THE FORGIVENESS OF THE FATES
Lady Dashwood submitted gracefully to being put to bed and propped up by
pillows.
The doctor had come, pronounced his patient very greatly over-fatigued
though not seriously ill, but he had forbidden her to leave her bed till
he gave permission.
"Keep a strict watch over her," he had said to May, outside in the
corridor. "She has got to the point when rest will put her right, or
fatigue will put her all wrong."
When he had gone May came back into her aunt's room.
"Now you know what it is to be under orders," she said with a smile.
"And what about you, dear?" murmured Lady Dashwood, sweetly. "You can't
stay on, of course, darling?"
May frowned to herself and then smiled. "I shall stay till the doctor
comes again, because I can't trust you, dear aunt, to keep in bed, if I
go."
"You can't trust me," sighed Lady Dashwood, blissfully. "I am beginning
to realise that I am not the only reasonable person in the world. I
suppose it is good for me, but it is very sad for you, May, to be
sacrificed like this."
May said she wasn't being sacrificed, and refused to discuss the matter
any longer.
So Lady Dashwood lay quietly looking at the narrow windows, from which
college roofs opposite could be seen in a grey Oxford daylight. She made
no reference to the Warden's return. She did not tell May when he was
expected home, whether he was coming back to lunch, or whether he was
coming by a late afternoon train. She did not even mention his name. And
May, too, kept up the appearance of not thinking about him. She merely
looked up with a rather strained attention if the door opened, or there
were sounds in the corridor.
The time came for her to go down to lunch, and Lady Dashwood did not
even say: "You will have to take lunch alone." But she said: "I wonder
what Marian Potten and Gwendolen are doing?"
So May went into the dining-room and glanced round her with
apprehension.
Two places were laid, one for the Warden at the head of the table and
one at his right hand.
"You expect the Warden?" she asked of Robinson, who was standing in the
room alone, and she came towards the table apprehensively.
He pulled out her chair and said: "No, m'm, I don't think 'e will be in
to lunch."
May sat down and breathed again. "You think he will be late?" she asked,
speaking as one who cares not, but who needs the information for
purposes of business.
"'E said to me, m'm," said Robinson, as he handed a dish to her with old
gnarled hands that were a little shaky but still full of service, "as I
was 'andin' 'im 'is 'at what 'e wears in London: 'If I'm not 'ome in
time for lunch, I shall be 'ome by 'alf-past five.'"
"Oh yes," said May. "Then you'll be putting tea for him in the library,
won't you, Robinson?"
Robinson assented. "Yes, m'm, if you 'as tea with 'er ladyship." Then he
added, "We're glad, m'm, that you're stayin' on,"--now he dropped his
voice to a confidential whisper, and wore the air of one who is
privileged to communicate private information to a member of the
family--"because that French Louise is so exactin' and that jealous of
Mrs. Robinson, and no one can't expect a learned gentleman, what 'as the
'ole college on 'is shoulders and ain't used to ladies, to know what to
do."
"No, of course not," said May.
"But we've all noticed," said Robinson, solemnly, as he poured out some
water into May's glass, "as 'ow 'er ladyship's indisposition 'as come on
gradual."
Here he ended his observations, and he went and stood by his carving
table with his accustomed bearing of humble importance.
But it would have been a mistake to suppose that Robinson was really
humble. He was, on the contrary, proud. Proud because he was part of
King's College and had been a part thereof for fifty years, and his
father had been part before him. But his pride went further. He was
proud of the way he waited. He moved about the room, skimming the edges
of the long table and circumventing chairs and protruding backs of
awkward guests with peculiar skill. Robinson would have had much
sympathy with the Oxford chaplain who offered to give any other clerical
gentlemen a generous handicap in the Creed and beat them. Robinson, had
he been an ecclesiastic, would have made such a boast himself. As it
was, he prided himself on being able to serve round an "ontray" on his
own side of the table and lap over two out of the other man's, easy.
Robinson was also proud of having a master with a distinguished
appearance, and this without any treachery to the late Warden's bald
head and exceedingly casual nose. There was no obligation on Robinson's
part to back up the old Warden against the new, or indeed the new
against the old, because all Wardens were Wardens, and the College was
continuous and eternal.
Robinson gloried on there being many thousand volumes in the library.
Mrs. Robinson did not share his enthusiasm. He enjoyed opening the door
to other Heads of colleges and saying: "Not at 'ome, sir. Is there any
message I can take, sir?" for Robinson felt that he was negotiating
important affairs that affected the welfare of Oxford. When waiting on
the Warden, Robinson's solemnity was not occasioned by pure meekness,
nor was his deferential smile (when a smile was suitable) an exposition
of snobbery nor the flattery of the wage-earner. Robinson was gratifying
his own vanity; he was showing how he grasped the etiquette of his
profession. Also he experienced pleasure in being necessary to a human
being whose manner and tastes were as impressive as they were
unaccountable.
"There's more of these 'ere periodicals coming in," he said that very
afternoon, as he arranged the lamp in the library, "though there aren't
no more Germans among 'em, than there ever were before in my time." He
spoke to Robinson Junior, who had followed him into the library.
"'E don't read 'em," said Robinson Junior, his nose elevated, in the act
of drawing the curtains.
"'Ow d'you know?" asked Robinson.
"They ain't cut, not all of 'em," said Junior.
"'E don't read the stuff what is familiar to 'im," explained Robinson,
and so saying, he took from some corner of the room a little table and
set it up by a chair by the fire, for the Warden's tea-tray.
Meanwhile May Dashwood had taken tea with her Aunt Lena and then had
gone to her own room. So that when the Warden did arrive, just about
half-past five, he found no one moving about, no one visible. He came in
like a thief in the night, pale and silent. He glanced round the hall,
preoccupied apparently, but really aware of things that were around him
to a high degree of sensitiveness. He moved noiselessly, rang the bell,
and then looked at the table for letters. Robinson appeared immediately.
The Warden's narrow eyes, that seemed to absorb the light that fell upon
them, rested upon Robinson's face with that steady but veiled regard
with which a master controls those who are under him.
The Warden did not ask "Where are the ladies?" he asked whether Lady
Dashwood was in.
"In 'er room, sir," said Robinson; and he then proceeded to explain why,
and gave the doctor's report. "Nothin' alarmin', sir."
The Warden said "Ah!" and looked down at the table. He glanced over the
letters that were waiting for him. He gathered them in his hands.
"Tea is in the library for you, sir," said old Robinson; "I will bring
it in a minute."
The Warden went upstairs.
He went past the drawing-room and past his bedroom into the library. He
threw his letters down on the writing-desk, walked to the fire, and then
walked back again to the desk. Then he finally went out of the room and
passed the head of the staircase and up the two or three steps into the
corridor.
He had been into the corridor three times since the arrival of his
sister. Once when he conducted her to her room, on her arrival, once
again when she had made alterations in the bedrooms and had asked for
his approval, and then on that wretched night when he had gone to calm
Gwendolen and assure her that there were no such things as ghosts. Now
he went along over the noiseless floor, anxious to meet no one. Why was
Lena ill? He knew why Lena was ill, but for a moment he felt wearily
vexed with her. Why did she make things worse? This feeling vanished
when he opened her door and went in, and saw her sitting up in bed
supported by pillows. Then his feeling was of remorse, of anger
increased against himself, and himself only.
She was turning the pages of a paper, ostentatiously looking at the
illustrations, but she was really waiting in suspense for his arrival
and thinking of nothing else.
She looked up at him with a strange smile. "Back!" she said. "And you
find me malingering!"
He came up to the bed. "You've been ill," he said, and he did not return
her smile. "I'm very sorry, Lena."
"No, only tired," she said. "And I am already better, Jim," she went on,
and now she showed great nervousness and her voice was jerky. "I have a
letter for you. I want you to read it at once, dear, but not here; read
it in the library. Don't stay now; go away, dear, and come and see me
afterwards."
She gave him the letter with the handwriting downwards. She had thought
this out beforehand. She feared the sight of his emotion. She could not
bear it--just now. She was still feeling very shaky and very weak.
He took the letter and turned it over to see the handwriting. She
thought he made a movement of surprise. His face she did not look at,
she looked at the paper that was lying before her. She longed for him to
go away, now that the letter was safely in his hands. He guessed, no
doubt, what the letter was about! He must guess!
She little knew. He no more guessed its contents than he would have
guessed that in order to secure his salvation some one would be allowed
to rise from the dead! The letter he regarded as ominous--of some
trouble, some dispute, something inevitable and miserable.
"I hope you have everything you want, Lena," he said as he walked to the
door. "I hope Louise doesn't fuss you." Then he asked: "Have you ever
fainted before?"
Lady Dashwood said she hadn't, but added that people over fifty
generally fainted, and that she would not have gone to bed had not dear
May insisted on it as well as Louise.
He went out. He found the corridor silent. He walked along with that
letter in his pocket, feeling a great solitude within him. When he
passed Gwendolen's door, something gripped him painfully. And then there
was _her_ door, too!
He returned to the library and sat down by the tea-table and the fire.
From his chair his eyes rested upon the great window at the end of the
library. It was screened by curtains now. It was there, at that exact
spot by the right-hand curtain, that Gwendolen had fancied she saw the
ghost. A ghost, a thin filmy shape was probably her only conception of
something Spiritual. That the story of the Barber's ghost, the story
that he came as a prophet of ill tidings to the Warden of the College,
seemed to fit in with recent events, the events of the last few days;
this only made the whole episode more repulsive. He must train
Gwendolen--if indeed she were capable of being trained! The mother would
be perhaps even a greater obstacle to a sane and useful life than
Gwendolen herself.
Very likely Gwendolen's letter was to announce that Lady Belinda
insisted on coming at once, whether there was room for her or not; or
possibly the letter contained some foolish enclosure from Lady Belinda,
and Gwendolen was shy of communicating it, but had been ordered to do
so.
Possibly the letter contained a cutting announcing the engagement! He
had glanced through the _Times_ yesterday and this morning very hastily.
Gwendolen's mother might be capable of announcing the engagement before
it had actually taken place!
He poured out a cup of tea and drank it, and then took the letter from
his pocket.
He started at the opening of his door. Robinson brought in an American
visitor, who came with an introduction. The introduction was lying on
the desk, not yet opened. The Warden rose--escape was impossible. He put
the letter back into his pocket.
"Bring fresh tea, Robinson," said the Warden.
But the stranger declined it. He had business in view. He had a string
of solemn questions to ask upon world matters. He wanted the answers. He
was writing a book, he wanted copy. He had come, metaphorically
speaking, note-book and pencil in hand.
The Warden, with his mind upon private matters, looked gloomily at this
visitor to Oxford. Even about "world" matters, with that letter in his
pocket, he found it difficult to tolerate an interviewer. How was he to
get through his work if he felt like this?
The American, too, became uneasy. He found the Warden unwilling to give
him any dogmatic pronouncements on the subject of Literature, on the
subject of Education, or the subject of Woman now and Woman in the
immediate future. The Warden declined to say whether the Church of
England would work for union or whether it was going to split up and
dwindle into rival sects. He was also guarded in his remarks about the
political situation in England. He would not prophesy the future of
Labour, or the fate of Landowners. The Warden was not encouraging. With
that letter in his pocket the Warden found it difficult to assume the
patient attention that was due to note-book visitors from afar.
This was a bad beginning, surely! How was the future to be met?
The American was about to take his leave, considerably disappointed
with the Heads of Oxford colleges, but he suspected that American
neutrality might be at the bottom of the Warden's reticence.
"I am not one of those Americans," he said, rising, "who regard
President Woodrow Wilson as the only statesman in the world at this
present moment."
The Warden threw his cigarette into the fire. "Wilson has one
qualification for statesmanship," he said, rising and speaking as if he
was suddenly roused to interest by this highly contentious subject.
The American was surprised. "I presume, coming from you, Professor, that
you speak of the President's academic training?" he said.
"I am not a Professor," said the Warden, at last sufficiently awakened
from his preoccupation to make a correction that he should have made
before. "The University has not conferred that honour upon me. Yes, I
mean an academic training. When a man who is trained to think meets a
new problem in politics he pauses to consider it; he takes time; and for
this the crowd jeer at him! The so-called practical man rarely pauses;
he doesn't see, unless he has genius, that he mustn't treat a new
problem as if it were an old one. He decides at once, and for this the
crowd admire him. 'He knows his own mind,' they say!"
The Warden spoke with a ring of sarcasm in his voice. It was a sarcasm
secretly directed against himself. That letter in his pocket was the
cause.
He had been confronted in the small world of his own life with a new
problem--marriage, and he ought to have understood that it was new, new
to himself, complicated by his position and needing thought; and he had
not thought, he had acted. He had belied the use and dignity of his
training. Had he any excuse? There was the obligation to marry, and
there was "pity." Were these excuses? They were miserable excuses.
But he had no time to argue further with himself, the inexorable voice
of the man standing opposite to him broke in.
"In your view, Warden, the practical man is too previous?" said the
American, making notes (in his own mind).
"He is too confident," said the Warden. "It is difficult enough to make
an untrained man accept a new fact. It is still more difficult to make
him think out a new method!"
"I opine," said the American, "that in your view President Wilson has
only one qualification for statesmanship?"
"I didn't say that," said the Warden. "He may have the other, I mean
character. Wilson may have the moral courage to act in accordance with
his mental insight, and if so, if he has both the mental and moral force
necessary, he might well be, what you do not yourself hold, the only
living statesman in the world. Time will tell."
Here the Warden smiled a curious smile and made a movement to indicate
that the visit must come to an end. He must be alone--he needed to
think--alone. How was he at this moment showing "character, moral
courage?" Here he was, unable to bear the friction of an ordinary
interview. Here he was, almost inclined to be discourteous. Here he was,
determined to bear no longer with his visitor.
When the door closed upon the stranger, the Warden, sick with himself
and sick with the world, turned to his desk. His letters must be looked
through at once. Very well, let him begin with the letter in his pocket.
But he first sorted his other letters, throwing away advertisements and
useless papers. Then he took the letter from his pocket. The very
handwriting showed incapacity and slackness. At dinner he would have
the writer of this letter on one side of him, and on the other--he dared
not think! The Warden ground his teeth and tore open the letter, and
then a knock came at his door.
"Come in," he said almost fiercely.
Robinson came in. "I was to remind you, sir, that Mr. Bingham would be
here to dinner."
So much the better. "Very well, Robinson," he said.
Robinson withdrew.
The letter was a long one. It was addressed at the top "Potten End."
"Potten End," said the Warden, half aloud. This was strange! Then she
was not in the house!
The letter began--
"Dear Dr. Middleton,
"When you get this letter I shall have left your house and I shan't
return. I hope you will forgive me. I don't know how to tell you,
but I have broken off our engagement----"
The Warden stared at the words. There were more to come, but
these--these that he had read! Were they true?
"My God!" he exclaimed, below his breath, "I don't deserve it!" and he
made some swift strides in the room; "I don't deserve it!"