CHAPTER XXVIII
ALMA MATER
The Warden went to the door and turned the key. Why, he did not know. Hesimply did it instinctively. Then he finished reading the letter; andhaving read it through, read it again a second time. He was a free man,and he had obtained his freedom through a circumstance that waspitifully silly, a circumstance almost incredibly sordid and futile.
Her humiliation was his humiliation, for had he not chosen her to be hiscompanion for life? Had he not at this time, when the fullresponsibility of manhood was placed on every man, had he not chosen asthe mother of his children, a moral weakling?
He locked the letter up in his desk and paced the length of the roomonce or twice. Then he threw himself into a chair and, clasping his headin his hands, remained there motionless. Could he be the same man whohad a few days ago, of his own free will, without any compulsion,without any kind of necessity, offered himself for life to a girl ofwhom he knew absolutely nothing, except that she had had a miserableupbringing and an heredity that he could not respect? Was it her slenderbeauty, her girlishness, that had made him so passionately pitiful?
From an ordinary man this action would have been folly, but from him itwas an offence! A very great offence, now, in these times. On the desklay some pages of notes--notes of a course of public lectures he wasabout to give, lectures on the responsibility of citizenship, in whichhe was going to make a strong appeal to his audience for a moreconscious philosophy of life. He was going to urge the necessity forgreater reverence for education. He was going to speak not only of theburden of Empire, but of the new burden, the burden of Democracy, aDemocracy that is young, independent, and feeling its way. He was goingto speak of the true meaning of a free Democracy, no chaotic meaninglessfreedom, but the sane and ordered freedom of educated men, Democracyopen-eyed and training itself, like a strong man, to run a race for somefar-off, some desired goal to which "all creation moves."
He was in these lectures going to pose not only as a practical man butas a preacher, one of those who "point the way"; and meanwhile he hadbound himself to a girl who not only would be unable to grasp themeaning of any strenuous moral effort, but who would have to be herselfguarded from every petty temptation that came in her way. He was (so hesaid to himself, as he groaned in his spirit) one of those manypreachers who, in all ages, have talked of moral progress, and who havemissed the road that they themselves have pointed out!
He was fiercely angry with himself because he had called the emotionthat he had felt for Gwendolen in her mischance a "passionate pity." Itwas a very different emotion from that which wrung him when his oldpupils, one by one, gave up their youth and hope in the service of theircountry. That indeed was a passionate pity, a pity full of remorsefulgratitude, full of great pride in their high purpose and their nobleself-sacrifice. On his mantelpiece, within arm's length of him, lay anopen book. It was a book of poems, and there were verses that theWarden had read more than once.
"City of hope and golden dreaming."
A farewell to Oxford. It was the farewell of youth in its heyday to
"All the things we hoped to do."
And then followed the lines that pierced him now with poignant sadnessas he thought of them--
"Dreams that will never be clothed in being, Mother, your sons have left with you."
The Warden groaned within himself. He was part of that Alma Mater; thatcity left behind in charge of that sacred gift!
He loathed himself, and this deep self-humiliation of a scrupulousgentleman was what his sister had shrunk from witnessing. It was thisdeep humiliation that May Dashwood fled from when she hid herself in herroom that afternoon.
The Warden was not a man who spent much time in introspection. He had nosubtlety of self-analysis, but what insight he had was spent incondemning himself, not in justifying himself. But now he added this tohis self-accusations, that if May Dashwood had not suddenly steppedacross his path and revealed to him true womanhood, gilded--yes, he usedthat term sardonically--gilded by beauty, he might not have seen thewhole depth of his offence until now, when the crude truth aboutGwendolen was forced upon him by her letter.
The Warden sat on, crushed by the weight of his humiliation. And he hadbeen forgiven, he had been rescued from his own folly. His mistake hadbeen wiped out, his offence pardoned.
And what about Gwendolen herself? What about this poor solitary foolishgirl? What was to be her future? Swiftly she had come into his life andswiftly gone! What, indeed, was to become of her and her life?
And so the Warden sat on till the dressing-bell rang, and then he got upfrom his chair blindly.
He had been forgiven and rescued too easily. He did not deserve it. Howwas it that he had dared to quote to May Dashwood those solemn, awfulwords--
"And the glory of the Lord is all in all!"
It must have seemed to her a piece of arrogant self-righteousness.
And she had said: "What is the glory of the Lord?" and had answered thequestion herself. Her answer had condemned him; the glory of the Lordwas not merely self-restraint, stoical resignation, it was somethingmore, it was "Love" that "beareth all things, believeth all things,hopeth all things, endureth all things."
"For he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he loveGod whom he hath not seen?"
The Warden dressed, moving about automatically, not thinking of what hewas doing. When he left his bedroom he passed the head of the staircase.There were letters lying on the table, just as letters had lain waitingfor him on that evening, on that Monday evening, when he found Gwendolenreading the letter from her mother and crying over it. Within those fewshort days he had risked the happiness and the usefulness of his wholelife, and--God had forgiven him.
He passed the table and went on. Lena must have been waiting for him,expecting him! Perhaps she had been worrying. The thought made him walkrapidly along the corridor.
He knocked at her door. Louise opened it.
"Entrez, Monsieur," she said, in the tone and manner of one who mountsguard and whose permission must be obtained.
She stood aside to let him pass, and then went out and pulled the doorto after her.
The Warden walked up to the bed.
Lady Dashwood's face was averted from him. "Jim," she said wistfully,and she put her hand over her eyes and waited for the sound of hisvoice.
She was there, waiting for him to show her what sort of sympathy heneeded. He did not speak. He came round to the side of the bed where shewas lying, by the windows. There he stood for a moment looking down uponher. She did not look up. She looked, indeed, like a culprit, like onehumbled, who longed for pardon but did not like to ask for it. And itwas this profound humble sympathy that smote his heart through andthrough. What if anything had happened to this dear sister of his? Whatif her unhappiness had been too great a strain upon her?
He knelt down by the bed and laid his face on her shoulder, just as heused to do when he was a child. Neither of them spoke. She moved herhand and clasped his arm that he placed over her, and they remained likethis for some minutes, while a great peace enclosed them. In those fewminutes it seemed as if years dropped away from them and they were youngagain. She the motherly young woman, and he the motherless boy to whomshe stood as mother. All the interval was forgotten and there they werestill, mother and son.
When at last he raised himself he found that her eyes were dim withtears. As to himself, he felt strangely quieted and composed. He pulleda chair to the bedside and sat down, not facing her, but sideways, andhe rested his elbow on the edge of her pillow his other hand resting onhers.
"Did you get through all you wanted to, in Town?" she asked, smilingthrough her tears.
"Lena!" he said in a low voice, "you want to spare me. You always do."
His voice overwhelmed her. His humility pierced her like a sword.
"It was all my fault, dear," she began; "entirely my fault."
"No," he said, in a low emphatic voice.
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p; "It was." She reiterated this with almost a sullen persistence.
"How could it possibly be your fault?" he said, with deep self-reproach.
"It was," she said, "though I cannot make you understand it. Jim, youmust forget it all, for my sake. You must forget it at once, you havethings to do."
"I have things to do," he said. "I seemed in danger of forgetting thosethings," he said huskily. "As to forgetting, that is a difficultmatter."
"You must put it aside," she said, and now she raised herself on herpillows and stared anxiously into his face. "You made a mistake such asthe best man _would_ make," she argued passionately. "How can a strongman suspect weakness in others? You know how it is, we suspect in othersvirtues and vices that we have ourselves. You know what I mean, dear. Adrunkard always suspects other men of wanting to drink!" and she laugheda little, and her voice trembled with an excitement she found itdifficult to suppress. "Thieves always suspect others of thieving. Anamorous man sees sex motives in everything. Do you suppose an honourableman doesn't also suspect others of honourable intentions?"
He made no reply.
"Besides, you have always been eager to think the best of women. You'vecredited them, even with mental gifts that they haven't got! You havebeen over-loyal to them all your life! And now"--here Lady Dashwood putout her hand and laid it on his arm as if to compel him to agree--"andnow you are suffering for it, or rather you have suffered. You thoughtyou were doing your duty, that you ought to marry. You were right; youought to marry, and I, just at that moment, thrust somebody forward wholooked innocent and helpless. And how could you tell? Of course youcouldn't tell," and now her voice dropped a little and she seemedsuddenly to have become tired out, and she sank back on her pillows.
The Warden leant over her. Her special pleading for him was so familiarto him. She had corrected his faults, admonished him when necessary, buthad always upheld his self-respect, even in small matters. She wasfighting now for the preservation of his sense of honour.
"Anyhow, darling," she said, "you must forget!"
"You are exhausted," he said, "in trying to make black white. I oughtnot to have come in and let you talk. Lena, what has happened this weekhas knocked you up. I know it, and even now you are worrying because ofme. I will forget it, dear, if you will pick up again and get strong."
"I am better already," she said, and the very faintest smile was on herface. "I am rather tired, but I shall be all right to-morrow. All I wantis a good night's sleep. I want to sleep for hours, and I shall sleepfor hours now that I have seen you."
A knock came on the door.
"They are looking for you, dear," said Lady Dashwood.
The Warden slowly rose from his seat. "I must go now, Lena," he said,"but I shall come in again the last thing. I shall come in withoutknocking if I may, because I hope you will be asleep, and I don't wantto wake you."
"Very well," she said smiling. "You'll find me asleep. I feel so calm,so happy."
He bent down and kissed her and then went to the door. She turned herhead and looked after him. Louise was at the door.
"Monsieur Bingham is arrived," she said; "I regret to have disturbedMonsieur."
The Warden walked slowly down the corridor. There was something that hedreaded, something that was going to happen--the first meeting of theeyes--the first moment when May Dashwood would look at him, knowing allthat had happened!
He passed the table again on which lay his letters. He would lookthrough all that pile of correspondence after Bingham had gone.
Robinson was hovering at the stairhead. "Mr. Bingham is in thedrawing-room, sir."
"Alone?" asked the Warden.
"Mrs. Dashwood is there, sir," said Robinson.
"How have you arranged the table?" asked the Warden.
"I've put Mrs. Dashwood close on your right, sir," said Robinson,secretly amazed at the question; "Mr. Bingham on your left, sir."
"Yes," said the Warden. "Yes, of course!" passing his servant with anabstracted air.
"Shall I announce dinner, sir?" asked Robinson, hurrying behind andmeasuring his strength for what he was about to perform in the exerciseof his duty.
"Yes," said the Warden, still moving on, and now near the drawing-roomdoor.
Robinson made a wondrous skip, a miracle it was of service in honour ofthe Warden; he flew past his master like an aged but agile Mercury andpounced upon the drawing-room door handle. Then he threw the door open.He waited till the Warden had advanced to a sufficient distance in theroom towards the guests who were waiting by the fireside, and then heuttered, in his penetrating but quavering voice, the familiar andimportant word--
"Dinner!"
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