CHAPTER VII
MEN MARCHING PAST
After the Warden had closed the door on his sister he came back to thefireplace. He had been interrupted, and he stood silently with his handon the back of the chair, just as he had stood before. He was waiting,perhaps, for an invitation to speak; for some sign from Mrs. Dashwoodthat now that they were alone together, she expected him to talk on,freely.
She had no suspicion of the real reason why her Aunt Lena had gone away.May took for granted that she had fled at the first sign of a religiousdiscussion. May knew that General Sir John Dashwood, like many wellregulated persons, was under the impression that he had, at some propermoment in his juvenile existence now forgotten, at his mother's knee orin his ancestral cradle, once and for all weighed, considered andaccepted the sacred truths containing the Christian religion, and thattherefore there was no need to poke about among them and distrust them.Lady Dashwood had encouraged that sentiment of silent loyalty: it leftmore time and energy over for the discussion and arrangement of thepractical affairs of life. May knew all this.
May, sitting by the fire, with her eyes on her work, observed thehesitation in the Warden's mind. She knew that he was waiting. Sheglanced up.
"What was it you were saying?" she asked in the softest of voices, fornow that they were alone there was no one to be annoyed by a religiousdiscussion.
The Warden moved round and seated himself. But even then he could notbring his thoughts to the surface: they lay in the back of his mindurgent, yet reluctant. Meanwhile he began talking about the portraitagain. It served as a stalking horse. He told her some of the oldcollege stories, stories not only of Langley, but of other Wardens inthe tempestuous days of the Reformation and of the Civil War.
"And yet," he said suddenly, "what were those days compared with these?Has there been any tragedy like this?" He gazed at her now; with hisnarrow eyes strained and sad.
"Just at the beginning of the war," he said, "I heard---- It was one hotbrilliant morning in that early September. It was only a passingsound--but I shall never forget it, till I die."
May Dashwood's hands dropped to her lap, and she sat listening with hereyes lowered.
"There was a sound of the feet of men marching past, though I could notsee them. Their feet were trampling the ground rhythmically, and all tothe 'playing' of a bugler. I have never heard, before or since, a bugleplayed like that! The youth--I could picture him in my mind--blew fromhis bugle strangely ardent, compelling notes. It was simple, monotonousmusic, but there came from the bugler's own soul a magnificent courageand buoyancy; and the trampling feet responded--responded to the lightspringing notes, the high ardour and gay fearlessness of youth. Therewas such hope, such joy in the call of duty! No thought of danger, nothought of suffering! All hearts leapt to the sounds! And the buglerpassed and the trampling feet! I could hear the swift, high, passionatenotes die in the distance; and I knew that the flower of our youth wasmarching to its doom."
The Warden got up from his chair, and walked away, and there was silencein the room.
Then he came up to where May sat and looked down at her.
"The High Gods," she said, quietly quoting his own phrase, "wantedthem."
He moved away again. "I have no argument for my faith," he said. "Thequestion for us is no longer 'I must believe,' but 'Dare I believe?' Theold days of certainty have gone. Inquisitions, Solemn Leagues andCovenants have gone--never to return. All the clamour of men who claim'to know' has died down."
And as he gazed at her with eyes that demanded an answer she saidsimply: "I am content with the silence of God."
He made no answer and leaned heavily on the back of his chair. A momentlater he began to walk again. "I don't think I _can_ believe that theheroic sacrifice of youth, their bitter suffering, will be mixed upindistinguishably with the cunning meanness of pleasure-seekers, withthe sordid humbug of money-makers--in one vast forgotten grave. No, Ican't believe that--because the world we know is a rational world."
May glanced round at him as he moved about. The great dimly-lit room wasfull of shadows, and Middleton's face was dark, full of shadows too,shadows of mental suffering. She looked back at her work and sighed.
"Even if we straighten the crooked ways of life, so that there are nomore starving children, no men and women broken with the struggle oflife: even if we are able, by self-restraint, by greater scientificknowledge to rid the earth of those diseases that mean martyrdom to itsvictims; even if hate is turned to love, and vice and moral misery arebanished: even if the Kingdom of Heaven does come upon this earth--eventhen! That will not be a Kingdom of Heaven that is Eternal! This Earthwill, in time, die. This Earth will die, that we know; and with it mustvanish for ever even the memory of a million years of human effort.Shall we be content with that? I fail to conceive it as rational, andtherefore I cling to the _hope_ of some sort of life beyond thegrave--Eternal Life. But," and here he spoke out emphatically, "I haveno argument for my belief."
He came and stood close beside her now, and looked down at her. "I haveno argument for my belief," he repeated.
"And you are content with the silence of God," he added. Then he spokevery slowly: "I must be content."
If he had stretched out his hand to touch hers, it would not have meantany more than did the prolonged gaze of his eyes.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked--its voice alone striking into thesilence. It seemed to tick sometimes more loudly, sometimes more softly.
The Warden appeared to force himself away from his own thoughts. Withhis hands still grasping the back of his chair, he raised his head andstood upright. The tick of the clock fell upon his ear; a monotonous andmechanical sound--indifferent to human life and yet weighted withimportance to human life; marking the moments as they passed; momentsnever to be recalled; steps that are leading irretrievably the humanrace to their far-off destiny.
As the Warden's eyes watched the hands of the clock, they pointed tofive minutes to eleven. A thought came to him.
"All the bells are silent now," he said, "except in the safe daylight."
May looked up at him.
"Even 'Tom' is silent. The Clusius is not tolled now."
He got up and walked along the room to the open window. There he heldthe curtain well aside and looked back at her. Why it was, May did notknow, but it seemed imperative to her to come to him. She put her workaside and came through into the broad embrasure of the bay. Then he letthe curtain fall and they stood together in the darkness. The Wardenpushed out the latticed frame wider into the dark night. The air wasscarcely stirring, it came in warm and damp against their faces.
The quadrangle below them was dimly visible. Eastwards the sky was heavywith a great blank pale space stretching over the battlemented roof andfull of the light of a moon that had just risen, but overhead a heavycloud slowly moved westwards.
They both leaned out and breathed the night air.
"It will rain in a moment," said the Warden.
"In the old days," he said, "there would have been sounds coming fromthese windows. There would have been men coming light-heartedly fromthese staircases and crossing to one another. Now all is under militaryrule: the poor remnant left of undergraduate life--poor mentally andphysically--this poor remnant counts for nothing. All that is best hasgone, gone voluntarily, eagerly, and the men who fill their places aretraining for the Great Sacrifice. It's the most glorious and the mostterrible thing imaginable!"
May leaned down lower and the silence of the night seemed oppressivewhen the Warden ceased speaking.
After a moment he said, "In the old days you would have heard somefar-off clock strike the hour, probably a thin, cracked voice, and thenit would have been followed by other voices. You would have heard themjangle together, and then into their discordance you would have heardthe deep voice of 'Tom' breaking."
"But he is at his best," went on the Warden, "when he tolls the Clusius.It is his right to toll it, and his alone. He speaks one hundred and onetimes, slo
wly, solemnly and with authority, and then all the gates inOxford are closed."
Drops of rain fell lightly in at them, and May drew in her head.
"Oxford has become a city of memories to me," said the Warden, and heput out his arm to draw in the window.
"That is only when you are sad," said May.
"Yes," said the Warden slowly, "it is only when I give way to gloom.After all, this is a great time, it can be made a great time. If onlyall men and women realised that it might be the beginning of the 'SecondComing.' As it is, the chance may slip."
He pulled the window further in and secured it.
May pushed aside the curtain and went back into the glow and warmth ofthe room.
She gathered up her knitting and thrust it into the bag.
"Are you going?" asked the Warden. He was standing now in the middle ofthe room watching her.
"I'm going," said May.
"I've driven you away," he said, "by my dismal talk."
"Driven me away!" she repeated. "Oh no!" Her voice expressed a greatreproach, the reproach of one who has suffered too, and who has "dreameddreams." Surely he knew that she could understand!
"Forgive me!" he said, and held out his hand impulsively. At least itseemed strangely impulsive in this self-contained man.
She put hers into it, withdrew it, and together they went to the door.For the first time in her life May felt the sting of a strange new pain.The open door led away from warmth and a world that was full andsatisfying--at least it would have led away from such a world--a worldnew to her--only that she was saying "Good night" and not "Good-bye."Later on she would have to say "Good-bye." How many days were therebefore that--five whole days? She walked up the steps, and went into thecorridor. Louise was there, just coming towards her.
"Madame desires me to say good night," said Louise, giving May's face aquick searching glance.
"I'll come and say good night to her," said May, "if it's not too late."
No, it was not too late. Louise led the way, marvelling at the callousself-assurance of English people.
Louise opened her mistress's door, and though consumed with ragingcuriosity, left Mrs. Dashwood to enter alone.
"Oh, May!" cried Lady Dashwood. She was moving about the room in a greydressing-gown, looking very restless, and with her hair down.
"You didn't come down again," said May; "you were tired?"
"I wasn't tired!" Here Lady Dashwood paused. "May, I have, by pureaccident, come upon a letter--from Belinda to Gwen. I don't know how itcame among my own letters, but there it was, opened. I don't know if Iopened it by mistake, but anyhow there it was opened; I began readingthe nauseous rubbish, and then realised that I was reading Belinda. Nowthe question is, what to do with the letter? It contains advice. May,Gwen is to secure the Warden! It seems odd to see it written down inblack and white."
Lady Dashwood stared hard at her niece--who stood before her, thoughtfuland silent.
"Shall I give it to Gwen--or what?" she asked.
"Well," began May, and then she stopped.
"Of course, I blame myself for being such a fool as to have taken inBelinda," said Lady Dashwood (for the hundredth time). "But the questionnow is--what to do with the letter? It isn't fit for a nice girl toread; but, no doubt, she's read scores of letters like it. The girl isbeing hawked round to see who will have her--and she knows it! Sheprobably isn't nice! Girls who are exhibited, or who exhibit themselveson a tray ain't nice. Jim knows this; he knows it. Oh, May! as if hedidn't know it. You understand!"
May Dashwood stood looking straight into her aunt's face, revolvingthoughts in her own mind.
"Some people, May," said Lady Dashwood, "who want to be unkind and onlysucceed in being stupid, say that I am a matchmaker. I _have_ alwaysconscientiously tried to be a matchmaker, but I have rarely succeeded. Ihave been so happy with my dear old husband that I want other people tobe happy too, and I am always bringing young people together--who werejust made for each other. But they won't have it, May! I introduce asweet girl full of womanly sense and affection to some nice man, and hewon't have her at any price. He prefers some cheeky little brat whoafter marriage treats him rudely and decorates herself for other men. Iintroduce a really good man to a really nice girl and she won't havehim, she 'loves,' if you please, a man whom decent men would like tokick, and she finds herself spending the rest of her life trying hard tomake her life bearable. I dare say your scientists would say--Naturelikes to keep things even, bad and good mixed together. Well, I'magainst Nature. My under-housemaid develops scarlet fever, and dear oldNature wants her to pass it on to the other maids, and if possible tothe cook. Well, I circumvent Nature."
May Dashwood's face slowly smiled.
"But I did not bring Gwendolen Scott to this house--she was forced uponme--and I was weak enough to give in. Now, I should very much like tosay something when I give the letter to Gwen. But I shall have to saynothing. Yes, nothing," repeated Lady Dashwood, "except that I must tellher that I have, by mistake, read the first few lines."
"Yes," said May Dashwood.
"After all, what else could I say?" exclaimed Lady Dashwood. "You can'texactly tell a daughter that you think her mother is a shameless hussy,even if you may think that she ought to know it."
"Poor Gwen and poor Lady Belinda!" said May Dashwood sighing, and movingto go, and trying hard to feel real pity in her heart.
"No," said Lady Dashwood, raising her voice, "I don't say 'poorBelinda.' I don't feel a bit sorry for the old reprobate, I feel moreangry with her. Don't you see yourself--now you know Jim," continuedLady Dashwood, throwing out her words at her niece's retreatingfigure--"don't you see that Jim deserves something better than Belindaand Co.? Now, would you like to see him saddled for life with GwendolenScott?"
May Dashwood did not reply immediately; she seemed to be much occupiedin walking very slowly to the door and then in slowly turning the handleof the door. Surely Gwendolen and her mother were pitiableobjects--unsuccessful as they were?
"Now, would you?" demanded Lady Dashwood. "Would you?"
"I should trust him not to do that," said May, as she opened the door.She looked back at the tall erect figure in the grey silkdressing-gown. "Good night, dear aunt." And she went out. "You see, I amrunning away, and I order you to go to bed. You are tired." She spokethrough the small open space she had left, and then she closed the door.
"Trust him! Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Lady Dashwood, in a loud voice.
But she was not altogether displeased with the word "trust" in MayDashwood's mouth. "She seems pretty confident that Jim isn't going tomake a martyr of himself," she said to herself happily.
The door opened and Louise entered with an enigmatical look on her face.Louise had been listening outside for the tempestuous sounds that in hercountry would have issued from any two normal women under the samecircumstances.
But no such sounds had reached her attentive ears, and here was LadyDashwood moving about with a serene countenance. She was even smiling.Oh, what a country, what people!
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