbug, of silly dishonesty, an atmosphere in which he could not breathe.
Couldn't breathe! The Warden roused himself. What did he mean by "being drawn"? He had carried out his life with decisive and serious intentions, and whoever shared that life with him would have to live in the atmosphere he had created around him. Surely he was strong enough not only to hold his own against the mother, but to mould a pliable girl into a form that he could respect!
"Somehow, I can't imagine how," said Lady Dashwood, breaking the silence, "I found a letter from Belinda to Gwendolen on my toilet table among other letters, and opened it and I began reading it—without knowing that it was not for me. Belinda's writing—all loops—did not make the distinction between Gwen and Lena so very striking. I read two sentences or so, and one phrase I can't forget; it was 'What are you doing about the Warden?' I turned the sheet and saw, 'Your affectionate mother, Belinda Scott.' I did not read any more. I gave the letter to Gwen, and I saw by her face that she had read the letter herself. 'What are you doing about the Warden?' Knowing Belinda, I draw conclusions from this sentence that do not match with the surprise she expresses in this letter you have just read. You understand what I mean?"
The Warden moved on his seat uneasily.
"Belinda speaks of yourengagementto Gwendolen," said Lady Dashwood, and her voice this time demanded an answer.
"I am not engaged," he said, turning his eyes to his sister's face slowly, "but, I am pledged to marry her—if it is her wish."
Lady Dashwood's eyes quavered.
"Is it your wish?" she asked.
The Warden rose from his chair as if to go.
"I can't discuss the matter further, Lena. I cannot tell you more. I had no right, I had no reason, for telling you anything before, because nothing had been concluded—it may not be concluded. It depends on her, and she has not spoken to me decisively."
He moved away from the table.
"You haven't finished your coffee, your sandwiches," said Lady Dashwood, to give herself time, and to help her to self-control. Oh, why had he put himself and his useful life in the hands of a mere child—a child who would never become a real woman? Why did he deliberately plan his own martyrdom?
"I don't want any more," he said, "and I have letters to write."
"Jim," she called to him gently, "tell me at least—if you are happy—whether——"
"I can't talk just now—not just now, Lena," he said.
"But Belinda takes the matter as settled—otherwise the letter is not merely absurd—but outrageous!"
The Warden hesitated in his slow stride towards the door.
"I am not going to have Belinda here on Saturday. There is no room for her. She can't come till May has gone." Lady Dashwood spoke this in a firm, rapid voice.
"That is for you to decide," he said. "You are mistress here."
He was moving again when she said in a voice full of pain: "You say you can't talk just now, you can't speak to me of what is happening to you, of what may happen to you, when you, next to John, are more to me than anything else in the world. What happens to you means happiness or misery to me, and yet youcan't talk!"
The Warden was arrested, stood still, and turned towards her.
"You owe me some consideration, Jim. I have no children, you have been a son as well as a brother to me. I can have no peace of mind, no joy in life if things go wrong with you. Yes, I repeat it—if things go wrong with you. I was your mother, Jim, for many years, and yet you say you can't discuss something that is of supreme importance! You are willing to go out of this room and leave me to spend a night sleepless with anxiety."
What his engagement to Gwendolen would mean to her was expressed more in her voice even than in her words. The Warden stood motionless.
"Be patient with me, Lena. I can't talk about it—I would if I could. I know all I owe to you—all I can never repay; but there is nothing more to tell you than that I have offered her a home. I have made a proposal—I was not aware that she had definitely accepted, and that is why I said nothing to you about it."
Lady Dashwood got up. She did not approach her brother. Her instinct told her not to touch him, or entreat him by such means. She made a step towards the hearth, and said in a muffled voice—
"Will you answer one question? You can answer it."
He made no sound of assent.
"Are you in love with her? or"—and here Lady Dashwood's voice shook—"do you feel that she will help you? Do you think she will be helpful to—the College?"
There was a pause, and then the Warden's voice came to her; he was forcing himself to speak very calmly.
"I have no right to speak of what may not happen. Lena, can't you see that I haven't?"
The pause came again.
"You have answered it," said Lady Dashwood, in a broken voice.
There was no time to think now, for at that moment there came a sound that startled both of them and made them stand for a second with lifted heads listening.
"Some one screamed!" exclaimed Lady Dashwood.
The Warden was already at the door and had pulled it open. "The library!" he called out to her sharply, and he was gone. She hurried out after him, her heart beating with the sudden alarm. What had happened, what was it?
As soon as she had reached her room Gwendolen Scott sat down seriously by the little writing-table. Here was the paper and here was the pen, but the composition of the letter to the Warden was not even projected in her mind. The thoughts would not come.
"Dear Dr. Middleton," Gwen began with complete satisfaction. That was all right. After some thought she went on. "Mother asks me to give you her letter!" No, of course, that wouldn't do. Her mother wouldn't like him to know that she ordered the letter to be shown to him. Everything on the slip of paper was secret. It was not the first time that Gwen had received private slips of paper.
Gwen was obliged to tear up the sheet and begin again: "Dear Dr. Middleton,"——
Now what would she say? It would take her all night. Of course, Louise looked in at the door and muttered something volubly.
"I can manage myself," called out Gwen from her table. "I'm not ready, and shan't be for hours."
Louise went away. Then it occurred to Gwen that she ought to have asked Louise to come back again in a few minutes, and take the letter. She really must try and get the letter written. So putting all the determination she was capable of into a supreme effort, she began: "I hope mother won't mind myshowing you this letter." Gwen had heard her mother often say with complete self-satisfaction: "Only a fool is afraid to tell a useful lie, but only a fool tells one that isn't necessary!" Indeed, Lady Belinda thought the second half of her maxim a bit clever, a bit penetrating, and Gwen had listened to it smiling and feeling that some reflected glory from her mother's wit was falling upon her, because she understood how clever it was. Now the implied untruth that Gwen was putting upon paper seemed to her very useful, and it looked satisfactory when written.
She went on: "I hope it wasn't wrong of me to tell what you said. You didn't say tell, but I didn't know what to do, as I am afraid to speak if you don't speak to me. You are so awfully, awfully kind that I know I oughtn't to be afraid, but I am. Do forgive stupid little me, and be kind again to
"Your solotory little"Gwendolen Scott."
The spelling of "solitary" had caused Gwen much mental strain, and even when the intellectual conflict was over and the word written, it did not look quite right. Why had she not said "lonely"? But that, too, had its difficulties.
However, the letter was now finished. Louise had taken her at her word and had not returned. Gwen looked at her watch. It was past a quarter to eleven. At this hour she knew she mustn't ring the bell for a servant. She could not search for Louise, she would be in Lady Dashwood's room. She must take the letter herself to the library. She put the letter into an envelope and addressed it to Dr. Middleton. Then she added her mother's letter and sealed the whole.
Then she peeped out of her door and listened! All the lights were full on and there was no sound of any one moving.
The Warden very likely hadn't yet returned. She would try and find out. She slipped quietly down the steps, and with her feet on the thick carpeted landing she waited. She could see that the hall below was brightly lighted, and all was still. She listened intently outside the drawing-room door. Not a sound. She might have time—if he really hadn't arrived.
She fled across the head of the staircase and was at the door of the library in a second of time. There she paused. No, there was no sound behind her! No one was coming upstairs! No one was opening the front door or moving in the hall! But it was just possible that he had already arrived and was sitting in the library. He might be sitting there—and looking severe! That would be alarming! Though—and here Gwen suddenly decided that for all his severity she infinitely preferred his appearance to that of a man like Mr. Boreham—Mr. Boreham's beard was surely the limit! She listened at the door. She laid her cheek against it and listened. No sound! The whole house illuminated and yet silent! There was something strange about it! She would peep in and if there was no light within—except, of course, firelight—she would know instantly that the Warden wasn't there. It would only take her a flash of a minute to run in, throw the letter down on the desk, and fly for all she was worth.
She turned the handle of the door slowly and noiselessly, and pushed ever so little. The door opened just an inch or two and disclosed—darkness! Except for a glimmer—just a faint glimmer of light!
He could not have come in, he could not possibly be there, and yet Gwen had a curious impression that the room was not empty. But empty it must be. She pushed the door quietly open and peeped in. The fire was burning on the hearth in solemn silence, a cavernous red. There was nobody in the room, andyet, as Gwen stole in and passed the projecting book-case opposite the door, against which she had stumbled that evening of evenings, she felt that she was not alone. It was a strange unpleasant feeling. There she was standing in the full space of that shadowy room. Books, books were everywhere—books that seemed to her keeping secrets in their pages and purposely not saying anything. The room was too long, too full of dead things—like books—too full of shadows. The heavy curtains looked black, the desk, its chair standing with its back to the fire—had a look of expecting to be occupied and waiting. She would have liked to have thrown the letter on to the desk instead of having to cross the few feet that separated her from the desk. The silence of the room was alarming! Something seemed to be ready to jump at her! Was something in the room? Gwen made a dash for the desk and threw down the letter. As she did so, a sudden thrill passed up her spine and stiffened her hair. She wasnotalone! Therewassomebody in the room, a shadow, an outline, at the far end of the room against one of the curtains—a man, a strange figure, looking straight at her! He was standing, bending forward but motionless against the curtain, and staring with eyes that had no life in them—at her!
Gwen gave a piercing scream and rushed blindly for the door. She dashed against the projecting book-case, striking her head with some violence. She tried to cry for help, but could not, the room swam in her vision. She struck out her arms to shield herself, and as she did so she felt rather than heard some one coming to her rescue, some one who flashed on the lights—and she flung herself into protecting arms.
"It's all right, it's all right," said the Warden. "What made you cry out? Don't be frightened, child!" and he half led, half carried her towards a chair near the fire.
"No, no!" sobbed Gwen, shrilly. "Not here—no, take me away—away from——"
"From what?" asked Lady Dashwood quietly, at her elbow. "What is the matter, Gwen? You mustn't scream for nothing—what has frightened you?"
Gwen groaned aloud and hid her face in the Warden's arm.
"Something in this room has frightened you?" he asked.
Gwen sobbed assent.
"There is nothing in this room," said Lady Dashwood. "Put her on the chair, Jim. She must tell us what it is she is afraid of. Come, Gwen!"
Although Gwendolen submitted to the commanding voice of Lady Dashwood and allowed herself to be placed in the chair, she still grasped the Warden's arm and hid her face in it.
"What frightened you, Gwen?" asked Lady Dashwood. "No harm can come to you—we are by you. Pull yourself together and speak plainly and quietly."
Gwen uttered some half-incoherent sounds—one only being intelligible to the two who were bending over her.
"A man!" said the Warden, glancing round with surprise.
"No man is in the room," said Lady Dashwood. "Did he go out? Did you see him go out?"
Gwen raised her face slightly.
"No. At the end there—looking!" and again she burst into uncontrollable sobs.
The Warden released his arm and walked to the farther end of the room, and Gwen grasped Lady Dashwood's arm and clung to her. The two women could hear the Warden as he walked across to the farther end of the room.
Gwen dared not look, but Lady Dashwood turnedher head, supporting the girl's head as she did so on her shoulder.
The Warden had reached the window. He opened the curtains and looked behind them, then he pulled one sharply back, and into the lighted room came a flood of pale moonlight, and through the chequered window panes could be seen the moon herself riding full above a slowly drifting mass of cloud.
"There is nothing in the room. If there were we should see it," said Lady Dashwood quietly, and she turned the girl's face towards the moonlight. "Look for yourself, Gwen. Your fears are quite foolish, my dear, and you must try and control them."
So peremptory was Lady Dashwood's voice that the girl, still resting her head on the protecting shoulder, slightly opened her eyelids and saw the moonlight, the drawn curtains and the Warden standing looking back at them.
"You can see for yourself that there is nothing here," he said.
It was true, there was nothing there—there wasn'tnow: and for the first time Gwen was conscious of pain in her head and put up her hand. There was a lump where she had knocked it, the lump was sore.
"Why, you have hurt your head, Gwen," said Lady Dashwood. "That explains everything. A blow on the head is just the thing to make you think you see something that isn't there! Come now, we'll go upstairs and put something on that bruised head, and make it well again."
"I struck my head after I sawit," said Gwen, laying a stress upon the word "it," averting her eyes from the moonlight and rising with the help of Lady Dashwood.
"You may have thought so," said Lady Dashwood. "Come we mustn't stop here. Dr. Middleton probably has letters to write. Jim, good night. I'msorry you have been so much disturbed, after a hard day's work."
The tone in which Lady Dashwood made her last remark and her manner in leading Gwendolen out of the library, was that of a person who has "closed" a correspondence, terminated an interview. The affair of the scream and fright was over. It was a perfectly unnecessary incident to have occurred in a sane working day, so she had apologised for its intrusion. Why Gwendolen was in the library at all was a question that was of no consequence. It certainly was not in search of a book on which to spend the midnight oil. Shewasthere—that was all.
When they had gone, the Warden stood for some moments in the library pondering. He had shut the door. The curtains he had forgotten to pull back, and now he discovered his omission and went to the farther end of the room.
The opposite wall, the wall of the court, was just tipped with silver. Distant spires and gables were silver grey. The clouds were drifting over the city westwards, and as the moon rode higher and higher in the southern sky, so the clouds sped faster before it, and behind it lay clear unfathomable spaces in the east.
The Warden pulled the heavy curtain across the window again, and walked to the fireplace. Outside was the infinite universe—its immensity awful to contemplate! Inside was the narrow security of the lighted room in which he worked and thought and would work and think—for a few years!
For a few years?
How did he know that he should have even a few years in which to think and work for his College?
The Warden went to the fire and stood looking down into it, his hands clasped behind his back.
The girl he was pledged to marry, if she wished to marry him, might wreck his life! She had only just a few moments ago showed signs of being weakly hysterical."Helpful to the College!" His sister's question had filled him with a sudden new ominous thought.
What about the College? He had forgotten his duty to the College!
"My marriage is my own concern," he was blurting out to himself miserably, as he looked at the fire. But the inevitable answer was already drumming in his ears—his own answer: "A man's action is not his own concern, and so deeply is every man involved in the life of the community in which he lives, that even his thoughts are not his own concern."
The Warden paced up and down.
There were letters lying on his desk unopened, unread. He would not attempt to answer any of them to-night. He could not attend to them, while these words were beating in his brain: "Do you think she will be helpful to the College?"
His College! More to him than anything else, more than his duty; his hope, his pride! And the College meant also the sacred memory of those who had fallen in the war, all the glorious hopeful youth that had sacrificed itself! And he had forgotten the College!
He dared not think any longer. He must wrestle with his thoughts. He must force them aside and wait, till the moment came when he must act. That moment might not come! Possibly it might not! He would go to bed and try and sleep. He must not let thoughts so bitter and so deadly overwhelm him, eating into the substance of his brain, where they could breed and batten on the finest tissues and breed again.
He was looking at his desk and saw that one letter had tumbled from it on to the floor by his chair. He went across and picked it up. It was addressed in a big straggling hand—and had not come by post. He tore it open. It was from Gwendolen Scott. This was why she had come into the library. Without moving from the position where he stood he read it through.