CHAPTER XXVII
THE FORGIVENESS OF THE FATES
Lady Dashwood submitted gracefully to being put to bed and propped up bypillows.
The doctor had come, pronounced his patient very greatly over-fatiguedthough not seriously ill, but he had forbidden her to leave her bed tillhe gave permission.
"Keep a strict watch over her," he had said to May, outside in thecorridor. "She has got to the point when rest will put her right, orfatigue will put her all wrong."
When he had gone May came back into her aunt's room.
"Now you know what it is to be under orders," she said with a smile.
"And what about you, dear?" murmured Lady Dashwood, sweetly. "You can'tstay on, of course, darling?"
May frowned to herself and then smiled. "I shall stay till the doctorcomes again, because I can't trust you, dear aunt, to keep in bed, if Igo."
"You can't trust me," sighed Lady Dashwood, blissfully. "I am beginningto realise that I am not the only reasonable person in the world. Isuppose it is good for me, but it is very sad for you, May, to besacrificed like this."
May said she wasn't being sacrificed, and refused to discuss the matterany longer.
So Lady Dashwood lay quietly looking at the narrow windows, from whichcollege roofs opposite could be seen in a grey Oxford daylight. She madeno reference to the Warden's return. She did not tell May when he wasexpected home, whether he was coming back to lunch, or whether he wascoming by a late afternoon train. She did not even mention his name. AndMay, too, kept up the appearance of not thinking about him. She merelylooked up with a rather strained attention if the door opened, or therewere sounds in the corridor.
The time came for her to go down to lunch, and Lady Dashwood did noteven say: "You will have to take lunch alone." But she said: "I wonderwhat Marian Potten and Gwendolen are doing?"
So May went into the dining-room and glanced round her withapprehension.
Two places were laid, one for the Warden at the head of the table andone at his right hand.
"You expect the Warden?" she asked of Robinson, who was standing in theroom alone, and she came towards the table apprehensively.
He pulled out her chair and said: "No, m'm, I don't think 'e will be into lunch."
May sat down and breathed again. "You think he will be late?" she asked,speaking as one who cares not, but who needs the information forpurposes of business.
"'E said to me, m'm," said Robinson, as he handed a dish to her with oldgnarled hands that were a little shaky but still full of service, "as Iwas 'andin' 'im 'is 'at what 'e wears in London: 'If I'm not 'ome intime for lunch, I shall be 'ome by 'alf-past five.'"
"Oh yes," said May. "Then you'll be putting tea for him in the library,won't you, Robinson?"
Robinson assented. "Yes, m'm, if you 'as tea with 'er ladyship." Then headded, "We're glad, m'm, that you're stayin' on,"--now he dropped hisvoice to a confidential whisper, and wore the air of one who isprivileged to communicate private information to a member of thefamily--"because that French Louise is so exactin' and that jealous ofMrs. Robinson, and no one can't expect a learned gentleman, what 'as the'ole college on 'is shoulders and ain't used to ladies, to know what todo."
"No, of course not," said May.
"But we've all noticed," said Robinson, solemnly, as he poured out somewater into May's glass, "as 'ow 'er ladyship's indisposition 'as come ongradual."
Here he ended his observations, and he went and stood by his carvingtable with his accustomed bearing of humble importance.
But it would have been a mistake to suppose that Robinson was reallyhumble. He was, on the contrary, proud. Proud because he was part ofKing's College and had been a part thereof for fifty years, and hisfather had been part before him. But his pride went further. He wasproud of the way he waited. He moved about the room, skimming the edgesof the long table and circumventing chairs and protruding backs ofawkward guests with peculiar skill. Robinson would have had muchsympathy with the Oxford chaplain who offered to give any other clericalgentlemen a generous handicap in the Creed and beat them. Robinson, hadhe been an ecclesiastic, would have made such a boast himself. As itwas, he prided himself on being able to serve round an "ontray" on hisown side of the table and lap over two out of the other man's, easy.Robinson was also proud of having a master with a distinguishedappearance, and this without any treachery to the late Warden's baldhead and exceedingly casual nose. There was no obligation on Robinson'spart to back up the old Warden against the new, or indeed the newagainst the old, because all Wardens were Wardens, and the College wascontinuous and eternal.
Robinson gloried on there being many thousand volumes in the library.Mrs. Robinson did not share his enthusiasm. He enjoyed opening the doorto other Heads of colleges and saying: "Not at 'ome, sir. Is there anymessage I can take, sir?" for Robinson felt that he was negotiatingimportant affairs that affected the welfare of Oxford. When waiting onthe Warden, Robinson's solemnity was not occasioned by pure meekness,nor was his deferential smile (when a smile was suitable) an expositionof snobbery nor the flattery of the wage-earner. Robinson was gratifyinghis own vanity; he was showing how he grasped the etiquette of hisprofession. Also he experienced pleasure in being necessary to a humanbeing whose manner and tastes were as impressive as they wereunaccountable.
"There's more of these 'ere periodicals coming in," he said that veryafternoon, as he arranged the lamp in the library, "though there aren'tno more Germans among 'em, than there ever were before in my time." Hespoke to Robinson Junior, who had followed him into the library.
"'E don't read 'em," said Robinson Junior, his nose elevated, in the actof drawing the curtains.
"'Ow d'you know?" asked Robinson.
"They ain't cut, not all of 'em," said Junior.
"'E don't read the stuff what is familiar to 'im," explained Robinson,and so saying, he took from some corner of the room a little table andset it up by a chair by the fire, for the Warden's tea-tray.
Meanwhile May Dashwood had taken tea with her Aunt Lena and then hadgone to her own room. So that when the Warden did arrive, just abouthalf-past five, he found no one moving about, no one visible. He came inlike a thief in the night, pale and silent. He glanced round the hall,preoccupied apparently, but really aware of things that were around himto a high degree of sensitiveness. He moved noiselessly, rang the bell,and then looked at the table for letters. Robinson appeared immediately.The Warden's narrow eyes, that seemed to absorb the light that fell uponthem, rested upon Robinson's face with that steady but veiled regardwith which a master controls those who are under him.
The Warden did not ask "Where are the ladies?" he asked whether LadyDashwood was in.
"In 'er room, sir," said Robinson; and he then proceeded to explain why,and gave the doctor's report. "Nothin' alarmin', sir."
The Warden said "Ah!" and looked down at the table. He glanced over theletters that were waiting for him. He gathered them in his hands.
"Tea is in the library for you, sir," said old Robinson; "I will bringit in a minute."
The Warden went upstairs.
He went past the drawing-room and past his bedroom into the library. Hethrew his letters down on the writing-desk, walked to the fire, and thenwalked back again to the desk. Then he finally went out of the room andpassed the head of the staircase and up the two or three steps into thecorridor.
He had been into the corridor three times since the arrival of hissister. Once when he conducted her to her room, on her arrival, onceagain when she had made alterations in the bedrooms and had asked forhis approval, and then on that wretched night when he had gone to calmGwendolen and assure her that there were no such things as ghosts. Nowhe went along over the noiseless floor, anxious to meet no one. Why wasLena ill? He knew why Lena was ill, but for a moment he felt wearilyvexed with her. Why did she make things worse? This feeling vanishedwhen he opened her door and went in, and saw her sitting up in bedsupported by pillows. Then his feeling was of remorse, of angerincreased
against himself, and himself only.
She was turning the pages of a paper, ostentatiously looking at theillustrations, but she was really waiting in suspense for his arrivaland thinking of nothing else.
She looked up at him with a strange smile. "Back!" she said. "And youfind me malingering!"
He came up to the bed. "You've been ill," he said, and he did not returnher smile. "I'm very sorry, Lena."
"No, only tired," she said. "And I am already better, Jim," she went on,and now she showed great nervousness and her voice was jerky. "I have aletter for you. I want you to read it at once, dear, but not here; readit in the library. Don't stay now; go away, dear, and come and see meafterwards."
She gave him the letter with the handwriting downwards. She had thoughtthis out beforehand. She feared the sight of his emotion. She could notbear it--just now. She was still feeling very shaky and very weak.
He took the letter and turned it over to see the handwriting. Shethought he made a movement of surprise. His face she did not look at,she looked at the paper that was lying before her. She longed for him togo away, now that the letter was safely in his hands. He guessed, nodoubt, what the letter was about! He must guess!
She little knew. He no more guessed its contents than he would haveguessed that in order to secure his salvation some one would be allowedto rise from the dead! The letter he regarded as ominous--of sometrouble, some dispute, something inevitable and miserable.
"I hope you have everything you want, Lena," he said as he walked to thedoor. "I hope Louise doesn't fuss you." Then he asked: "Have you everfainted before?"
Lady Dashwood said she hadn't, but added that people over fiftygenerally fainted, and that she would not have gone to bed had not dearMay insisted on it as well as Louise.
He went out. He found the corridor silent. He walked along with thatletter in his pocket, feeling a great solitude within him. When hepassed Gwendolen's door, something gripped him painfully. And then therewas _her_ door, too!
He returned to the library and sat down by the tea-table and the fire.
From his chair his eyes rested upon the great window at the end of thelibrary. It was screened by curtains now. It was there, at that exactspot by the right-hand curtain, that Gwendolen had fancied she saw theghost. A ghost, a thin filmy shape was probably her only conception ofsomething Spiritual. That the story of the Barber's ghost, the storythat he came as a prophet of ill tidings to the Warden of the College,seemed to fit in with recent events, the events of the last few days;this only made the whole episode more repulsive. He must trainGwendolen--if indeed she were capable of being trained! The mother wouldbe perhaps even a greater obstacle to a sane and useful life thanGwendolen herself.
Very likely Gwendolen's letter was to announce that Lady Belindainsisted on coming at once, whether there was room for her or not; orpossibly the letter contained some foolish enclosure from Lady Belinda,and Gwendolen was shy of communicating it, but had been ordered to doso.
Possibly the letter contained a cutting announcing the engagement! Hehad glanced through the _Times_ yesterday and this morning very hastily.Gwendolen's mother might be capable of announcing the engagement beforeit had actually taken place!
He poured out a cup of tea and drank it, and then took the letter fromhis pocket.
He started at the opening of his door. Robinson brought in an Americanvisitor, who came with an introduction. The introduction was lying onthe desk, not yet opened. The Warden rose--escape was impossible. He putthe letter back into his pocket.
"Bring fresh tea, Robinson," said the Warden.
But the stranger declined it. He had business in view. He had a stringof solemn questions to ask upon world matters. He wanted the answers. Hewas writing a book, he wanted copy. He had come, metaphoricallyspeaking, note-book and pencil in hand.
The Warden, with his mind upon private matters, looked gloomily at thisvisitor to Oxford. Even about "world" matters, with that letter in hispocket, he found it difficult to tolerate an interviewer. How was he toget through his work if he felt like this?
The American, too, became uneasy. He found the Warden unwilling to givehim any dogmatic pronouncements on the subject of Literature, on thesubject of Education, or the subject of Woman now and Woman in theimmediate future. The Warden declined to say whether the Church ofEngland would work for union or whether it was going to split up anddwindle into rival sects. He was also guarded in his remarks about thepolitical situation in England. He would not prophesy the future ofLabour, or the fate of Landowners. The Warden was not encouraging. Withthat letter in his pocket the Warden found it difficult to assume thepatient attention that was due to note-book visitors from afar.
This was a bad beginning, surely! How was the future to be met?
The American was about to take his leave, considerably disappointedwith the Heads of Oxford colleges, but he suspected that Americanneutrality might be at the bottom of the Warden's reticence.
"I am not one of those Americans," he said, rising, "who regardPresident Woodrow Wilson as the only statesman in the world at thispresent moment."
The Warden threw his cigarette into the fire. "Wilson has onequalification for statesmanship," he said, rising and speaking as if hewas suddenly roused to interest by this highly contentious subject.
The American was surprised. "I presume, coming from you, Professor, thatyou speak of the President's academic training?" he said.
"I am not a Professor," said the Warden, at last sufficiently awakenedfrom his preoccupation to make a correction that he should have madebefore. "The University has not conferred that honour upon me. Yes, Imean an academic training. When a man who is trained to think meets anew problem in politics he pauses to consider it; he takes time; and forthis the crowd jeer at him! The so-called practical man rarely pauses;he doesn't see, unless he has genius, that he mustn't treat a newproblem as if it were an old one. He decides at once, and for this thecrowd admire him. 'He knows his own mind,' they say!"
The Warden spoke with a ring of sarcasm in his voice. It was a sarcasmsecretly directed against himself. That letter in his pocket was thecause.
He had been confronted in the small world of his own life with a newproblem--marriage, and he ought to have understood that it was new, newto himself, complicated by his position and needing thought; and he hadnot thought, he had acted. He had belied the use and dignity of histraining. Had he any excuse? There was the obligation to marry, andthere was "pity." Were these excuses? They were miserable excuses.
But he had no time to argue further with himself, the inexorable voiceof the man standing opposite to him broke in.
"In your view, Warden, the practical man is too previous?" said theAmerican, making notes (in his own mind).
"He is too confident," said the Warden. "It is difficult enough to makean untrained man accept a new fact. It is still more difficult to makehim think out a new method!"
"I opine," said the American, "that in your view President Wilson hasonly one qualification for statesmanship?"
"I didn't say that," said the Warden. "He may have the other, I meancharacter. Wilson may have the moral courage to act in accordance withhis mental insight, and if so, if he has both the mental and moral forcenecessary, he might well be, what you do not yourself hold, the onlyliving statesman in the world. Time will tell."
Here the Warden smiled a curious smile and made a movement to indicatethat the visit must come to an end. He must be alone--he needed tothink--alone. How was he at this moment showing "character, moralcourage?" Here he was, unable to bear the friction of an ordinaryinterview. Here he was, almost inclined to be discourteous. Here he was,determined to bear no longer with his visitor.
When the door closed upon the stranger, the Warden, sick with himselfand sick with the world, turned to his desk. His letters must be lookedthrough at once. Very well, let him begin with the letter in his pocket.
But he first sorted his other letters, throwing away advertisements anduseless papers. Then he t
ook the letter from his pocket. The veryhandwriting showed incapacity and slackness. At dinner he would havethe writer of this letter on one side of him, and on the other--he darednot think! The Warden ground his teeth and tore open the letter, andthen a knock came at his door.
"Come in," he said almost fiercely.
Robinson came in. "I was to remind you, sir, that Mr. Bingham would behere to dinner."
So much the better. "Very well, Robinson," he said.
Robinson withdrew.
The letter was a long one. It was addressed at the top "Potten End."
"Potten End," said the Warden, half aloud. This was strange! Then shewas not in the house!
The letter began--
"Dear Dr. Middleton,
"When you get this letter I shall have left your house and I shan't return. I hope you will forgive me. I don't know how to tell you, but I have broken off our engagement----"
The Warden stared at the words. There were more to come, butthese--these that he had read! Were they true?
"My God!" he exclaimed, below his breath, "I don't deserve it!" and hemade some swift strides in the room; "I don't deserve it!"
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