THE ANXIETIES OF LOUISE
The one definite thought in May's mind now was that she must leave
Oxford before the Warden's return. A blind instinct compelled her to
take this course.
It was not easy for her to say to Lady Dashwood quite unconcernedly:
"You won't mind my running away to-morrow, will you? You won't mind if I
run off, will you? All your troubles are over, and I do want to get back
to-morrow. I have lots of things to do--to get ready before Monday."
It was not easy to say all this, but May did say it. She said it in the
corridor as they were bidding each other good night.
Lady Dashwood's surprise was painful. "I do mind your running off," she
said, and she looked a little bewildered. "Must you go to-morrow? Must
you? To-morrow!"
Lady Dashwood had talked a great deal, both before May went into
Gwendolen's room and afterwards, when May came back again to the
drawing-room. May had told the reason for her long absence from the
drawing-room, but in an abstracted manner; and Lady Dashwood, observing
this, looked long and wistfully at her, but had asked no questions. All
she had said was, "I'm glad you've been with the child," and she spoke
in a low voice. Then she had begun talking again of things relevant and
irrelevant, and in doing so had betrayed her excitement. It was indeed
May now who was calm and self-contained, all trace of her "chill" gone,
whereas Lady Dashwood was obviously over-excited.
It was only when May said good night, and made this announcement about
going away on the following day, that Lady Dashwood's spirits showed
signs of flagging.
That moment all her vivacity suddenly died down and she looked no longer
brisk and brilliant, but limp and tired, a hollow-eyed woman.
"I do mind," she repeated. But she gave no reason for minding, she
merely added: "Don't go!" and stared at her niece pathetically.
But May was firm. She kissed her aunt very affectionately, and was very
tender in her manner and voice, but she was immovable.
"I must go, dear," she said; and then she repeated again: "Your troubles
are over! Seriously, Aunt Lena, I want to go!"
Lady Dashwood sighed. "You have done a great deal for me, May," she
said, and this gratitude from her Aunt Lena shook May's courage more
than any protest.
"I don't want to go," she said, "but I must go." That was her last word.
And May wanted to go early. Everything must be ready. She wanted to get
away as soon as Gwendolen had gone. She must not risk meeting the
Warden! He might return to lunch, she must go before lunch. She must not
see him come back. She could not bear to be in the house when he read
the letter from Gwendolen. _That_ was what made her fly. To stay on and
witness in cold blood his feelings at being rescued, to witness his
humiliation, because he was rescued, would be an intrusion on the
privacy of a human soul. She must go. So May packed up over night, slept
uneasily and in snatches, conscious of Oxford all the time, conscious of
all that it meant to her!
It was a grey morning when she got up and looked out of narrow window's
on to the quiet, narrow grey street. She heard no one moving about when
she came down the broad staircase and into the hall, prepared to go,
hardening herself to go, because to stop would be impossible.
In the breakfast-room she found Lady Dashwood. The two women looked at
each other silently with a smile only of greeting. They could hear steps
outside, and Gwendolen came in with swollen eyes and smiled vaguely
round the room.
"Good morning," she said, and then gulped. Poor girl! She was making an
effort to be brave, and May gave her a glance that said plainly her
approval and her sympathy.
Lady Dashwood was almost tender in her manner.
Gwen ate hurriedly, and once or twice made spasmodic faces in trying not
to break down.
Of course, no reference was made to anything that had happened, but it
was necessary to talk a little. Silence would have made things worse. So
Lady Dashwood praised Potten End, and said it was more bracing there
than at Oxford; and May said she had not seen Potten End. Then both
ladies looked at each other and started some other subject. They spoke
at great length about the weather. At last breakfast was over, and Lady
Dashwood rose from her chair and looked rather nervously across at
Gwendolen.
"I'm ready," said Gwendolen, bravely. "At least, I've only got to put my
hat on."
"There is no hurry, dear," said Lady Dashwood. "Let me see, you have
nearly an hour." The car was to come at ten--an unearthly hour except in
Oxford and at Potten End.
Gwendolen disappeared upstairs, and the two ladies lingered about in the
breakfast-room, neither able to attend to the papers, though both read
ostentatiously. At last the car was announced and they went into the
hall.
Gwendolen came downstairs hastily. That horrible umbrella was in her
hand, in the other hand was a handkerchief. She was frowning under her
veil to keep herself from crying.
"Well, good-bye, Gwen," said Lady Dashwood, and she kissed the girl on
both cheeks. "Good-bye, dear; give my love to Mrs. Potten."
"Thanks----" began Gwen, but her voice began to fail her. "Thanks----"
"My love to Mrs. Potten," repeated Lady Dashwood hurriedly, and
Gwendolen turned away without finishing her sentence.
May kissed Gwendolen and murmured in her ear: "Brave girl!" "Good-bye,"
she said aloud.
"Good-bye," said Gwen.
There was the familiar hall, its great bevelled doors, its oak panelling
and its wide oak staircase. There was the round table in the middle
under the electric chandelier and the dim portraits on the walls. All
was familiar, and all had been thought of as hers for a time, all too
short; for a day that now seemed as if it could never have been; for a
dream and no part of the reality of Gwen's life.
There outside was the car which was to take her away for ever. Robinson
Junior was holding open the door, his snub nose well in the air, his
cheeks reddened by the chill autumn wind. He was waiting for her to get
in. Then he would bang the door to, and have done with her, and the
Lodgings would never again have anything to do with her--nor Oxford.
Oh, it was too wretched, but brave she would be, and Mrs. Dashwood at
least would pity her and understand. What Lady Dashwood thought she did
not care so very much.
Gwen went down the steps and got into the car. Robinson Junior did bang
the door. He banged it and caught a piece of Gwendolen's skirt. Then he
opened the door with ferocity as if it was somebody else's fault.
Gwendolen pulled her skirt and he banged the door to again. This time it
shut her out from the Lodgings. The last moment had come. The car moved.
The two ladies waved their hands. Robinson Junior raised his finger to
his ear. The car turned and went out of the Court into the narrow
street.
It was all over! Robinson Junior did not come in. He slipped somewhere
round at the back with mysterious swiftness, and Lady Dashwood shut the
door herself. It was like closing a book at "The End" or writing a last
Will and Testament. It was all over!
Then Lady Dashwood, who had been so composed that May had been deceived
into thinking that she had almost recovered from her excitement and
fatigue, suddenly leaned against the hall table. "May!" she called.
May did not hear her name called, she was already retreating up the
staircase to her room as hastily as she dared. There was not much time,
and yet she had not told her Aunt Lena yet that she meant to leave that
very morning; she had mentioned no hour.
Her luggage was packed and labelled. Her hat and coat and gloves,
exactly the things she had arrived in from Malvern, were there waiting
for her to put them on and go away. Meanwhile _he_ was in Town, little
dreaming of what was happening. He would be back soon. It would be
horrible if he arrived before she left, and there was still an hour
before she must start for the station! She would put on her hat and then
go down, tell her Aunt Lena that she must go in an hour, and talk to
her, give herself up to her till the taxi came. No, it would be
impossible for him to arrive before she left; she was foolish to worry
about it. It was pure nonsense--merely a nervous fear.
When she had put on her hat, it flashed into her mind that Mr. Bingham
was coming to dinner, ostensibly to meet her. After their talk together
she must write to him. She must scribble a little note and get it taken
to All Souls. She must tell him that she had to leave Oxford quite
unexpectedly.
She sat down at her writing table and took up a pen. She wrote a few
words, and thought the words too cold and too abrupt. She must begin
again, and she tore up the letter and threw it into the waste-paper
basket. She wanted to write sympathetically and yet not to appear to
think he needed sympathy. She wanted to write as if she was very much
disappointed at not meeting him again, but without putting it into words
that would sound self-assured--as if she knew and counted on his being
grateful at her disappointment. And indeed, she thought, he was not much
in love with her. Why should he be? That was a question May always asked
herself when a man professed to be in love with her. Why? Why in the
name of all----, etc. May always failed to see why.
This lack of vanity in May had led many people, who did not understand
her, to accuse her of flirting.
But May, in writing to Bingham, realised to the full _his_ attractions.
He was too interesting a personality to be going about unclaimed. He
ought to make some woman happy--some nice woman--not herself.
She began a fresh letter and was at the first sentence when a knock came
at the door.
"Come in," she called.
In came Louise, looking full of sinister importance. Her hair, which was
never very tidy, looked as if it had taken an intelligent interest in
some crisis.
Louise glanced round the room at the luggage, at the coat, at the hat on
May's head.
"Oh, Madame, what a desolation!" cried Louise, and she wrung her hands.
"I have packed very well, Louise," said May Dashwood. "I am accustomed
to do it--I have no maid."
"Oh, what a desolation!" repeated Louise, as she advanced further into
the room. Then she stopped and announced, with an affectation of
horrible composure: "I come to inform Madame that it is impossible for
her to depart."
May put down her pen. "What is the matter, Louise?"
Louise drew in her breath. "My lady suffers," she began, and as she
proceeded her words flowed more and more quickly: "while Madame prepares
to forsake her, my lady faints upon the floor in the breakfast parlour,
she expires."
May rose, her heart beating.
"She now swallows a glass of brandy and a biscuit brought by Mrs.
Robinson, who is so slow, so slow and who understands nothing, but has
the keys. I call and I call, eh bien, I call--oh, but what slowness,
what insupportable delay."
May put her letter inside the writing case and moved away from the
writing-table. She was composed now.
"Is she very ill?" she asked quietly.
"My lady has died every day for two weeks," continued Louise; "for many
days she has died, and no one observes it but myself and the angels in
heaven. Madame agonises, over what terrible events I know not. But they
know, the spirits of the dead--they know and they come. I believe that,
for this house, this Lodgings is gloomy, this Oxford is so full of
sombre thought. My Lady Dashwood martyrs herself for others. I see it
always with Monsieur le General Sir John Dashwood, excellent man as he
is, but who insists on catching severe colds in the head--colds heavy,
overpowering--he sneezing with a ferocity that is impossible. At last
old Robinson telephones for a doctor at my demand, oh, how I demand! It
was necessary to overcome the phlegm and the stupidity of the Robinson
family. I say! I demand! It is only when Mrs. Robinson comes to assist
at this terrible crisis, that I go to rush upstairs for Madame. I go to
rush, but I am detained! 'Stay!' cries my lady, 'I forbid you to speak
of it. I am not ill--it is an indisposition of the mildest.' You see,
Madame, the extraordinary generosity of my Lady Dashwood! Her soul full
of sublime resignation! 'I go to prevent Madame Mrs. Dashwood's
departure,' I cry! My lady replies with immense self-renunciation, like
that of the blessed saints: 'Say nothing, my poor Louise. I exist only
to do good on this earth. I ask for nothing for myself. I suffer alone.
I endure without complaint. I speak not of my extreme agony in the head.
I do not mention the insupportable nausea of the stomach. I subdue my
cries! I weep silently, alone in the presence of my God.'"
Louise paused for a second for breath.
Nothing at this moment could have made May smile. She looked at Louise
with gravity.
"But," continued Louise, with the same vehement swiftness, "a good
moment arrives. The form too full of Mrs. Robinson hides me as I escape
from the room. I come to Madame here. Eh bien!" Here Louise broke off
and, glancing round the room, made a gesture that implied unpacking
May's luggage and putting everything back in the proper place. "I unpack
for Madame, immediately, while Madame descends and assures my lady that
she does not forsake her at the supreme moment."
Louise's eyes now seemed to pierce the space in front of her, she defied
contradiction.
"I will go and see Lady Dashwood," said May, calmly. "But don't unpack
yet for me. I shall put her ladyship to bed, Louise. Go and see that
everything is ready, please."
"I go to countermand Madame's taxi," said Louise, astutely.
"You can do that," said May; "I shall wait till the doctor
comes--anyhow. Ask Robinson to telephone at once."
May went down to the breakfast-room, and found Mrs. Robinson's stout
form coming out of the door. Within Lady Dashwood was seated in a chair
by the fire.
"I am perfectly well, May," said Lady Dashwood, lifting up a white face
to her niece as she came up to her. "I have sent Mrs. Robinson away.
That silly old fool, Louise, has made Robinson telephone for a doctor."
"Quite right of her," said May, quietly, "and I shall stop till he has
come and gone."
"You didn't mean to go before lunch?" murmured Lady Dashwood.
"I can go after lunch," said May.
Lady Dashwood leaned her head back in a weak manner.
"Not so convenient to you perhaps, dear," she murmured, but in a voice
that accepted the delay to May's departure. She accepted it and sighed
and stared into the fire, and said not one word about the Warden, but
she said: "I'm not going to bed. The house will be empty enough as it
is;" and May knew she was thinking of the Warden's return.
"You must go to bed," May replied.
"I can't go to bed, child. I shall stay up and look after things," said
Lady Dashwood, and she knew she was speaking with guile. "You forget,
dear, that--the house will be so empty!"
"I shall put you to bed," said May.
"How do you know I shall remain?" said Lady Dashwood. "The doctor will
say that there is nothing wrong." She looked white and obstinate and
clung to her chair.
Then at last May said: "I am going to stay on till the doctor comes.
Like all managing people, you are absolutely irresponsible about
yourself, Aunt Lena. I shall have to stay and make you obey me."
"Oh, I didn't know I was so wicked!" sighed Lady Dashwood, in a suddenly
contented voice. Now she allowed herself to be helped out of her chair
and led upstairs to her room. "And can you _really_ stay, May? _Really_,
dear?"
"I must," said May. "You are so wicked."
"Oh dear, am I wicked?" said Lady Dashwood. "I knew my dear old John was
very tiresome, but I didn't know I was!"
So May remained. What else could she do? She left Lady Dashwood in
Louise's hands and went to her room. What was to be done about Mr.
Bingham? May looked round the room.
Her boxes had disappeared. Her clothes were all put away and the toilet
table carefully strewn with her toilet things. Louise had done it. On
the little table by the bed stood something that had not been there
before. It was a little plaster image of St. Joseph. It bore the traces
of wear and tear from the hands of the pious believer--also
deterioration from dust, and damage from accidents. Something, perhaps
coffee, had been spilt upon it. The machine-made features of the face
also had shared this accidental ablution, and one foot was slightly
damaged. The saint was standing upon a piece of folded paper. May pulled
out the paper and unfolded it. Written in faultless copper-plate were
the words: "Louise Dumont prays for the protection of Madame every
day."