DIFFERENT VIEWS
The Lodgings at King's were built at a period when the college demanded
that its Warden should be a bachelor and a divine, and it contained
neither morning-room nor boudoir. The Warden's breakfast-room was used
by Lady Dashwood for both purposes.
It was not such an inconvenient arrangement, because the Warden, as the
war advanced, had reduced his breakfast till it was now little more than
the continental "petit dejeuner," and it could be as rapidly removed as
it was brought in.
The breakfast-room was a small room and had no academic dignity, it was
what Mrs. Robinson called "cosy." It was badly lighted by one window,
and that barred, looking into the quadrangle. The walls were wainscoted.
One or two pictures brightened it, landscapes in water-colour that had
been bought by the Warden long ago for his rooms when he was a college
tutor.
At the breakfast table on the morning following Gwendolen's brief
interview with the Barber's ghost, her place was empty.
No one remarked on her absence. The Warden came in as if nothing had
happened on the previous night. He did not even ask the ladies how they
had slept, or if they had slept. He appeared to have forgotten all about
last night, and he seated himself at the table and began opening his
letters.
Mrs. Dashwood gave him one furtive glance when he came in and responded
to his salutation. Then she also sat in silence and looked over her
letters. She was making a great effort not to mind what happened to her,
not to feel that outside these few rooms in a corner of an ancient
college, all the world stretched like a wilderness. And this effort made
her face a little wan in the morning light.
Lady Dashwood poured out the coffee with a hand that was not quite as
steady as usual, but she, too, made no reference to the events of last
night. Nobody, of course, had slept but Gwendolen, and Gwendolen had
awakened from her sleep fresh and rosy.
It was only after several minutes had passed that Lady Dashwood remarked
across the table to the Warden--
"I have kept Gwendolen in bed for breakfast, not because she is ill, she
is perfectly well, but because I want her to be alone, and to understand
that she has completely got over her little hysterical fit and is
sensible again."
The Warden looked up and then down again at his letters and said, "Yes!"
Lady Dashwood went on with her breakfast. She evidently did not expect
any discussion. She had merely wished to make some reference to the
occurrence of last night in such a way as not to reopen the subject, but
to close the subject--for ever.
"Is it your club morning?" asked the Warden, as he looked over his
letters.
"Yes," said Lady Dashwood.
"I'll come and help you to cut out," said May. "I'm an old hand."
"Why should you come?" said Lady Dashwood. "This is your holiday, and
it's short enough."
She thought that the Warden noted the words, "short enough."
"I shall come," said May, and glancing at her aunt as she spoke, she now
fancied her grown a little thinner in the face since last night only
that it was impossible. The lines in the face were accentuated by want
of sleep, it was that that made her face look thinner.
"I shall take Gwen," said Lady Dashwood. "She can hand us scissors and
pins, and can pick up the bits." She spoke quite boldly and quietly of
Gwendolen, and met May's eye without a flicker. "Our plan, May, is to
get these young mothers and teach them at least how to make and mend
their clothes. It isn't war work. It's 'after the war' work. Those young
mothers who have done factory work, know nothing about anything. We must
get something into their noddles. Two or three ladies will be there this
morning, and we shall get all the work ready for the next club
meeting--mothers and babies. Babies are entertained in a separate room.
We have tea and one half-hour's reading; the rest of the time gossip.
Oh, how they do talk!"
"How much do you expect to get from the Sale of work to-day for your
club?" asked May, avoiding the Warden's eye when he put out his hand to
her for the cup of coffee that she was passing him.
"Not very much," said Lady Dashwood, "but enough, I hope."
A moment later and Lady Dashwood was opening her letters.
"Mr. Boreham," she remarked suddenly, "is bringing Mrs. Potten in to the
Sale. He is the last person I should expect to meet at a Sale of work in
aid of a mother's club."
The Warden raised his eyes and apparently addressed the coffee-pot
across the table.
"Boreham is usually suspicious of anything that is organised by what he
calls 'respectable people.'" Then he looked round at May Dashwood for
the first time. The reason why Boreham was going to drive Mrs. Potten in
to the Sale of work was obvious both to him and to Lady Dashwood. May
did not meet the Warden's eye, though she was tinglingly conscious that
they rested on her face.
"I object," she said, imitating Boreham's voice, "not only to the
respectable members of the British public, but to the British public in
general. I am irritated with and express my animosity to the people
around me with frankness and courage. But I have no inimical feelings
towards people whom I have never met. Them I respect and love. Their
institutions, of which I know nothing, I honour."
The Warden's lips parted with a smile, as if the smile was wrung from
him, but May did not smile. She was still making her effort, and was
looking down into her plate, her eyebrows very much raised, as if she
was contemplating there the portrait of somebody with compassionate
interest.
Lady Dashwood saw the Warden's smile, and saw him lean forward to look
at the downcast face of May, as if to note every detail of it.
Well into the early morning Lady Dashwood had lain awake thinking, and
listening mechanically to the gentle breathing of the girl beside her,
and thinking--thinking of May's strange exhibition of emotion. Was
May----? No--that made things worse than ever--that made the irony of
her brother's fate more acute! That was a tragic thought! But it was
just this tragic thought that made Lady Dashwood now at the breakfast
table observe with a subtle keenness of observation and yet without
seeming to observe, or even to look. She sat there, absorbing May,
absorbing the Warden, measuring them, weighing them while she tried to
eat a piece of toast, biting it up as if she had pledged herself to
reduce it to the minutest fragments.
"Perhaps I'm not fair to Mr. Boreham," said May, shaking her head. "But
I am an ignoramus. How can one," she said smiling, but keeping her
eyelids still downcast, "how can one combine the bathing of babies and
feeding them, the dressing and undressing of them, the putting them to
bed and getting them up again, with any culture (spelt with a 'c'). I
get only a short and rather tired hour of leisure in the evening in
which to read?"
"You do combine them," he said, still bending towards her with the same
tense look. "Only one woman in a thousand would."
The colour had slightly risen in May's face, and now it died away, for
she was aware that no sooner were the last words spoken than the Warden
seemed to regret them. At least he stiffened himself and looked away
from her, stared at nothing in particular and then put out his hand to
take a piece of toast, making that simple action seem as if it were a
protest of resolute indifference to her.
May felt as if his hand had struck her. She had partly succeeded in her
effort and she had refused to glance at him. But she had not succeeded
in thinking of something else, and now this simple movement of his hand
made thoughts of him burn in her brain. Why did this man, with all his
erudition, with his distinction, with all his force of character, his
wide sympathies and his curious influence over others, why did this man
with all his talk (and this she said bitterly) about life and death--and
yes--about eternity, why did he bind himself hand and foot to a selfish
and shallow girl? He who talked of life and of death, could he not stand
the test of life himself?
The Warden rose from the table the moment that he had finished and
looked at his sister. She had put her letters aside and appeared to have
fallen into a heavy preoccupation with her own thoughts.
"Can I see you--afterwards--for a moment in the library, Lena?" he
asked.
Lady Dashwood's tired face flushed.
"I will come very soon," she said, and she pushed her chair back a
little, as if to cover her embarrassment, and looked at her niece.
"May," she said, in a voice that did not quite conceal her trouble, "we
ought to start at a quarter to ten. That will give us two clear hours
for our work."
May bent her head in assent. Neither of them was thinking of the Club.
They could hear the Warden close the door behind him. Then Lady Dashwood
rose and casting a silent look at May, went out of the room.
In the library a fitful sunshine was coming and going from a clouded
sky. The curtains were drawn back and there seemed nothing in the room
that could have justified even a hysterical girl in imagining a ghost.
The Warden had left the door open, for he heard his sister coming up the
stairs behind him.
Lady Dashwood came in, and she began speaking at once to cover her
apprehension of the interview. "A funny sort of a day," she began. "I
hope it will keep up for this afternoon."
The Warden had gone to one of the windows, and he moved at the sound of
her voice.
"Mrs. Harding," she said, "has written to ask us to come in to tea, as
she's so near. It is convenient, as we shall only have to walk a few
steps from our Sale, so I am going to accept by telephone."
The Warden came towards her, and taking a little case from his pocket,
handed her some notes. "Will you spend that for me at your Sale?"
That was not his reason for the interview! Lady Dashwood took the notes
and put them into her bag, and then waited a moment.
"I may possibly have to go to the Deanery this afternoon," he said, and
then he paused too.
"Very well," said Lady Dashwood. They both were painfully aware that
this also was not what he wanted to say.
"Please let me have my lunch early, at a quarter to one," he said.
"I have asked Mr. Bingham here to dinner on Saturday, he seemed to
interest May, and, well, of course, it is not a lively holiday for her
just now."
Lady Dashwood's eyes were on him as she spoke. He seemed not to hear. He
went up to his desk and turned over some papers, nervously, and he was a
man who rarely showed any nervousness in his movements.
Then he suddenly said: "Gwendolen has practically accepted my offer."
And he did not turn round and look at his sister.
It had come! She knew it was coming, and yet it was as keenly painful as
if she had been wholly unprepared.
"I can't delay our engagement," he said. "I must speak to her
to-day--some time."
Then he moved so as to face his sister, and their eyes met. Misery was
plainly visible in hers, in his the fixed determination to ignore that
misery.
"May I ask you one question?" she began in a shaky voice.
He made no reply, but waited in silence for the question.
"When did it happen? I've no right to ask, dear, but tell me when did it
happen?"
There was a strange look of conflict in his face that he was unable to
control. "On Monday, just before dinner," he said, and he took some
papers from the desk as if he were about to read them. Then he put them
down again and took out his cigar case.
Lady Dashwood walked slowly to the door. When she reached it, she
turned.
"No man," she said, still with an unsteady voice, "is bound to carry
out a promise made in a reckless moment, against his better judgment, a
promise which involves the usefulness of his life. As to Belinda, I
suppose I must endure the presence of that woman next week; I must
endure it, because I hadn't the sense--the foresight--to prevent her
putting a foot in this house."
The Warden's face twitched.
"Am I expecting too much from you, Lena?" he asked.
"Expecting too much!" Lady Dashwood made her way blindly to the door. "I
have wrecked your life by sheer stupidity, and I am well punished." At
the door she stayed. "Of course, Jim, I shall now back you up, through
thick and thin."
She went out and stood for a moment, her head throbbing. She had said
all. She had spoken as she had never spoken in her life before, she had
said her last word. Now she must be silent and go through with it all
unless--unless--something happened--unless some merciful accident
happened to prevent it. She went downstairs again and crossed the hall
to the door of the breakfast-room. May was still there, holding a
newspaper in her hands, apparently reading it.
Lady Dashwood walked straight in, and then said quietly: "They are
practically engaged." She saw the paper in May's hand quiver.
"Yes," said May, without moving her paper. "Of course."
Her voice sounded small and hard. Lady Dashwood moved about as if to
arrange something, and then stood at the dull little window looking out
miserably, seeing nothing.
"I wonder--I hope, you won't be vexed with me. Aunt Lena," began May.
"You won't be angry----"
"I couldn't be angry with you," said Lady Dashwood briefly, "but----"
She did not move, she kept her back to her niece.
"I want you to let me go away rather earlier than Monday," said May, and
speaking without looking towards her aunt. "I think I ought to go. The
fact is----"
Lady Dashwood turned round and came to her niece. "Do you think I am a
selfish woman?" she asked. There was a strange note of purpose in her
voice.
May shook her head and tried to smile. She did smile at last.
"Then, May," said Lady Dashwood, "I am going to be selfish now. I ask
you to stop till Monday, and help me to get through what I have to get
through, even if you stay at some sacrifice to yourself. Jim has
decided, so I must support him. That's clear."
May stared hard at the paper that was still in her hand, though she had
ceased to read it.
"As you wish, dear aunt," she said, and turned away.
"Thanks," said Lady Dashwood, in a low voice. "I shall be ready to start
in a few minutes," she went on, looking at her watch. Then she added
bitterly, "I'm not going to talk about it any more, but I must say one
thing. When you first shook hands with Jim he was already a pledged man.
He is capable of yearning for the moon, but he has decided to put up
with a penny bun;" here she laughed a hard painful laugh. "Nobody cares
but I," she added. "I have said all I can say to him, and I am now going
to be silent."
The door of the breakfast-room was slightly open and they could hear the
sound of steps outside in the hall, steps they both knew.
The Warden was in the hall. Lady Dashwood listened, and then called out
to him: "Jim!" Her voice now raised was a little husky, but quite calm.
They could hear the swish of a gown and the Warden was there, looking at
them. He was in his gown and hood, and held his cap in his hand. He was
at all times a notable figure, but the long robe added to the dignity of
his appearance. His face was very grave.
"May has not seen the cathedral," said Lady Dashwood quietly, as if she
had forgotten their interview in the library, "and we shall be close to
Christ Church. Our Sale, you know."
"Oh," said May, slowly and doubtfully, and not looking as if she were
really concerned in the matter.
"May ought to see the cathedral, Jim," said Lady Dashwood, "so, if you
do happen to be going to Christ Church, would you have time to take her
over it and make the proper learned observations on it, which I can't
do, to save my life?"
The Warden's eyes were now fixed on May. "You would like to see it?" he
asked.
"You, May," said Lady Dashwood. It seemed necessary to make it very
clear to May that they were both talking about her.
"I?" said May, with her eyes downcast. "Oh, please don't trouble. You
mustn't when you're so busy. I can see the cathedral any time. I really
like looking at churches--quite alone."
The Warden's blue eyes darkened, but May did not see them, she had
raised her paper and was smiling vaguely at the print.
The Warden said, "As you like, Mrs. Dashwood. But I am not too busy to
show you anything in Oxford you want to see."
"Thank you," said May, vaguely. "Thanks so much! Some time when you are
less busy, I shall ask you to show me something."
The Warden looked at her for a more definite reply. She seemed to be
unaware that he was waiting for it, and when she heard the movement of
his robes, and his steps and then the hall-door close, she looked round
the room and said "Oh!" again vaguely, and then she raised her eyebrows
as if surprised.
Lady Dashwood made no remark, she left the room and went into the hall.
The irony of the situation was growing more and more acute, but there
was nothing to be done but to keep silence.
Another step was coming down the stairs, steps made by a youthful wearer
of high heels. It was Gwendolen.
She looked just a little serious, but otherwise there was no trace on
her blooming countenance of last night's tragedy. A little lump on her
head was all that remained to prove that she really had been frightened
and really and truly had stupidly thought there was something to be
frightened of. Gwen constantly put her finger up to feel the lump on her
head, and as she did so she thought agreeably of the Warden.
"You see I'm not a bit frightened," she said, and her cheeks dimpled.
"When I passed near the library, I thought of Dr. Middleton."
"You understand, don't you, Gwen," said Lady Dashwood, "that I don't
want any talk about 'a ghost,' even though, you are now quite sensible
about it. I don't think the Robinsons are silly, but Louise and the
other two are like children, and must be treated as such."
"Oh no," said Gwen, innocently, "I won't!" And she meant what she said.
It was true that she had just hinted at something, perhaps she even used
the word "ghost," to the housemaid that morning, but she had made her
promise faithfully not to repeat what she had heard, so it was all
right.
"We start at half-past ten," said Lady Dashwood.
Gwen said she would be punctual. Her face was full of mysterious and
subdued pleasure when she looked into the breakfast-room to see if by
any chance Mrs. Dashwood was still there. The girl's fancy was excited
by the Warden's behaviour last night. She kept on thinking of his face
in the lamp light. It looked very severe and yet so gentle. She was
actually falling in love with him, so she said to herself. The Barber's
ghost was no longer alarming, but something to recall with a thrill of
interest, as it led on to the Warden. She was burning to talk about the
Warden. She was so glad she had delivered her letter to the Warden. He
would be simply obliged to speak some time to-day. How exciting! Now,
was Mrs. Dashwood in the breakfast-room? Yes, there she was, standing in
the window with a newspaper in her hand.
"Oh, good morning," said Gwen, brightly. "I must thank you for having
been so awfully sweet to me last night. It was funny, wasn't it, my
getting that fright? I really and truly was frightened, till Dr.
Middleton came up and told me I needn't. Isn't he wonderful?" Here
Gwen's voice sank into a confidential whisper.
Mrs. Dashwood said "Yes" in a lingering voice, and she seemed about to
go.
"I do think he is the nicest man I have ever met," said Gwen hurriedly,
"don't you? But then, of course, I have reason to think so, after last
night. It must have looked queer, I mean to any one merely looking on.
How I _did_ sleep!" Then after a moment she said: "Don't you think he is
very good-looking? Now, do tell me, Mrs. Dashwood! I promise you I won't
repeat it."
"He is a very charming man," said May, "that is obvious."
"Wasn't it silly of me to think of the Barber's ghost--especially as it
only appears when some disaster happens to the Warden? I mean that is
the story. Now the Warden is perfectly well this morning, I
particularly asked, though I knew he would be, of course. Now, if there
had been a real ghost, he ought to die to-day, or perhaps to-morrow.
Isn't it all funny?" Then, as there came another pause, Gwendolen added,
"I suppose it couldn't mean that he might die in a week's time--or six
months perhaps?" and her voice was a little anxious.
"Death isn't the only disaster," said May, "that can happen to a man."
"Don't you think it's about the worst?" said Gwen. "Worse even than
losing lots of money. You see, if you are once dead, there you are! But
I needn't bother--there was no ghost."
"No, there was no ghost," said Mrs. Dashwood, and she laid her paper
down on a side table.
Gwen felt that she had not had a fair chance of a talk. In the absence
of anybody really young it was some comfort to talk to Mrs. Dashwood.
She much preferred Mrs. Dashwood to Lady Dashwood. Lady Dashwood was
sometimes "nasty," since that letter affair. Fortunately she had not
been able to _do_ anything nasty. She had not been able to make the
Warden nasty.
Gwen stood watching May, and then said in a low voice to detain her: "I
wish mother would come!"
"Do you expect her?" asked May, turning round and facing the girl.
"I do and I don't and I do," said Gwen. "That sounds jolly vague, I
know, and please don't even say to Lady Dashwood that I mentioned it.
You won't, will you? It jumped out of my mouth. Things do sometimes."
May smiled a little.
"Mother is so plucky," said Gwen; "I'm sure you'd like her--you really
would, and she would like you. She doesn't by any means like everybody.
She's very particular, but I think she would like you."
May smiled again, and this gave Gwen complete confidence.
"Our relations, you know, have really been a bit stingy," she said. "Too
bad, isn't it, and there's been a bother about my education. Of course,
mother needn't have sent me to school at all, only she's so keen on
doing all she can for me, much more keen than our relations have been.
Why, would you believe it, Uncle Ted, my father's youngest brother, who
is a parson in Essex, has been saving! What I mean is that the Scotts
ain't a bit well off--isn't it hard lines? You see I tell you all this,
I wouldn't to anybody else. Well, Uncle Ted had saved for years for his
only son--for Eton and Oxford: I don't think he'd ever given mother a
penny. Wasn't that rather hard luck on mother?"
May said "Oh!" in a tone that was neutral.
"Well, but I'll explain," said Gwen, eagerly, "and you'll see. When poor
Ted was killed, almost at once in the war, there was all the Oxford
money still there. Mother knew about it, and said it couldn't be less
than five hundred pounds, and might be more. And mother just went to
them and spoke ever so nicely about poor Ted being killed--it was such
horrid luck on Uncle Ted--and then she just asked ever so quietly if she
might borrow some of the Oxford money, as there would be no use for it
now. She didn't even ask them to give it, she only asked to borrow, and
she thought they would like it to be used for the last two years of my
school, it would be such a nice thought for them. And would you believe
it, they were quite angry and refused! So mother thought they ought to
know how mean it was of them. She is so plucky! So she told them that
they had no sympathy with anybody but themselves, and didn't care about
any Scott except their own Ted, who was dead and couldn't come to life
again, however much they hoarded. Mother does say things so straight.
She is so sporting! But wasn't it horrid for her to have to do it?"
May had gradually moved to the door ready to go out. Now she opened it.
So this was the young woman to whom the Warden had bound himself, and
this was his future mother-in-law!
May left the breakfast-room abruptly and without a word.
She mounted the stairs swiftly. She wanted to be alone. As the servants
were still moving about upstairs, she went into the drawing-room.
There was no one there but that living portrait of Stephen Langley, and
he was looking at her across the wide space between them with an almost
imperceptible sneer--so she thought.