PASSIONATE PITY
A tear fell upon the envelope in her hand, and one fell upon the red
carpet under her feet. She must try and not cry, crying made one ugly.
She must go to her room as quickly as she could.
Then came noiselessly out from the curtained door at Gwen's right hand
the figure of Dr. Middleton. He was already dressed for dinner, his face
composed and dignified as usual, but preoccupied as if the business of
the day was not over. There were these letters waiting for him on the
table. He came on, and Gwen, blinded by a big tear in each eye, vaguely
knew that he stooped and swept up the letters in his hand. Then he
turned his face towards her in his slow, deliberate way and looked. She
closed her eyes, and the two tears squeezed between the lids, ran down
her cheeks leaving the delicate rosy skin wet and shining under the
electric light.
Tears had rarely been seen by the Warden: never--in fact--until lately!
He was startled by them and disconcerted.
"Has anything happened?" he asked. "Anything serious?" It would need to
be something very serious for tears!
The gentleness of his voice only made the desolation in Gwen's heart the
more poignant. In a week's time she would have to leave this beautiful
kindly little home, this house of refuge. The fear she had had before of
the Warden vanished at his sudden tenderness of tone; he seemed now
something to cling to, something solid and protective that belonged to
the world of ease and comfort, of good things; things to be desired
above all else, and from which she was going to be cruelly banished--to
Stow. She made a convulsive noise somewhere in her young throat, but was
inarticulate.
There came sounds of approaching steps. The Warden hesitated but only
for a moment. He moved to the door of the library.
"Come in here," he said, a little peremptorily, and he turned and opened
it for Gwen.
Gwen slid within and moving blindly, knocked herself against the
protruding wing of his book-shelves. That made the Warden vexed with
somebody, the somebody who had made the child cry so much that she
couldn't see where she was going. He closed the door behind her.
"You have bad news in that letter?" he asked. "Your mother is not ill?"
Gwen shook her head and stared upon the floor, her lips twitching.
"Anything you can talk over with Lady Dashwood?" he asked.
"No," was the stifled answer with a shake of the dark head.
"Can you tell me about it? I might be able to advise, help you?"
"No!" This time the sound was long drawn out with a shrill sob.
What was to be done?
"Try not to cry!" he said gently. "Tell me what it is all about. If you
need help--perhaps I can help you!"
So much protecting sympathy given to her, after that letter, made Gwen
feel the joy of utter weakness in the presence of strength, of saving
support.
"Shall I read that letter?" he asked, putting out his hand.
Gwen clutched it tighter. No, no, that would be fatal! He laid his hand
upon hers. Gwen began to tremble. She shook from head to foot, even her
teeth chattered. She held tight on to that letter--but she leaned nearer
to him.
"Then," said the Warden, without removing his hand, "tell me what is
troubling you? It is something in that letter?"
Gwen moved her lips and made a great effort to speak.
"It's--it's nothing!" she said.
"Nothing!" repeated the Warden, just a little sternly.
This was too much for Gwen, the tears rose again swiftly into her eyes
and began to drop down her cheeks. "It's only----" she began.
"Yes, tell me," said the Warden, coaxingly, for those tears hurt him,
"tell me, child, never mind what it is."
"It's only--," she began again, and now her teeth chattered, "only--that
nobody cares what happens to me--I've got no home!"
That this pretty, inoffensive, solitary child had no home, was no news
to the Warden. His sister had hinted at it on the day that Gwen was left
behind by her mother. But he had dismissed the matter, as not concerning
the college or the reconstruction of National Education. Since then
whenever it cropped up again, he again dismissed it, because--well,
because his mind was not clear. Now, suddenly, he seemed to be more
certain, his thoughts clearer. Each tear that Gwen dropped seemed to
drop some responsibility upon him. His face must have betrayed
this--perhaps his hands also. How it happened the Warden did not quite
know, but he was conscious that the girl made a movement towards him,
and then he found himself holding her in his arms. She was weeping
convulsively into his shirt-front--weeping out the griefs of her
childhood and girlhood and staining his shirt front with responsibility
for them all, soaking him with petty cares, futile recollections, mean
subterfuges, silly triumphs, sordid disappointments, all the small
squalid moral muddle that Belinda Scotts call "life."
All this smothered the Warden's shirt-front and trickled sideways into
the softer part of that article of his dress.
For the first few moments his power of thinking failed him. He was
conscious only of his hands on her waist and shoulder, of the warmth of
her dark hair against his face. He could feel her heart thumping,
thumping in her slender body against his.
A knock came at the door.
The Warden came to himself. He released the weeping girl gently and
walked to the door.
He opened it, holding it in his hand. "What is it, Robinson?" he asked,
for he had for the moment forgotten that it was dinner time, and that a
guest was expected.
"Mr. Boreham is in the drawing-room, sir," said the old servant very
meekly, for he met the narrow eyes fixed coldly upon him.
"Very well," said the Warden, and he closed the door again.
Then he turned round and looked at Gwendolen Scott. She was standing
exactly where he had left her, standing with her hands clutching at a
little pocket-handkerchief and her letter. She was waiting. Her wet
eyelashes almost rested on her flushed cheeks. Her lips were slightly
swollen. She was not crying, she was still and silent. She was
waiting--her conceit for the moment gone--she was waiting to know from
him what was going to become of her. Her whole drooping attitude was
profoundly humble. The humility of it gave Middleton a strange pang of
pain and pleasure.
The way in which the desire for power expresses itself in a man or woman
is the supreme test of character. The weak fritter away on nothings the
driving force of this priceless instinct; this instinct that has raised
us from primeval slime to the mastery of the world. The weak waste it,
it seems to slip through their fingers and vanish. Only the strong can
bend this spiritual energy to the service of an important issue, and the
strongest of all do this unconsciously, so that He, who is supreme
Master of the souls of men, could say, "Why callest thou _Me_ good?"
The Warden in his small sphere of academic life showed himself to be one
of the strong sort. His mind was analytical rather than constructive,
but among all the crowded teaching staff of Oxford only one other
man--and he, too, now the head of a famous college--had given as much of
himself to his pupils. Indeed, so much had the Warden given, that he had
left little for himself. His time and his extraordinarily wide
knowledge, materials that he had gathered for his own use, all were at
the service of younger men who appealed to him for guidance. He grasped
at opportunities for them, found gaps that they could fill, he
criticised, suggested, pushed; and so the years went on, and his own
books remained unwritten. Only now, when a new world seemed to him to be
in the making--he sat down deliberately to give his own thoughts
expression.
Men like Middleton are rare in any University; a man unselfish enough
and able enough to spend himself, sacrifice himself in "making men." And
even this outstanding usefulness, this masterly hold he had of the best
men who passed through King's would not have forced his colleagues to
elect him as Warden. They made him Warden because they couldn't help
themselves, because he was in all ways the dominating personality of the
college, and even the book weary, the dull, the frankly cynical among
the Fellows could not escape from the conviction that King's would be
safe in Middleton's hands, so there was no reason to seek further
afield.
But women and sentiment had played a very small part in the Warden's
life. His acquaintance with women had been superficial. He did not
profess to understand them. Gwendolen Scott had for several days sat at
his table, looking like a flower. That her emotions were shallow and her
mind vacant did not occur to the Warden. She was like a flower--that was
all! His business had been with men--young men. And just now, as one by
one, these young men, once the interest and pride of his college, were
stricken down as they stood upon the very threshold of life, the
Warden's heart had become empty and aching.
And now, on this autumn evening, this sobbing girl seemed, somehow, all
part of the awful tragedy that was being enacted, only in her case--he
had the power to help. He need not let her wander alone into the
wilderness of life.
For the first time in his life, his sense of power betrayed him. It was
in his own hands to mould the future of this helpless girl--so he
imagined!
He experienced two or three delicious moments as he walked towards her,
knowing that she would melt into his arms and give up all her sorrows
into his keeping. She was waiting on his will! But was this love?
The Warden was well aware that it was not love, such as a man of his
temperament conceived love to be.
But his youth was passed. The time had gone when he could fall in love
and marry a common mortal under the impression that she was an angel.
Was it likely that now, in middle life, he would find a woman who would
rouse the deepest of his emotions or satisfy the needs of his life?
Why should he expect to find at forty, what few men meet in the prime of
youth? All that he could expect now--hope for--was standing there
waiting for him. Waiting with blushes, timid, dawning hope; full of
trust and so pathetically humble!
He took her into his arms and spoke, and his voice was steady but very
low and a little husky.
"There is no time to talk now. But you shall not go out into the
wilderness of life, if you are afraid."
She pressed her face closer to him--in answer.
"If you want to, if you care to--come to me, I shall not refuse you a
home. You understand?"
She did fully understand. Her mother's letter had made it clearer than
ever to her that marriage with somebody sufficiently well off is a haven
of refuge for a woman, a port to be steered for with all available
strength.
Suddenly and unexpectedly Gwen had found herself in harbour, and the
stormy sea passed.
"Run up to your room now," he said, "and bathe your face and come down
to the drawing-room as if nothing had happened."
He did not kiss her. A thought, such as only disturbs a man of
scrupulous honour, came to him. He was so much older than she was that
she must have time to think--she must come to him and ask for what he
could give her--not, as she was just now--convulsed with grief; she must
come quietly and confidently and with her mind made up. There must be no
working upon her emotions, no urgency of his own will over a weaker
will; no compulsion such as a strong man can exercise over a weak woman.
He pushed her gently away, and she raised her head, smiling through her
tears and murmuring something: what was it? Was it "Thanks;" but she
did not look him in the face, she dare not meet those narrow blue eyes
that were bent upon her.
He stood watching her as she moved lightly to the door. There she turned
back, and even then she did not raise her eyes to his face, but she
smiled a strange bewildered smile into the air and fled.
It was really _she_ who had conquered, and with such feeble weapons.
She had gone. The door was closed. The Warden was alone.
He looked round the room, at the book-lined walls, at his desk strewn
with papers, and then the whole magnitude and meaning of what he had
done--came to him!
He took out his watch. It was twenty past eight--all but a minute. In
less than twenty minutes he had disposed of and finally settled one of
the most important affairs of life. Was this the action of a sane man?
During the last few days he had gradually been drifting towards this,
just drifting. He had been dreaming of it all the time, dreaming in that
part of his brain where the mind works out its problems underground,
waiting until the higher world of consciousness calls for them, and they
are flung out into the open daylight--solved. A solution found without
real solid premeditation.
Was the solution to his life's problem a good one, or a bad one? Was it
true to his past life, or was it false? Can a man successfully live out
a plan that he has only dimly outlined in a dream and swiftly finished
in a passion of pity?
It was Middleton's duty as host to go into the drawing-room. He must go
at once and think afterwards. And yet he lingered. She might not claim
him. She too might have been moved only by a momentary emotion! But
what right had he to be speculating on the chance of release? It was a
bad beginning!
On the floor lay a letter. The Warden had not noticed it before. He
picked it up. It was the letter that she had held in her trembling
hands.
He stood holding it, and then suddenly he opened the flap and pulled the
sheet from its cover. He unfolded it and looked at the signature. Yes,
it was from her mother. He folded the paper again and put it back in the
envelope.
Then as he stood for a moment, with the letter in his hand, he perceived
that his shirt-front was stained--with her tears.
He left the library and went towards his bedroom behind the curtained
door. He had the letter in his hand. He caught sight of Louise, Lady
Dashwood's maid, near the drawing-room door. The Warden held the letter
out to her.
"Please put this letter in Miss Scott's room," he said. "I found it
lying on the floor;" and he went back into his room.
Louise had gone to the drawing-room with a handkerchief forgotten by
Lady Dashwood. She took the letter and went upstairs to her mistress's
room, gazing at the letter as she walked. Now Louise was not a French
woman for nothing. A letter--even an open letter--passing between a male
and a female, must relate to an affair of the heart. This was
interesting--exciting! Louise felt the necessity of thinking the matter
out. Here was a pretty young lady, Miss Scott, and here was the Warden,
not indeed very young, but _tres tres bien, tres distingue_! Very well,
if the young lady was married, then well, naturally something would
happen! But she was "Miss," and that was quite other thing. Young
unmarried girls must be protected--it is so in _la belle France_.
Louise pulled the envelope apart and drew out the contents. She opened
the letter, and searched for the missive between its folds which was
destined for the hands of "Miss." There was none. Louise spread out the
letter. Her knowledge of English as a spoken language was limited, and
as a written language it was an unending puzzle.
She could, however, read the beginning and the end.
"Dear Gwen" ... and "Mother." _Hein!_
The reason why the letter had been put into her hands was just because
she could not read it.
What cunning! Without doubt, there were some additions added by the
Warden here and there to the maternal messages, which would have their
significance to "Miss." Again, what cunning!
And the Warden, so dignified and so just as he ought to be! Ah, my God,
but one never knows!
Louise folded up the letter and replaced it in its envelope.
Doubtless my Lady Dashwood was in the dark. Oh, completely! That goes
without saying. Louise had already tidied the room. There was nothing
more for her to do. She had been on the point of going down to the
servants' quarters. Should she take the letter as directed to the room
occupied by "Miss"? That was the momentous question. Now Louise was
bound hand and foot to the service of Lady Dashwood. Only for the sake
of that lady would Louise have endured the miseries of Oxford and the
taciturnity of Robinson, and the impertinence of Robinson's grandson,
Robinson aged fifteen, and the stupid solemnity of Mrs. Robinson, the
daughter-in-law of Robinson and the widowed mother of the young
Robinson.
Louise loved Lady Dashwood. Lady Dashwood was munificent and always
amiable, things very rare. Also Louise was a widow and had two children
in whom Lady Dashwood took an interest.
That Monsieur, the head of the College, should secretly communicate with
a "Miss" was a real scandal. _Propos d'amour_ are not for young ladies
who are unmarried. The Warden ought to have known better than that----
Ah, poor Lady Dashwood!
Torn between the desire to participate in an interesting affair and her
duty not to assist scandals in the family of my Lady Dashwood, Louise
stood for some time plunged in painful argument with herself. At last
her sense of duty prevailed! She would not deliver the letter. No, not
if her life depended on it. The question was---- Ah, this would be what
she would do. A brilliant idea had struck her. Louise went to the
dressing-table. It was covered with Lady Dashwood's toilet things, all
neatly arranged. On the top of the jewel drawers at one side lay two
envelopes, letters that had come by the last post and had been put aside
hurriedly by Lady Dashwood. Louise lifted these two letters and
underneath them placed the letter addressed to Miss Gwendolen Scott.
"Good!" exclaimed Louise to the empty room. "The letter is now in the
disposition of the Good God! And the Warden! All that there is of the
most as it ought to be! Ah, but it is incredible!"
Louise went to the door and put out the lights. Then she closed the door
softly behind her and went downstairs.