HONOUR
The drawing-room was empty except for the figure of Gwendolen Scott. Her
slim length was in a great easy-chair, on the arms of which she was
resting her hands, while she turned her head from side to side like a
bird that anticipates the approach of enemies.
Mrs. Dashwood and Lady Dashwood had gone upstairs, and, to her
astonishment, when she prepared to follow them, Lady Dashwood had
quietly made her wait behind for the Warden!
The command, for it seemed almost like a command, came with startling
abruptness. So Lady Dashwood knew all about it! She must have talked it
over with the Warden, and now she was arranging it as if the Warden
couldn't act without her! But the annoyance that Gwen felt at this proof
of Lady Dashwood's power was swallowed up in the sense of a great
victory, the prize was won! She was going to be really engaged at last!
All the waiting and the bother was over!
She was ready for him, at least as ready as she could be. She was glad
she had got on her white frock; on the whole, she preferred it to the
others. Even Louise, who never said anything nice, said that it suited
her.
When would he come? And when he did come, what would he do, what would
he say?
Would he come in quietly and slowly as he had done last night, looking,
oh, so strong, so capable of driving ghosts away, fears away? She would
never be afraid of anything in his presence, except perhaps of himself!
Here he was!
He came in, shut the door behind him, and advanced towards her. She
couldn't help watching him.
"You're quite alone," he said, and he came and stood by the hearth under
the portrait and leaned his hand on the mantelshelf.
"Yes," said Gwen, blushing violently. "Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Dashwood
have gone. Lady Dashwood said I was to stay up!"
"Thank you," said the Warden.
Gwen looked up at him wistfully.
"You wrote me a letter," he began, "and from it I gather that you have
been thinking over what I said the other evening."
"Yes," said Gwen; "I've been so--bothered. Oh, that's the wrong word--I
mean----"
"You have thought it over quietly and seriously?" said the Warden.
Gwen's eyes flickered. "Yes," she said; and then, as he seemed to expect
her to say more, she added:
"I don't know whether you meant----" and here she stopped dead.
"Between us there must be absolute sincerity," he said.
Gwen felt a qualm. Did absolute sincerity mean that she would have to
tell about the--the umbrella that she was going to get?
"Yes," she said, "I like sincerity; it's right, isn't it?"
He made no answer. She looked again at him wistfully.
"Suppose you tell me," he said gently, "what you yourself think of your
mother's letter in which she speaks to you with affection and pride,
and even regrets that she will lose you. Her letter conveys the idea
that you _are_ loved and wanted." He put emphasis on the "are."
"It was a nice letter," said Gwen, thinking hard as she spoke. "But you
see we haven't got any home now," she went on. "Mother stays about with
people. It is hard lines, but she is so sporting."
"Yes," said the Warden, "and," he said, as if to assist her to complete
the picture, "yet she wants you!" As he spoke his eyes narrowed and his
breath was arrested for a moment.
"Oh no," said Gwen, eagerly. "She doesn't want to prevent--me--me
marrying. You see she can't have me much, it's--it's difficult in other
people's houses--at least it sometimes is--just now especially."
"Thank you," said the Warden, "I understand." He sighed and moved
slightly from his former position. "You mean that she wants you very
much, but that she can't afford to give you a home."
"Yes," said Gwen, with relief. The way was being made very clear to her.
She was telling "the truth" and he was helping her so kindly. "You see
mother couldn't stand a small house and servant bothers. It's been such
hard luck on her, that father left nothing like what she thought he had
got. Mother has been so plucky, she really has."
"I see," said the Warden. "Then your mother's letter has your approval?"
Her approval! Yes, of course; it was simply topping of her mother to
have written in the way she did.
"It was good of mother," she said. If it hadn't been for her mother she
would not have known what to do.
The Warden moved his hand away from the mantelshelf and now stood with
his back against it, away from the blaze of the fire.
"You have never mentioned, in my presence," he said, "what you think
about the work that most girls of your age are doing for the war."
"Oh yes," said Gwen, eagerly; "mother is so keen about that. She does do
such a lot herself, and she took me away from school a fortnight before
time was up to go to a hospital for three months' training."
"And you are having a holiday and want to go on," suggested the Warden.
"No; mother thought I had better have a change. You can't think how
horrid the matron was to me--she had favourites, worse luck; and now
mother is looking--has been"--Gwen corrected herself sharply--"for
something for me to do that would be more suitable, but the difficulty
is to find anything really nice."
The Warden meditated. "Yes," he said.
Gwen continued to look at him, her face full of questioning.
"You have been thinking whether you should trust yourself to me," he
said very gravely, "and whether you could face the responsibility and
the cares of a house, a position, like that of a Warden's wife?"
"Oh yes," said Gwen.
"You think that you understand them?" he asked.
"Oh yes," said Gwen. "At least, I would try; I would do my best."
"There is nothing very amusing in my manner of life; in fact, I should
describe it as--solemn. The business," he continued, "of a Warden is to
ward his college. His wife's business is to assist him."
"I should simply love that," said Gwen. "I should really! I'm not
clever, I know, but I would try my best, and--I'm so--afraid of you,"
she said with a gulp of emotion, "and admire you so awfully!"
The Warden's face hardened a little, but Gwen did not observe it; all
she saw and knew was that the dismal part of the interview was over,
for he accepted this outburst as a definite reply on her part to his
offer. She was so glad she had said just what she had said. It seemed to
be all right.
"That is your decision?" he said, only he did not move towards her. He
stood there, standing with his back to the projection of the fireplace,
his head on a level with the frame of the portrait. The two faces, of
the present Warden of the year 1916 and the Warden of the eighteenth
century, made a striking contrast. Both men had no lack of physical
beauty, but the one had discovered the "rights" of man, and therefore of
a Warden, and the other had discovered the "duties" of men, including
Wardens.
He stood there and did not approach her. He was hesitating.
He could, if he wished it, exercise his power over her and make her
answer "No." He could make her shrink away from him, or even deny that
she had wished for an interview. And he could do this safely, for
Gwendolen herself was ignorant of the fact that he had on the previous
night exercised any influence over her except that of argument. She
would have no suspicion that he was tampering with her will for his own
purposes. He could extricate himself now and at this moment. Now, while
she was still waiting for him to tell her whether he would marry her.
The temptation was a heavy one. It was heavy, although he knew from the
first that it was one which he could and would resist. There was no real
question about it.
He stood there by the hearth, a free man still. In a moment he would be
bound hand and foot.
Still, come what may, he must satisfy his honour. He must satisfy his
honour at any price.
Gwendolen saw that he did not move and she became suddenly alarmed.
Didn't he mean to keep his promise after all? Had he taken a dislike to
her?
"Have I offended you?" she asked humbly. "You're not pleased with me.
Oh, Dr. Middleton, you do make me so afraid!" She got up from her chair,
looking very pale. "You've been so awfully kind and good to me, but you
make me frightened!" She held out her hands to him and turned her face
away, as if to hide it from him. "Oh, do be kind!" she pleaded.
He was looking at her with profound attention, but the tenseness of his
eyes had relaxed. Here was this girl. Foolish she might be naturally,
badly brought up she certainly was, but she was utterly alone in the
world. He must train her. He must oblige her to walk in the path he had
laid out for her. She, too, must become a servant of the College. He
willed it!
"I hope, Gwendolen," he said gently, "that I shall never be anything but
kind to you. But do you realise that if you are my wife, you will have
to live, not for pleasure or ease; and you will have not merely to
control yourself, but learn to control other people? This may sound
hard. Does it sound hard?"
Oh, she would try her very best. She would do whatever he told her to
do. Just whatever he told her!
Whatever he told her to do! What an unending task he had undertaken of
telling her what to do! He must never relax his will or his attention
from her. It would be no marriage for him; it would be a heavy
responsibility. But at least the College should not suffer! Was he sure
of that? He must see that it did not suffer. If he failed, he must
resign. His promise to her was not to love her. He had never spoken of
love. He had offered her a home, and he must give her a home.
He braced himself up with a supreme effort and went towards her, taking
her into his arms and kissing her brow and cheeks, and then, releasing
himself from her clinging arms, he said--
"Go now, Gwendolen. Go to bed. I have work to do."
"Are you--is it----" she stammered.
"We are engaged, if that is what you mean," he said.
"Oh, Dr. Middleton!" she exclaimed. "And may I write to my mother?"
The Warden did not answer for a moment.
That was another burden, Gwendolen's mother! The Warden's face became
hard. But he thought he knew how he should deal with Gwendolen's mother;
he should begin from the very first.
"Yes," he said; "but as to her coming here--she mentions it in her
letter--Lady Dashwood will decide about that. I don't know what her
plans are."
Gwendolen looked disappointed. "And I may talk to Lady Dashwood, to Mrs.
Dashwood, and anybody about our engagement?" she asked.
"Certainly," he said, but he spoke stiffly.
"And--and--" said the girl, following him to the door and stretching out
her hand towards his arm as she walked but not touching it,--"shall I
see you to-morrow morning before you go to town?"
The Warden felt as if he had been dealt a light but acutely painful
blow.
Shall I see you to-morrow morning? Already she was claiming her right
over him, her right to see him, to know of his movements. He had for
many years been the servant of the College. He had given the College his
entire allegiance, but he had also been its master. He had been the
strong man among weaker men, and, as all men of his type are, he had
been alone, uninterfered with, rather remote in matters concerning his
private personal life. And now this mere child demanded explanations of
him. It was a bitter moment for his pride and independence. However
strictly he might bind his wife to his will, his own freedom had gone;
he was no longer the man he had been. If this simple question, "Shall I
see you to-morrow morning?" tortured his self-respect, how would he be
able to bear what was coming upon him day by day? He had to bear it.
That was the only answer to the question!
"I am starting early," he said. "But I shall be back on Saturday, some
time in the afternoon probably."
Gwendolen's brain was in a whirl. Her desire had been consummated. The
Warden was hers, but, somehow, he was not quite what he had been on that
Monday evening. He was cold, at least rather cold. Still he was hers;
that was fixed.
She waited for a moment to see if he meant to kiss her again. He did not
mean to, he held out his hand and smiled a little.
She kissed his hand. "I shall long for you to come back," she said, and
then ran out, leaving him alone to return to his desk with a heart sick
and empty.
"There can be no cohesion, no progress in the world, no hope for the
future of man, if men break their word; if there is no such thing as
inviolable honour," the Warden said to himself, just as he had said
before. "After all, as long as honour is left, one has a right to live,
to struggle on, to endure."