ALMA MATER
The Warden went to the door and turned the key. Why, he did not know. He
simply did it instinctively. Then he finished reading the letter; and
having read it through, read it again a second time. He was a free man,
and he had obtained his freedom through a circumstance that was
pitifully silly, a circumstance almost incredibly sordid and futile.
Her humiliation was his humiliation, for had he not chosen her to be his
companion for life? Had he not at this time, when the full
responsibility of manhood was placed on every man, had he not chosen as
the mother of his children, a moral weakling?
He locked the letter up in his desk and paced the length of the room
once or twice. Then he threw himself into a chair and, clasping his head
in his hands, remained there motionless. Could he be the same man who
had a few days ago, of his own free will, without any compulsion,
without any kind of necessity, offered himself for life to a girl of
whom he knew absolutely nothing, except that she had had a miserable
upbringing and an heredity that he could not respect? Was it her slender
beauty, her girlishness, that had made him so passionately pitiful?
From an ordinary man this action would have been folly, but from him it
was an offence! A very great offence, now, in these times. On the desk
lay some pages of notes--notes of a course of public lectures he was
about to give, lectures on the responsibility of citizenship, in which
he was going to make a strong appeal to his audience for a more
conscious philosophy of life. He was going to urge the necessity for
greater reverence for education. He was going to speak not only of the
burden of Empire, but of the new burden, the burden of Democracy, a
Democracy that is young, independent, and feeling its way. He was going
to speak of the true meaning of a free Democracy, no chaotic meaningless
freedom, but the sane and ordered freedom of educated men, Democracy
open-eyed and training itself, like a strong man, to run a race for some
far-off, some desired goal to which "all creation moves."
He was in these lectures going to pose not only as a practical man but
as a preacher, one of those who "point the way"; and meanwhile he had
bound himself to a girl who not only would be unable to grasp the
meaning of any strenuous moral effort, but who would have to be herself
guarded from every petty temptation that came in her way. He was (so he
said to himself, as he groaned in his spirit) one of those many
preachers who, in all ages, have talked of moral progress, and who have
missed the road that they themselves have pointed out!
He was fiercely angry with himself because he had called the emotion
that he had felt for Gwendolen in her mischance a "passionate pity." It
was a very different emotion from that which wrung him when his old
pupils, one by one, gave up their youth and hope in the service of their
country. That indeed was a passionate pity, a pity full of remorseful
gratitude, full of great pride in their high purpose and their noble
self-sacrifice. On his mantelpiece, within arm's length of him, lay an
open book. It was a book of poems, and there were verses that the
Warden had read more than once.
"City of hope and golden dreaming."
A farewell to Oxford. It was the farewell of youth in its heyday to
"All the things we hoped to do."
And then followed the lines that pierced him now with poignant sadness
as he thought of them--
"Dreams that will never be clothed in being,
Mother, your sons have left with you."
The Warden groaned within himself. He was part of that Alma Mater; that
city left behind in charge of that sacred gift!
He loathed himself, and this deep self-humiliation of a scrupulous
gentleman was what his sister had shrunk from witnessing. It was this
deep humiliation that May Dashwood fled from when she hid herself in her
room that afternoon.
The Warden was not a man who spent much time in introspection. He had no
subtlety of self-analysis, but what insight he had was spent in
condemning himself, not in justifying himself. But now he added this to
his self-accusations, that if May Dashwood had not suddenly stepped
across his path and revealed to him true womanhood, gilded--yes, he used
that term sardonically--gilded by beauty, he might not have seen the
whole depth of his offence until now, when the crude truth about
Gwendolen was forced upon him by her letter.
The Warden sat on, crushed by the weight of his humiliation. And he had
been forgiven, he had been rescued from his own folly. His mistake had
been wiped out, his offence pardoned.
And what about Gwendolen herself? What about this poor solitary foolish
girl? What was to be her future? Swiftly she had come into his life and
swiftly gone! What, indeed, was to become of her and her life?
And so the Warden sat on till the dressing-bell rang, and then he got up
from his chair blindly.
He had been forgiven and rescued too easily. He did not deserve it. How
was it that he had dared to quote to May Dashwood those solemn, awful
words--
"And the glory of the Lord is all in all!"
It must have seemed to her a piece of arrogant self-righteousness.
And she had said: "What is the glory of the Lord?" and had answered the
question herself. Her answer had condemned him; the glory of the Lord
was not merely self-restraint, stoical resignation, it was something
more, it was "Love" that "beareth all things, believeth all things,
hopeth all things, endureth all things."
"For he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love
God whom he hath not seen?"
The Warden dressed, moving about automatically, not thinking of what he
was doing. When he left his bedroom he passed the head of the staircase.
There were letters lying on the table, just as letters had lain waiting
for him on that evening, on that Monday evening, when he found Gwendolen
reading the letter from her mother and crying over it. Within those few
short days he had risked the happiness and the usefulness of his whole
life, and--God had forgiven him.
He passed the table and went on. Lena must have been waiting for him,
expecting him! Perhaps she had been worrying. The thought made him walk
rapidly along the corridor.
He knocked at her door. Louise opened it.
"Entrez, Monsieur," she said, in the tone and manner of one who mounts
guard and whose permission must be obtained.
She stood aside to let him pass, and then went out and pulled the door
to after her.
The Warden walked up to the bed.
Lady Dashwood's face was averted from him. "Jim," she said wistfully,
and she put her hand over her eyes and waited for the sound of his
voice.
She was there, waiting for him to show her what sort of sympathy he
needed. He did not speak. He came round to the side of the bed where she
was lying, by the windows. There he stood for a moment looking down upon
her. She did not look up. She looked, indeed, like a culprit, like one
humbled, who longed for pardon but did not like to ask for it. And it
was this profound humble sympathy that smote his heart through and
through. What if anything had happened to this dear sister of his? What
if her unhappiness had been too great a strain upon her?
He knelt down by the bed and laid his face on her shoulder, just as he
used to do when he was a child. Neither of them spoke. She moved her
hand and clasped his arm that he placed over her, and they remained like
this for some minutes, while a great peace enclosed them. In those few
minutes it seemed as if years dropped away from them and they were young
again. She the motherly young woman, and he the motherless boy to whom
she stood as mother. All the interval was forgotten and there they were
still, mother and son.
When at last he raised himself he found that her eyes were dim with
tears. As to himself, he felt strangely quieted and composed. He pulled
a chair to the bedside and sat down, not facing her, but sideways, and
he rested his elbow on the edge of her pillow his other hand resting on
hers.
"Did you get through all you wanted to, in Town?" she asked, smiling
through her tears.
"Lena!" he said in a low voice, "you want to spare me. You always do."
His voice overwhelmed her. His humility pierced her like a sword.
"It was all my fault, dear," she began; "entirely my fault."
"No," he said, in a low emphatic voice.
"It was." She reiterated this with almost a sullen persistence.
"How could it possibly be your fault?" he said, with deep self-reproach.
"It was," she said, "though I cannot make you understand it. Jim, you
must forget it all, for my sake. You must forget it at once, you have
things to do."
"I have things to do," he said. "I seemed in danger of forgetting those
things," he said huskily. "As to forgetting, that is a difficult
matter."
"You must put it aside," she said, and now she raised herself on her
pillows and stared anxiously into his face. "You made a mistake such as
the best man _would_ make," she argued passionately. "How can a strong
man suspect weakness in others? You know how it is, we suspect in others
virtues and vices that we have ourselves. You know what I mean, dear. A
drunkard always suspects other men of wanting to drink!" and she laughed
a little, and her voice trembled with an excitement she found it
difficult to suppress. "Thieves always suspect others of thieving. An
amorous man sees sex motives in everything. Do you suppose an honourable
man doesn't also suspect others of honourable intentions?"
He made no reply.
"Besides, you have always been eager to think the best of women. You've
credited them, even with mental gifts that they haven't got! You have
been over-loyal to them all your life! And now"--here Lady Dashwood put
out her hand and laid it on his arm as if to compel him to agree--"and
now you are suffering for it, or rather you have suffered. You thought
you were doing your duty, that you ought to marry. You were right; you
ought to marry, and I, just at that moment, thrust somebody forward who
looked innocent and helpless. And how could you tell? Of course you
couldn't tell," and now her voice dropped a little and she seemed
suddenly to have become tired out, and she sank back on her pillows.
The Warden leant over her. Her special pleading for him was so familiar
to him. She had corrected his faults, admonished him when necessary, but
had always upheld his self-respect, even in small matters. She was
fighting now for the preservation of his sense of honour.
"Anyhow, darling," she said, "you must forget!"
"You are exhausted," he said, "in trying to make black white. I ought
not to have come in and let you talk. Lena, what has happened this week
has knocked you up. I know it, and even now you are worrying because of
me. I will forget it, dear, if you will pick up again and get strong."
"I am better already," she said, and the very faintest smile was on her
face. "I am rather tired, but I shall be all right to-morrow. All I want
is a good night's sleep. I want to sleep for hours, and I shall sleep
for hours now that I have seen you."
A knock came on the door.
"They are looking for you, dear," said Lady Dashwood.
The Warden slowly rose from his seat. "I must go now, Lena," he said,
"but I shall come in again the last thing. I shall come in without
knocking if I may, because I hope you will be asleep, and I don't want
to wake you."
"Very well," she said smiling. "You'll find me asleep. I feel so calm,
so happy."
He bent down and kissed her and then went to the door. She turned her
head and looked after him. Louise was at the door.
"Monsieur Bingham is arrived," she said; "I regret to have disturbed
Monsieur."
The Warden walked slowly down the corridor. There was something that he
dreaded, something that was going to happen--the first meeting of the
eyes--the first moment when May Dashwood would look at him, knowing all
that had happened!
He passed the table again on which lay his letters. He would look
through all that pile of correspondence after Bingham had gone.
Robinson was hovering at the stairhead. "Mr. Bingham is in the
drawing-room, sir."
"Alone?" asked the Warden.
"Mrs. Dashwood is there, sir," said Robinson.
"How have you arranged the table?" asked the Warden.
"I've put Mrs. Dashwood close on your right, sir," said Robinson,
secretly amazed at the question; "Mr. Bingham on your left, sir."
"Yes," said the Warden. "Yes, of course!" passing his servant with an
abstracted air.
"Shall I announce dinner, sir?" asked Robinson, hurrying behind and
measuring his strength for what he was about to perform in the exercise
of his duty.
"Yes," said the Warden, still moving on, and now near the drawing-room
door.
Robinson made a wondrous skip, a miracle it was of service in honour of
the Warden; he flew past his master like an aged but agile Mercury and
pounced upon the drawing-room door handle. Then he threw the door open.
He waited till the Warden had advanced to a sufficient distance in the
room towards the guests who were waiting by the fireside, and then he
uttered, in his penetrating but quavering voice, the familiar and
important word--
"Dinner!"