The New Warden

Well into the early morning Lady Dashwood had lain awake thinking, and listening mechanically to the gentle breathing of the girl beside her, and thinking – thinking of May's strange exhibition of emotion. Was May – ? No – that made things worse than ever – that made the irony of her brother's fate more acute! That was a tragic thought! But it was just this tragic thought that made Lady Dashwood now at the breakfast table observe with a subtle keenness of observation and yet without seeming to observe, or even to look. She sat there, absorbing May, absorbing the Warden, measuring them, weighing them while she tried to eat a piece of toast, biting it up as if she had pledged herself to reduce it to the minutest fragments.

"Perhaps I'm not fair to Mr. Boreham," said May, shaking her head. "But I am an ignoramus. How can one," she said smiling, but keeping her eyelids still downcast, "how can one combine the bathing of babies and feeding them, the dressing and undressing of them, the putting them to bed and getting them up again, with any culture (spelt with a 'c'). I get only a short and rather tired hour of leisure in the evening in which to read?"

"You do combine them," he said, still bending towards her with the same tense look. "Only one woman in a thousand would."

The colour had slightly risen in May's face, and now it died away, for she was aware that no sooner were the last words spoken than the Warden seemed to regret them. At least he stiffened himself and looked away from her, stared at nothing in particular and then put out his hand to take a piece of toast, making that simple action seem as if it were a protest of resolute indifference to her.

May felt as if his hand had struck her. She had partly succeeded in her effort and she had refused to glance at him. But she had not succeeded in thinking of something else, and now this simple movement of his hand made thoughts of him burn in her brain. Why did this man, with all his erudition, with his distinction, with all his force of character, his wide sympathies and his curious influence over others, why did this man with all his talk (and this she said bitterly) about life and death – and yes – about eternity, why did he bind himself hand and foot to a selfish and shallow girl? He who talked of life and of death, could he not stand the test of life himself?

The Warden rose from the table the moment that he had finished and looked at his sister. She had put her letters aside and appeared to have fallen into a heavy preoccupation with her own thoughts.

"Can I see you – afterwards – for a moment in the library, Lena?" he asked.

Lady Dashwood's tired face flushed.

"I will come very soon," she said, and she pushed her chair back a little, as if to cover her embarrassment, and looked at her niece. "May," she said, in a voice that did not quite conceal her trouble, "we ought to start at a quarter to ten. That will give us two clear hours for our work."

May bent her head in assent. Neither of them was thinking of the Club. They could hear the Warden close the door behind him. Then Lady Dashwood rose and casting a silent look at May, went out of the room.

In the library a fitful sunshine was coming and going from a clouded sky. The curtains were drawn back and there seemed nothing in the room that could have justified even a hysterical girl in imagining a ghost. The Warden had left the door open, for he heard his sister coming up the stairs behind him.

Lady Dashwood came in, and she began speaking at once to cover her apprehension of the interview. "A funny sort of a day," she began. "I hope it will keep up for this afternoon."

The Warden had gone to one of the windows, and he moved at the sound of her voice.

"Mrs. Harding," she said, "has written to ask us to come in to tea, as she's so near. It is convenient, as we shall only have to walk a few steps from our Sale, so I am going to accept by telephone."

The Warden came towards her, and taking a little case from his pocket, handed her some notes. "Will you spend that for me at your Sale?"

That was not his reason for the interview! Lady Dashwood took the notes and put them into her bag, and then waited a moment.

"I may possibly have to go to the Deanery this afternoon," he said, and then he paused too.

"Very well," said Lady Dashwood. They both were painfully aware that this also was not what he wanted to say.

"Please let me have my lunch early, at a quarter to one," he said.

"I have asked Mr. Bingham here to dinner on Saturday, he seemed to interest May, and, well, of course, it is not a lively holiday for her just now."

Lady Dashwood's eyes were on him as she spoke. He seemed not to hear. He went up to his desk and turned over some papers, nervously, and he was a man who rarely showed any nervousness in his movements.

Then he suddenly said: "Gwendolen has practically accepted my offer." And he did not turn round and look at his sister.

It had come! She knew it was coming, and yet it was as keenly painful as if she had been wholly unprepared.

"I can't delay our engagement," he said. "I must speak to her to-day – some time."

Then he moved so as to face his sister, and their eyes met. Misery was plainly visible in hers, in his the fixed determination to ignore that misery.

"May I ask you one question?" she began in a shaky voice.

He made no reply, but waited in silence for the question.

"When did it happen? I've no right to ask, dear, but tell me when did it happen?"

There was a strange look of conflict in his face that he was unable to control. "On Monday, just before dinner," he said, and he took some papers from the desk as if he were about to read them. Then he put them down again and took out his cigar case.

Lady Dashwood walked slowly to the door. When she reached it, she turned.

"No man," she said, still with an unsteady voice, "is bound to carry out a promise made in a reckless moment, against his better judgment, a promise which involves the usefulness of his life. As to Belinda, I suppose I must endure the presence of that woman next week; I must endure it, because I hadn't the sense – the foresight – to prevent her putting a foot in this house."

The Warden's face twitched.

"Am I expecting too much from you, Lena?" he asked.

"Expecting too much!" Lady Dashwood made her way blindly to the door. "I have wrecked your life by sheer stupidity, and I am well punished." At the door she stayed. "Of course, Jim, I shall now back you up, through thick and thin."

She went out and stood for a moment, her head throbbing. She had said all. She had spoken as she had never spoken in her life before, she had said her last word. Now she must be silent and go through with it all unless – unless – something happened – unless some merciful accident happened to prevent it. She went downstairs again and crossed the hall to the door of the breakfast-room. May was still there, holding a newspaper in her hands, apparently reading it.

Lady Dashwood walked straight in, and then said quietly: "They are practically engaged." She saw the paper in May's hand quiver.

"Yes," said May, without moving her paper. "Of course."

Her voice sounded small and hard. Lady Dashwood moved about as if to arrange something, and then stood at the dull little window looking out miserably, seeing nothing.

"I wonder – I hope, you won't be vexed with me. Aunt Lena," began May. "You won't be angry – "

"I couldn't be angry with you," said Lady Dashwood briefly, "but – " She did not move, she kept her back to her niece.

"I want you to let me go away rather earlier than Monday," said May, and speaking without looking towards her aunt. "I think I ought to go. The fact is – "

Lady Dashwood turned round and came to her niece. "Do you think I am a selfish woman?" she asked. There was a strange note of purpose in her voice.

May shook her head and tried to smile. She did smile at last.

"Then, May," said Lady Dashwood, "I am going to be selfish now. I ask you to stop till Monday, and help me to get through what I have to get through, even if you stay at some sacrifice to yourself. Jim has decided, so I must support him. That's clear."

May stared hard at the paper that was still in her hand, though she had ceased to read it.

"As you wish, dear aunt," she said, and turned away.

"Thanks," said Lady Dashwood, in a low voice. "I shall be ready to start in a few minutes," she went on, looking at her watch. Then she added bitterly, "I'm not going to talk about it any more, but I must say one thing. When you first shook hands with Jim he was already a pledged man. He is capable of yearning for the moon, but he has decided to put up with a penny bun;" here she laughed a hard painful laugh. "Nobody cares but I," she added. "I have said all I can say to him, and I am now going to be silent."

The door of the breakfast-room was slightly open and they could hear the sound of steps outside in the hall, steps they both knew.

The Warden was in the hall. Lady Dashwood listened, and then called out to him: "Jim!" Her voice now raised was a little husky, but quite calm. They could hear the swish of a gown and the Warden was there, looking at them. He was in his gown and hood, and held his cap in his hand. He was at all times a notable figure, but the long robe added to the dignity of his appearance. His face was very grave.

"May has not seen the cathedral," said Lady Dashwood quietly, as if she had forgotten their interview in the library, "and we shall be close to Christ Church. Our Sale, you know."

"Oh," said May, slowly and doubtfully, and not looking as if she were really concerned in the matter.

"May ought to see the cathedral, Jim," said Lady Dashwood, "so, if you do happen to be going to Christ Church, would you have time to take her over it and make the proper learned observations on it, which I can't do, to save my life?"

The Warden's eyes were now fixed on May. "You would like to see it?" he asked.

"You, May," said Lady Dashwood. It seemed necessary to make it very clear to May that they were both talking about her.

"I?" said May, with her eyes downcast. "Oh, please don't trouble. You mustn't when you're so busy. I can see the cathedral any time. I really like looking at churches – quite alone."

The Warden's blue eyes darkened, but May did not see them, she had raised her paper and was smiling vaguely at the print.

The Warden said, "As you like, Mrs. Dashwood. But I am not too busy to show you anything in Oxford you want to see."

"Thank you," said May, vaguely. "Thanks so much! Some time when you are less busy, I shall ask you to show me something."

The Warden looked at her for a more definite reply. She seemed to be unaware that he was waiting for it, and when she heard the movement of his robes, and his steps and then the hall-door close, she looked round the room and said "Oh!" again vaguely, and then she raised her eyebrows as if surprised.

Lady Dashwood made no remark, she left the room and went into the hall. The irony of the situation was growing more and more acute, but there was nothing to be done but to keep silence.

Another step was coming down the stairs, steps made by a youthful wearer of high heels. It was Gwendolen.

She looked just a little serious, but otherwise there was no trace on her blooming countenance of last night's tragedy. A little lump on her head was all that remained to prove that she really had been frightened and really and truly had stupidly thought there was something to be frightened of. Gwen constantly put her finger up to feel the lump on her head, and as she did so she thought agreeably of the Warden.

"You see I'm not a bit frightened," she said, and her cheeks dimpled. "When I passed near the library, I thought of Dr. Middleton."

"You understand, don't you, Gwen," said Lady Dashwood, "that I don't want any talk about 'a ghost,' even though, you are now quite sensible about it. I don't think the Robinsons are silly, but Louise and the other two are like children, and must be treated as such."

"Oh no," said Gwen, innocently, "I won't!" And she meant what she said. It was true that she had just hinted at something, perhaps she even used the word "ghost," to the housemaid that morning, but she had made her promise faithfully not to repeat what she had heard, so it was all right.

"We start at half-past ten," said Lady Dashwood.

Gwen said she would be punctual. Her face was full of mysterious and subdued pleasure when she looked into the breakfast-room to see if by any chance Mrs. Dashwood was still there. The girl's fancy was excited by the Warden's behaviour last night. She kept on thinking of his face in the lamp light. It looked very severe and yet so gentle. She was actually falling in love with him, so she said to herself. The Barber's ghost was no longer alarming, but something to recall with a thrill of interest, as it led on to the Warden. She was burning to talk about the Warden. She was so glad she had delivered her letter to the Warden. He would be simply obliged to speak some time to-day. How exciting! Now, was Mrs. Dashwood in the breakfast-room? Yes, there she was, standing in the window with a newspaper in her hand.

"Oh, good morning," said Gwen, brightly. "I must thank you for having been so awfully sweet to me last night. It was funny, wasn't it, my getting that fright? I really and truly was frightened, till Dr. Middleton came up and told me I needn't. Isn't he wonderful?" Here Gwen's voice sank into a confidential whisper.

Mrs. Dashwood said "Yes" in a lingering voice, and she seemed about to go.

"I do think he is the nicest man I have ever met," said Gwen hurriedly, "don't you? But then, of course, I have reason to think so, after last night. It must have looked queer, I mean to any one merely looking on. How I did sleep!" Then after a moment she said: "Don't you think he is very good-looking? Now, do tell me, Mrs. Dashwood! I promise you I won't repeat it."

"He is a very charming man," said May, "that is obvious."

"Wasn't it silly of me to think of the Barber's ghost – especially as it only appears when some disaster happens to the Warden? I mean that is the story. Now the Warden is perfectly well this morning, I particularly asked, though I knew he would be, of course. Now, if there had been a real ghost, he ought to die to-day, or perhaps to-morrow. Isn't it all funny?" Then, as there came another pause, Gwendolen added, "I suppose it couldn't mean that he might die in a week's time – or six months perhaps?" and her voice was a little anxious.

"Death isn't the only disaster," said May, "that can happen to a man."

"Don't you think it's about the worst?" said Gwen. "Worse even than losing lots of money. You see, if you are once dead, there you are! But I needn't bother – there was no ghost."

"No, there was no ghost," said Mrs. Dashwood, and she laid her paper down on a side table.

Gwen felt that she had not had a fair chance of a talk. In the absence of anybody really young it was some comfort to talk to Mrs. Dashwood. She much preferred Mrs. Dashwood to Lady Dashwood. Lady Dashwood was sometimes "nasty," since that letter affair. Fortunately she had not been able to do anything nasty. She had not been able to make the Warden nasty.

Gwen stood watching May, and then said in a low voice to detain her: "I wish mother would come!"

"Do you expect her?" asked May, turning round and facing the girl.

"I do and I don't and I do," said Gwen. "That sounds jolly vague, I know, and please don't even say to Lady Dashwood that I mentioned it. You won't, will you? It jumped out of my mouth. Things do sometimes."

May smiled a little.

"Mother is so plucky," said Gwen; "I'm sure you'd like her – you really would, and she would like you. She doesn't by any means like everybody. She's very particular, but I think she would like you."

May smiled again, and this gave Gwen complete confidence.

"Our relations, you know, have really been a bit stingy," she said. "Too bad, isn't it, and there's been a bother about my education. Of course, mother needn't have sent me to school at all, only she's so keen on doing all she can for me, much more keen than our relations have been. Why, would you believe it, Uncle Ted, my father's youngest brother, who is a parson in Essex, has been saving! What I mean is that the Scotts ain't a bit well off – isn't it hard lines? You see I tell you all this, I wouldn't to anybody else. Well, Uncle Ted had saved for years for his only son – for Eton and Oxford: I don't think he'd ever given mother a penny. Wasn't that rather hard luck on mother?"

May said "Oh!" in a tone that was neutral.

"Well, but I'll explain," said Gwen, eagerly, "and you'll see. When poor Ted was killed, almost at once in the war, there was all the Oxford money still there. Mother knew about it, and said it couldn't be less than five hundred pounds, and might be more. And mother just went to them and spoke ever so nicely about poor Ted being killed – it was such horrid luck on Uncle Ted – and then she just asked ever so quietly if she might borrow some of the Oxford money, as there would be no use for it now. She didn't even ask them to give it, she only asked to borrow, and she thought they would like it to be used for the last two years of my school, it would be such a nice thought for them. And would you believe it, they were quite angry and refused! So mother thought they ought to know how mean it was of them. She is so plucky! So she told them that they had no sympathy with anybody but themselves, and didn't care about any Scott except their own Ted, who was dead and couldn't come to life again, however much they hoarded. Mother does say things so straight. She is so sporting! But wasn't it horrid for her to have to do it?"

May had gradually moved to the door ready to go out. Now she opened it.

So this was the young woman to whom the Warden had bound himself, and this was his future mother-in-law!

May left the breakfast-room abruptly and without a word.

She mounted the stairs swiftly. She wanted to be alone. As the servants were still moving about upstairs, she went into the drawing-room.

There was no one there but that living portrait of Stephen Langley, and he was looking at her across the wide space between them with an almost imperceptible sneer – so she thought.

CHAPTER XV

MRS. POTTEN'S CARELESSNESS

There is little left in Christ Church of the simplicity and piety of the Age of Faith. It was rebuilt when the fine spiritual romanticism of our architectural adolescence had coarsened into a prosperous and prosaic middle age.

The western façade of the College is fine, but it is ostentatious for its purpose, and when one passes under Tom Tower and enters the quadrangle there is something dreary in the terraces that were intended to be cloistered and the mean windows of the ground floor that were intended to be hidden.

"It is like Harding," said Bingham to himself, as he strolled in with a parcel under his arm. "He is always mistaking Mrs. Grundy for the Holy Ghost. But Harding has his uses," he went on thinking, "and so has Tom Quod – it makes one thankful that Wolsey died before he had time to finish ruining the cathedral."

An elderly canon of Christ Church, with a fine profile and dignified manner, stopped Bingham and demanded to know what he was carrying under his arm.

"Nothing for the wounded," said Bingham. "I've bought a green table-cloth and a pair of bedroom slippers for myself. I've just come from a Sale in which some Oxford ladies are interested. One of the many good works with which we are going strong nowadays."

The Canon turned and walked with Bingham. "Do you know Boreham?" he asked rather abruptly.

Bingham said he did.

"I met him a moment ago. He is taking some lady over the college. I met him at Middleton's, I think, not so long ago."

"He's a connection of Middleton's," said Bingham.

"Oh," said the Canon, "is he? A remarkable person. He gave me his views on Eugenics, I remember."

"He would be likely to give you his views," said Bingham. "Did he want to know yours?"

The Canon laughed. "He pleaded so passionately in favour of our preserving the leaven of disease in our racial heredity, so as to insure originality and genius, that I was tempted to indulge in the logical fallacy: 'A dicto secundum quid ad dictum simpliciter,'" and the Canon laughed again.

"His father was a first-rate old rapid," said Bingham, "who ended in an asylum, I believe. His aunt keeps cats; this I know as a fact. His brother, Lord Boreham, as everybody knows, has been divorced twice. What matter? The good old scrap-heap has produced Bernard Boreham; what more do you want?"

Bingham's remarks were uttered with even more than his usual suavity of tone because he was annoyed. He had come to the Sale, he had bought the green table-cloth and the shoes, ostensibly as an act of patriotism, but really in order to meet Mrs. Dashwood. He had planned to take her over Christ Church and show her everything, and now Boreham, who had also planned the same thing, had turned up more punctually, had taken her off, and was at this moment going in and out, banging doors and giving erroneous information, along with much talk about himself and his ideas for the improvement of mankind.

The two men walked very slowly along. Bingham was in no hurry. The Canon also was in no hurry. In these gloomy days he was glad of a few minutes' distraction in the company of Bingham, whom nothing depressed. They walked so slowly that Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Potten, who had just entered the quadrangle, attended by Miss Scott laden with parcels, came up to them, bowed and passed them on their way to the rooms of one of the Fellows who had begged them to deposit their parcels and rest, if they wished to.

The two men went on talking, though their eyes watched the three ladies, who were looking for the rooms where they were going to deposit their purchases. Bingham took out his watch. It was half-past three. The ladies had found the right entrance, and disappeared. Then Lady Dashwood's face was to be seen for a moment at a window. Simultaneously Harding appeared from under Tom Tower.

He came up and spoke to the two men, and while he did so Bingham observed Miss Scott suddenly appear and make straight for them, holding something in her hand.

"Bravo! What a sprint," murmured Bingham, as Gwendolen reached them rather breathless.

"Oh, Mr. Harding," she panted, "Lady Dashwood saw you coming and thought you wouldn't know where she and Mrs. Potten were. Have you got the Buckinghamshire collar?"

Bingham burst into subdued laughter.

"My wife sent me over with it," said Harding, who could not see anything amusing in the incident. "She said Lady Dashwood had got Mrs. Potten here. That's all right," and he gravely drew from his sleeve a piece of mauve paper, carefully rolled up, on which was stitched the collar in question.

"Here's the money," said Gwen, holding out a folded paper.

Harding took the paper.

"Thirty shillings," said Gwen. "Is that right?"

"Yes, thirty shillings," said Harding. "The price is marked on the paper."

"Extraordinarily cheap at the price," remarked Bingham. "There is no other collar equal to it in Buckinghamshire."

The Canon turned and walked off, wondering in his mind who the very pretty, smartly dressed girl was. Harding unfolded the paper. It was a pound note and inside was not one but two new ten-shilling notes – only stuck together.

"You've given me too much, one pound and two tens," he said, and he separated the two notes and gave one back to Gwen. "You're a bit too generous, Miss Scott," he said.

Gwen took the note, dimpling and smiling and Harding wrote "paid" in pencil on the mauve paper.

"Here's your receipt," he said, handing her the paper, "the collar and all," and he turned away and went back to the sale room, with the money in his pocket.

Meanwhile Gwendolen did not run, she walked back very deliberately. She had the collar in one hand and the ten-shilling note in the other. She heard the two men turn and walk towards the gate. The old gentleman with a gown on, by which she meant the Canon, had disappeared. The quadrangle was empty. Gwen was thinking, thinking.

It wasn't she who was generous, it was Mrs. Potten, at least not generous but casual. She was probably casual because, although she was supposed to be stingy, a ten-shilling note made really no difference to her. It was too bad that some women had so much money and some so little. It was especially unjust that an old plain woman like Mrs. Potten could have hundreds of frocks if she wanted to, and that young pretty women often couldn't. It was very, very unjust and stupid. Why she, Gwen, hadn't enough money even to buy a wretched umbrella. It looked exactly as if it was going to rain later on, and yet there was no umbrella she could borrow. The umbrella she had borrowed before, had disappeared from the stand: it must have been left by somebody and been returned. You can't borrow an umbrella that isn't there. It was all very well for her mother to say "borrow" an umbrella, but suppose there wasn't an umbrella! The idea flashed into Gwen's mind that an umbrella could be bought for ten shillings. It wouldn't be a smart umbrella, but it would be an umbrella. Then she remembered very vividly how, a year ago, she was in a railway carriage with her mother and there was one woman there sitting in a corner at the other end. This woman fidgeted with her purse a great deal, and when she got out, a sovereign was lying on the floor just where her feet had been. Gwen remembered her mother moving swiftly, picking it up, and putting the coin into her own purse, remarking, "If people are so careless they deserve to lose things," and Gwen felt that the remark was keenly just, and made several little things "right" that other people had said were wrong. Now, as she thought this over, she said to herself that it was only a week ago she had lost that umbrella: somebody must have got that umbrella and had been using it for a week, and she didn't blame them; beside the handle had got rather bashed. Another dozen steps towards the rooms made her feel very, very sure she didn't blame them, and – Mrs. Potten deserved to lose her ten-shilling note. Now she had reached the doorway, an idea, that was a natural development of the previous idea, came to her very definitely. She slipped the note into the right-hand pocket of her coat just as she stood on the threshold of the doorway, and then she ran up the stone stairs. No one was looking out of the window. She had noticed that as she came along. Now, she would see if Mrs. Potten was really careless enough not to know that she had given away two ten-shilling notes instead of one.