The New Warden

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.

CHAPTER XI

NO ESCAPE

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 May Dashwood, 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 your engagement to 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 you can'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?

CHAPTER XII

THE GHOST

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 my showing 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, and yet, 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 was not alone! There was somebody 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 turned her 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't now: 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 saw it," 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'm sorry 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. She was there – that was all.