PARENTAL EFFUSIONS
"Well, May," said Lady Dashwood, leaning back into her corner and
speaking in a voice of satisfaction, "we've done our duty, I hope, and
now, if you don't mind, we'll go on doing our duty and pay some calls. I
ought to call at St. John's and Wadham, and also go into the suburbs.
I've asked Mr. Bingham to dinner--just by ourselves, of course. Do you
know what his nickname is in Oxford?"
May did not know.
"It is: 'It depends on what you mean,'" said Lady Dashwood.
"Oh!" said May. "Yes, in the Socratic manner."
"I dare say," said Lady Dashwood. "What did you think of the Hardings?"
May said she didn't know.
"They are a type one finds everywhere," said Lady Dashwood.
The afternoon passed slowly away. It was the busy desolation of the
city, a willing sacrifice to the needs of war, that made both May and
Lady Dashwood sit so silently as they went first to Wadham, and then,
round through the noble wide expanse of Market Square opposite St.
John's. Then later on out into the interminable stretch of villas
beyond. By the time they returned to the Lodgings the grey afternoon
light had faded into darkness.
"Any letters?" asked Lady Dashwood, as Robinson relieved them of their
wraps.
Yes, there were letters awaiting them, and they had been put on the
table in the middle of the hall; there was a wire also. The wire was
from the Warden, saying that he would not be back to dinner.
"He's coming later," said Lady Dashwood, aloud. "Late, May!"
"Oh!" said May Dashwood.
There was a letter for Gwen. It was lying by itself and addressed in her
mother's handwriting. She laid her hand upon it and hurried up to her
room.
Lady Dashwood went upstairs slowly to the drawing-room. "H'm, one from
Belinda," she said to herself, "asking me to keep Gwen longer, I
suppose, on some absurd excuse! Well, I won't do it; she shall go on
Monday."
She turned up the electric light and seated herself on a couch at one
side of the fire. She glanced through the other letters, leaving the one
from Belinda to the last.
"Now, what does the creature want?" she said aloud, and at the sound of
her own voice, she glanced round the room. She had taken for granted
that May had been following behind her and had sat down, somewhere,
absorbed in her letters. There was no one in the room and the door was
closed. She opened the letter and began to read:
"My dear Lena,
"I am a bit taken by surprise at Gwen's news! How rapidly it must
have happened! But I have no right to complain, for it sounds just
like a real old-fashioned love at first sight affair, and I can tell
by Gwen's letter that she knows her own mind and has taken a step
that will bring her happiness. Well, I suppose there is nothing that
a mother can do--in such a case--but to be submissive and very sweet
about it!"
Lady Dashwood's hand that held the letter was trembling, and her eyes
shifted from the lines. She clung to them desperately, and read on:
"I must try and not be jealous of Dr. Middleton. I must be very
'dood.' But just at the moment it is rather sudden and overpowering
and difficult to realise. I had always thought of my little Gwen,
with her great beauty and attractiveness, mated to some one in the
big world; but perhaps it was a selfish ambition (excusable in a
mother), for the Fates had decreed otherwise, and one must say
'Kismet!' I long to come and see you all. It is impossible for me to
get away to-morrow, but I could come on Saturday. Would that suit
you? It seems like a dream--a very real dream of happiness for Gwen
and for--I suppose I must call him 'Jim.' And I must (though I
shouldn't) congratulate you on so cleverly getting my little treasure
for your brother. I know how dear he is to you.
"Yours affectionately,
"Belinda Scott."
Lady Dashwood laid the letter on her knees and sat thinking, with the
pulses in her body throbbing. A dull flush had come into her cheeks, and
just below her heart was a queer, empty, weak feeling, as if she had had
no food for a long, long while.
She moved at last and stood upon her feet.
"I will not bear it," she said aloud.
Her voice strayed through the empty room. The face of the portrait
stared out remorselessly at her with its cynical smile. All the world
had become cynical and remorseless. Lady Dashwood moved to the door and
went into the corridor. She passed Gwen's room and went to May
Dashwood's. There she knocked on the door. May's voice responded. She
had already begun to dress.
"Aunt Lena!" she exclaimed softly, as Lady Dashwood closed the door
behind her without a word and came forward to the fireplace, "what has
happened?"
Lady Dashwood held towards her a letter. "Read that," she said, and then
she turned to the fire and leaned her elbow on the mantelpiece and
clasped her hot brow in her hands. She did not look at the tall slight
figure with its aureole of auburn hair near her, and the serious sweet
face reading the letter. What she was waiting for was--help--help in her
dire need--help! She wanted May to say, "This can't be, must not be. _I_
can help you"; and yet, as the silence grew, Lady Dashwood knew that
there was no help coming--it was absurd to expect help.
May Dashwood stood quite still and read the letter through. She read it
twice, and yet said nothing.
"Well!" said Lady Dashwood, her voice muffled. As no reply came, she
glanced round. "You have read the letter?" she asked.
"Yes," said May, "I've read it," and she laid the letter on the
mantelpiece. There was a curious movement of her breathing--as if
something checked it; otherwise her face was calm and she showed no
emotion.
"What's to be done?" demanded Lady Dashwood.
"Nothing can be done," said May, and she spoke breathlessly.
"Nothing!" exclaimed Lady Dashwood. "May!"
"Nothing, not if it is his wish," said May Dashwood, and she cleared her
throat and moved away.
"If he knew, it would not be his wish," said Lady Dashwood. "If he knew
about the other letter; if he knew what those women were like! Of
course," she went on, "men are such fools, that he might think he was
rescuing her from Belinda! But," she burst out suddenly, yet very
quietly, "can't he see that Gwen has no moral backbone? Can't he see
that she's a lump of jelly? No, he can't see anything;" then she turned
round again to the fire. "Society backs up fraud in marriage. People
will palm off a girl who drinks or who shows signs of inherited insanity
with the shamelessness of horse-dealers. 'The man must look out for
himself,' they say. Very well," said Lady Dashwood, pulling herself up
to her full height, "I am going to do--whatever can be done." But she
did not _feel_ brave.
May had walked to the dressing-table and was taking up brushes and
putting them down again without using them. She took a stopper out of a
bottle, and then replaced it.
Lady Dashwood stood looking at her, looking at the bent head silently.
Then she said suddenly: "This letter was posted when?" She suddenly
became aware that the envelope was missing. She had thrown it into the
fire in the drawing-room or dropped it. It didn't matter--it was written
last night. "Gwen must have posted her news at the latest yesterday
morning by the first post. Then when could it have happened? He never
saw her for a moment between dinner on Monday, when you arrived, and
when she must have posted her letter." Lady Dashwood stared at her
niece. "It must have happened before you arrived."
"No," said May. "He must have _written_--you see;" and she turned round
and looked straight at Lady Dashwood for the first time since she read
that letter.
"Written that same night, Monday, after Mr. Boreham left?"
May moved her lips a moment and turned away again.
"I don't believe it," said Lady Dashwood.
"If it is his wish--if he is in love," said May slowly, "you can do
nothing!"
"He is not in love with her," said Lady Dashwood, with a short bitter
laugh. "If she speaks to me about it before his return, I--well, I shall
know what to say. But she won't speak; she knows I read the first
sentences of her mother's letter, and being the daughter of her
mother--that is, having no understanding of 'honour'--she will take for
granted that I read more--that I read that letter through."
May remained silent. Just then the dressing gong sounded, and Lady
Dashwood went to the door.
"May, I am going to dress," she said. "I shall fight this affair; for if
it hadn't been for me, Jim would still be a free man."
May looked at her again fixedly.
"What shall you say to Lady Belinda?" she asked.
"I shall say nothing to Belinda--just now," said Lady Dashwood. "The
letter may be--a lie!"
"Suppose she comes on Saturday?" said May.
Lady Dashwood's eyes flickered. "She can't come on Saturday," she said
slowly. "There is no room for her, while you are here; the other
bedrooms are not furnished. You"--here Lady Dashwood's voice became
strangely cool and commanding--"you stay here, May, till Monday! I must
go and dress."
May did not reply. Lady Dashwood paused to listen to her silence--a
silence which was assent, and then she left the room as rapidly and
quietly as she had entered.
Outside, the familiar staircase looked strange and unsympathetic, like
territory lost to an enemy and possessed by that enemy--ruined and
distorted to some disastrous end. Some disastrous end! The word "end"
made Lady Dashwood stop and to think about it. Would this engagement
that threatened to end in marriage, affect her brother's career in
Oxford?
It might! He might find it impossible to be an efficient Warden, if
Gwendolen was his wife! There was no telling what she might not do to
make his position untenable.
Lady Dashwood went up the short stair that led to the other bedrooms.
She passed Gwendolen's door. What was the girl inside that room thinking
of? Was she triumphant?
Had Lady Dashwood been able to see within that room, she would have
found Gwendolen moving about restlessly. She had thrown her hat and
outdoor things on the bed and was vaguely preparing to dress for dinner.
Mrs. Potten had not said one word about asking her to come on
Monday--not one word; but it didn't matter--no, not one little bit!
Nothing mattered now!
A letter lay on her dressing-table. From time to time Gwendolen came up
to the dressing-table and glanced at the letter and then glanced at her
own face in the mirror.
The letter was as follows:--
"My Darling little girl,
"What you tell me puts me in a huge whirl of surprise and excitement.
I suppose I am a very vain mother when I say that I am not one little
bit astonished that Dr. Middleton proposes to marry you. But you must
not imagine for a moment that I think you were foolish in listening
to his offer. For many reasons, a very young pretty girl is safer
under the protection and care of a man a good deal older than
herself. Dr. Middleton in his prominent position in Oxford would not
promise to share his life and his home with you unless he really
meant to make you very, very happy, darling. May your future life as
mistress of the Lodgings be a veritable day-dream. Tell him how much
I long to come; but I can't till Saturday as I have promised to help
Bee with a concert on Friday; it is an engagement of honour, and you
know one must play up trumps. I rush this off to the post. My love,
darling,
"Your own
"Mother."
Gwen had found a slip of paper folded in the letter, on which was
written in pencil, "Of course you are engaged. Dr. Middleton is pledged
to you. Tear up this slip of paper as soon as you have read it, and give
my letter to you to the Warden to read. This is all-important. Let me
know when you have given it to him."
Gwen had read and had burned the slip of paper, and had even poked the
ashes well into the red of the fire.
When that was done, she had walked about the room excitedly.
How was it possible to dress quietly when the world had suddenly become
so dreadfully thrilling? So, after all her doubt and despair, after all
her worry, she was engaged. It was all right! All she had to do was to
give her mother's letter to the Warden and the matter was concluded. She
was going to be Mrs. Middleton, and mistress of the Lodgings. How
thrilling! How splendid it was of her mother to make it so plain and
easy! And yet, how was she to put the letter into the Warden's hands?
What was she to say when she handed the letter to him?
When Louise appeared to attend to Gwen's dress, she found that young
lady fastening up her black tresses with hands that showed suppressed
excitement, and her eyes and cheeks were glowing.
She turned and glanced at Louise. "I'm late, as usual, I suppose," she
said and laughed.
"Mademoiselle has the appearance of being _tres gaie ce soir_," said
Louise.
"Oh, not particularly," said Gwen; "only my hair won't go right; it's a
beast, and refuses," and she laughed again.
When she was Mrs. Middleton she would have a maid of her own, not a
French maid. They were a nuisance, and looked shabby. Yes, she dared
think of being engaged and of being married. It wasn't a dream: it was
all real. She would buy a dog, a small little thing, and she would tie
its front hair with a big orange bow and carry it about in her arms
everywhere. It would be lovely to be dressed in a filmy tea-gown with
the dog in her arms, and she would rise to meet callers and say, "I'm so
sorry--the Warden isn't at home; but you know how busy he is," etc.,
etc., and the men who called would pull the dog's ears and say "Lucky
beggar!" and she would scold them for hurting her darling, darling pet,
and she would sit in the best place in the Chapel, wearing the most
cunning hats, and she would appear not to see that she was being
admired.
In this land of fairy dreams the Warden hovered near as a vague shadowy
presence: he was there, but only as a name is over a shop window,
something that marks its identity but has little to do with the delights
to be bought within.
And why shouldn't she imagine all this? There was the letter to be given
to the Warden--that must be done first. She must think that over.
Louise's presence suggested a plan. Suppose the Warden came home so late
that she didn't see him? She would write a tiny note and put her
mother's letter within it, and send it down to the library by Louise.
That would be far easier than speaking to him. So much easier did it
seem to Gwen, that she determined to go to bed very early, so that she
should escape meeting the Warden.
And what should she write in her little note?
How exciting the world was; how funny it was going down into the
drawing-room and meeting Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Dashwood, both looking
so innocent, knowing nothing of the great secret! How funny it was going
down to the great solemn dining-room, entered by its double doors--her
dining-room--and sitting at table, thinking all the time that the whole
house really belonged to her, and that she would in future sit in Lady
Dashwood's chair! How deliciously exciting, indeed! All the plate and
glass on the table was really hers. Old Robinson and young Robinson were
really her servants. What a shock for Lady Dashwood when she found out!
Gwen's eyes were luminous as she looked round the table. How envious
some people would be of her! Mrs. Dashwood would not be pleased! For all
her clever talk, Mrs. Dashwood had not done much. What a bustle there
would be when the secret was discovered, when the Warden announced: "I
am engaged to Miss Scott, Miss Gwendolen Scott!" How young, how awfully
young to be a Warden's wife! What an excitement!
During dinner, Lady Dashwood told Robinson to keep up a good fire in the
library, as the Warden would probably arrive at about a quarter to
eleven.
That decided Gwen. She would go to bed at ten, and that would give her
time to write her little note and get it taken to the library before the
Warden arrived home. He would find it there, awaiting him.
Dinner passed swiftly, though the two ladies were rather dull and
silent. Gwen had so much to think of that she ate almost without knowing
that she was eating. When they went upstairs to the drawing-room, the
time went much more slowly, for there was nothing to do. Lady Dashwood
and Mrs. Dashwood both took up books, and seemed to sink back into the
very depths of their chairs, and disappear. It was very dismal. Perhaps
Lady Dashwood hadn't read _that_ letter all through. Anyhow she had not
been able to interfere. That was clear!
Gwen went and fetched the book on Oxford, and read half a page of it,
and when she had mastered that, she discovered that she had read it
before. So she was no farther on for all her industry. How slowly the
hands of the clock on the mantelpiece moved; how interminable the time
was! Everybody was so silent that the clock could be heard ticking. That
Lady Dashwood hadn't been able to interfere and make mischief with the
Warden, showed how little power she had after all.
At last the clock struck ten, and Gwen got up from her chair.
"Ten," said Mrs. Dashwood, and she raised her face from her book.
"Ten," said Lady Dashwood.
"Yes, ten," said Gwendolen. "I think I'll go to bed, Lady Dashwood, if
you don't mind."
"Do, my dear," said Lady Dashwood.
The girl stood up before her, slim and straight as an arrow. Both women
sat and looked at her, and she glanced at both of them in silence. Her
very beauty stung Lady Dashwood and made her eyes harden as she looked
at the girl. What were May Dashwood's thoughts as she, too, leaning back
in her large chair, looked at the dark hair and the flushed cheeks, the
white brow and neck, the radiant pearly prettiness of eighteen!
Gwen was conscious that they were examining her; that they knew she was
pretty--they could not deny her prettiness. She felt a glow of pride in
her youth and in her power--her power over a man who commanded other
men. And this drawing-room was hers. She glanced at the portrait over
the fireplace.
"Mr. Thing-um-bob," she said dimpling, "is looking very sly this
evening."
May Dashwood took up her book again and turned over a few pages, as if
she had lost her place. Lady Dashwood did not smile or speak. Gwen made
a movement nearer to Lady Dashwood.
"Good night," she said. She seemed to have a sudden intention of bending
down, perhaps to kiss Lady Dashwood. Vague thoughts possessed the girl
that this rather incomprehensible and imposing elderly woman, who wore
such nice rings, was going to be a relation of hers. Would she be her
sister-in-law? How funny to have anybody so old for a sister-in-law! It
was a good thing she had, after all, so little influence over Dr.
Middleton.
"Good night, Gwen," said Lady Dashwood, without appearing to notice the
girl's movement towards her. "Sleep well, child," she added and she
turned her head towards May Dashwood.
Gwen hesitated a brief moment, and then walked away. "I always sleep
well," she said, with a laugh. "I once thought it would be so nice to
wake up in the night, because one would know how comfy one was. But I
did wake once--for about a quarter of an hour--and I soon got tired and
hated it!"
At the door she turned and said, "Good night, Mrs. Dashwood. I quite
forgot--how rude of me!"
"Good night," said May.
The door closed.
Lady Dashwood stared deeply at her book, and then raised her eyes
suddenly to her niece.
May had risen from her chair. "Do you mind, dear Aunt Lena, if I go off
too?" She came close to Lady Dashwood and laid a caressing hand on her
shoulder.
Lady Dashwood looked up into her face, and May was startled at the
expression of suffering in the eyes.
"Go, dear, if you want to! I shall stay up--till he comes in. Yes, go,
May!"
"You won't feel lonely?" said May, and she sighed without knowing that
she did so.
"No," said Lady Dashwood.
May bent down and kissed her aunt's brow. It was burning hot. She
caressed her cheek with her hand, then kissed her again and went out. As
May met the cooler air of the staircase, she murmured to herself, "I'm a
coward to leave her alone--alone when she is so wretched. Oh, what a
coward I am!"
She shivered as she went up the stairs, and as soon as she was in her
own room she put up the lights, and then she locked the door, and having
done this she took off her dress and put on her dressing-gown. She sat
down by the fire. How was she to stay on here till Monday: how was she
to endure it? It would be intolerable! May groaned aloud. What right had
she to call it intolerable? What had happened to her? What was
demoralising her, turning her strength into weakness? What was it that
had entered into her soul and was poisoning its health and destroying
its purpose?
A few days ago and she had been steadily pursuing her work. She had been
stifling her sorrow, and filling the vacancy of her life with voluntary
labour. Having no child of her own, she had been filling her empty arms
with the children of other women. She had fed and nursed and loved
babies that would never call her "Mother." She had had no time to think
of herself--no time for regrets--for self-pity. And now, suddenly, her
heart that had been quieted and comforted, her heart that had seemed
quieted and comforted, her heart dismissed all this tender and sacred
work and cried for something else--cried and would not be appeased. She
felt as if all that she had believed fixed and certain in herself and in
her life, was shaken and might topple over, and in the disaster her
soul might be destroyed. She was appalled at herself.
No, no; she must wrestle with this sin, with this devil of self; she
must fight it!
She got up from her chair and went to the dressing-table. There she took
up with a trembling hand a little ivory case, and going back to her seat
she opened it reverently and looked at the face of her boy husband.
There he was in all the bloom of his twenty and six years. It was a
young pleasant face. And he had been such a comrade of her childhood and
girlhood. But strangely enough he had never seen the gulf widening
between them as she grew into a woman older than her years and he into a
man, young for his years; boyish in his view of life, mentally immature.
He was quite unconscious that he never met the deeper wants of her
nature; those depths meant nothing to him. There had been a tacit
understanding between them from their childhood that they should marry;
an understanding encouraged by their parents. When at last May found out
her mistake; that this bondage was irksome and her heart unsatisfied, he
had suddenly thrown the responsibility of his happiness, of his very
life, upon her shoulders, not by threats of vengeance on himself, but by
falling from his usual buoyant cheerfulness into a state of
uncomplaining despondency.
May had had more than her share of men's admiration. Her piquancy and
ready sympathy more even than her good looks attracted them. But she had
gone on her way heart whole, and meanwhile she could not endure to see
her old comrade unhappy.
They became formally engaged and he returned to his old careless
cheerfulness. He was no longer a pathetic object, and she was a little
disappointed and yet ashamed of her disappointment. Why should she have
vague "wants" in her nature--these luxuries of the pampered soul? The
face she now gazed upon, figured in the little ivory frame, was of a
man, not over-wise, a man who was occupied with the enjoyment of life,
yet without sinister motives. During those brief six months of married
life, he had leant upon her, delighted and yet amused at her sterner
virtues; and yet this man, not strong, not wise, when the call of duty
came, when that ancient call to manhood, the call to rise up and meet
the enemy, when that call came, he went out not shrinking, but with all
honourable eagerness and fearlessness to offer his life. And his life
was taken.
So that he whom in life she had never looked to for moral help, had
become to her--in death--something sacred and unapproachable. In her
first fresh grief she had asked herself bitterly what she--in her young
womanhood--had ever offered to humanity? Nothing at all comparable to
his sacrifice! Had she ever offered anything at all? Had she not, from
girlhood, taken all the joys that life put in her way, and taken them
for granted?
She had been aware of an underworld of misery, suffering and vice, had
seen glimpses of it, heard its sounds breaking in upon her serenity. She
had, like the travelling Levite, observed, noted, and had gone about her
own business. So with passionate self-reproach she had thrown herself
into work among the neglected children of the poor, and had tried to
still the clamour of her conscience and fill the emptiness of her heart.
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.