MEANWHILE Colonel Kingsward had remained in Oxford. It was necessary
that he should regulate all Charlie’s affairs, find out and pay what
bills he had left, and formally sever his connection with the
University. It is a thing which many fathers have had to do, with pain
and sorrow, and a sense of premature failure, which is one of the
bitterest things in life; but Colonel Kingsward had not this painful
feeling to aggravate the annoyance and vexation which he actually felt.
The fact that his son had been idle in the way of books, and was leaving
Oxford without taking his degree, did not affect his mind much. Many
young fellows did that, especially in the portion of the world to which
Charlie belonged. The Colonel was irritated by having to interfere, by
the trouble he was having, and the deviation from salutary routine, but
he felt no humiliation either for himself or his son. And Charlie’s
liabilities were not large, so far as he could discover. The fellow, at
least, had no vices, he said to himself. Even the unsympathetic Don had
nothing to say against him but that charge of idleness, which the
Colonel rather liked than otherwise. Had he been able to say that it was
his son’s social or even athletic successes which were the causes of the
idleness he would have liked it altogether. He paid Charlie’s bills with
a compensating consciousness that these were the last that would have to
be paid at Oxford, and he was not even sorry that he could not get back
to town by the last train. Indeed, I think he could have managed that
very well had he tried. He remained for the second night with wonderful
equanimity, finding, as a matter of course, a man he knew in the hotel,
and dining not unpleasantly that day. Before he went back to town, he
thought it only civil to go out to the Parks to return, as politeness
demanded, the visit of the lady who had so kindly and courageously gone
to see him, and from whom he had received the only explanation of
Charlie’s strange behaviour. He went forth as soon as he had eaten an
early luncheon, in order to be sure to find Miss Lance before she went
out, and stopped only to throw a rapid glance in passing at a band of
young ruffians--mud up to their eyes, and quite undistinguishable for
the elegant undergraduates which some of them were--who were playing
football in the Parks. The Colonel had, like most men, a warm interest
in athletic sports, but his soldierly instincts disliked the mud. Miss
Lance’s house was beyond that much broken up and down-trampled green. It
was a house in a garden of the order brought into fashion by the late
Randolph Caldecott, red with white “fixings” and pointed roof, and it
bore triumphantly upon its little gate post the name of Wensleydale,
Oxford Dons, and the inhabitants of that district generally, being fond
of such extension titles. Colonel Kingsward unconsciously drew himself
together, settled his head into his collar, and twisted his moustache,
as he knocked at the door, and yet it was not an imposing door. It was
opened, not by a solemn butler, but by a neat maid, who showed Colonel
Kingsward into a trim drawing-room, very feminine and full of flowers
and knick-knacks. Here he waited full five minutes before anyone
appeared, looking about him with much curiosity, examining the little
stands of books, the work-tables, the writing-tables, the corners for
conversation. It was not a large room, and yet space had been found for
two little centres of social intercourse. There were, therefore, the
Colonel divined, two ladies who shared this abode. Colonel Kingsward had
never been what is called a ladies’ man. The feminine element in life
had been supplied to him in that subdued way naturally exhibited by a
yielding and gentle wife in a house where the husband is supreme. He was
quite unacquainted with it in its unalloyed state, and the spectacle
amused and pleasantly affected him with a sense at once of superiority
and of novelty. It was pleasant to see how these little known creatures
arranged themselves in their own private dominion, where they had
everything their own way, and the touch of the artificial which
appeared in all these dainty particulars seemed appropriate and
commended itself agreeably to the man who was accustomed to a broader
and larger style of household economy. A man likes to see the difference
well marked, at least a man who holds Colonel Kingsward’s ideas of life.
He had gone so far as to note the “Laura” with a large and flowing “L”
on the notepaper, which “L” was repeated on various pretty articles
about. When the door opened and Miss Lance appeared, she came up to him
holding out both her hands as to an old friend.
“Will you forgive me for keeping you waiting, Colonel Kingsward? The
fact is we have just come in, and you know that a woman has always a
toilette to make, not like you lucky people who put on or put off a hat
and all is done.”
“I did not think you were likely to be out so early,” the Colonel said.
“My friend has a son at Oriel,” replied Miss Lance. “He is a great
football player as it happens, and we are bound to be present when he
is playing; besides, the Parks are so near.”
“I did not think it was a game that would interest you.”
“It does not, except in so far that I am interested in everything that
interests my surroundings. My friend goes into it with enthusiasm; she
even believes that she understands what it is all about.”
“It seems chiefly mud that is about,” said the Colonel, with a slight
tone of disapproval, for it displeased him to think that a woman like
this should go to a football match, and also it displeased him after his
private amusement and reflections on the feminine character of the house
to find, after all, a man connected with it, even if that man were only
a boy.
“Come,” said Miss Lance, indicating a certain chair, “sit down here by
me, Colonel Kingsward, and let us not talk commonplaces any longer. You
have been obliged to stay longer than you intended. I had been thinking
of you as in London to-day.”
“It was very kind to think of me at all.”
“Oh, don’t say so--that is one of the commonplaces too. Of course, I
have been thinking of you with a great deal of interest, and with some
rather rebellious, undutiful sort of thoughts.”
“What thoughts?” cried the Colonel, in surprise.
“Well,” she said, “it is a great blessing, no doubt, to have
children--to women, perhaps, an unalloyed blessing; and yet, you know,
an unattached person like myself cannot help a grudge occasionally. Here
are you, for instance, in the prime of life; your thoughts about
everything matured, your reason more important to the world than any of
the escapades of youth, and yet you are depleted from your own grave
path in life; your mind occupied, your thoughts distracted; really your
use to your country interrupted by--by what are called the cares of a
family,” she concluded, with a short laugh.
She spoke with much use of her hands in graceful movement that could
scarcely be called gesticulation--clasping them together, spreading them
out, making them emphasise everything. And they were very white and
pretty hands, with a diamond on one, which sparkled at appropriate
moments, and added its special emphasis too.
The Colonel was flattered with this description of himself and his
capacities.
“There is great truth,” he said, “in what you say. I have felt it, but
for a father at the head of a family to put forth such sentiments would
shock many good people.”
“Fortunately there are no good people here, and if there were I might
still express them freely. It is a thing that strikes me every day. In
feeble specimens it destroys the individuality; in strong characters
like yourself----”
“You do me too much honour, Miss Lance. My position, you are aware, is
doubly unfortunate, for I have all upon my shoulders. Still, one must do
one’s duty at whatever cost.”
“That would be your feeling, of course,” said Miss Lance, with a sort of
admiring and regretful expression. “For my part, I am the most dreadful
rebel. I kick against duty. I think a man has a duty to himself. To
stint a noble human being for the sake of nourishing some half-dozen
secondary ones, is to me---- Oh, don’t let us talk of it! Tell me, dear
Colonel Kingsward, have you got everything satisfactorily settled, and
heard of the arrival----? Oh,” she cried, clasping those white hands,
“how can I sit here calmly and ask, seeing that I have a share in
causing all this trouble--though, heaven knows, how unintentionally on
my part!”
“Don’t say so,” said the Colonel, putting his hands for a second on
those clasped white hands. “I am sure that you can have done nothing but
good to my foolish boy. To be admitted here at all was too much honour.”
“I shall never be able to take an interest in anyone again,” she said,
drooping her head. “It is so strange, so strange to have one’s motives
misunderstood, but you don’t do so. I am so thankful I had the courage
to go to you. My friend dissuaded me strongly from taking such a step.
She said that a parent would naturally blame anyone rather than his own
son----”
“My dear Miss Lance, who could blame you? I don’t know,” said the
Colonel, “that I blame poor Charlie so much either. To be much in your
company might well be dangerous for any man.”
“You must not speak so--indeed, indeed, you must not! I feel more and
more ashamed! When a woman comes to a certain age--and has no children
of her own. Surely, surely----”
“Come!” he cried. “You said a parent’s cares destroyed one’s
individuality----”
“Not with a woman. What individuality has a woman? The only use of her
is to sink that pride in a better--the pride of being of some use. What
I regretted was for you--and such as you--if there are enough of such to
make a class--. Yes, yes,” she added, looking up, “I acknowledge the
inconsistency. I have not sense enough to see the pity of it in all
cases--but my real principle, my deep belief is that to draw a man like
you away from your career, to trouble and distress you about others, who
are not of half your value--is a thing that ought to be prevented by Act
of Parliament,” she cried, breaking off with a laugh. “But you have not
told me yet how everything has finished,” she added, in a confidential
low tone, after a pause.
Then he told her in some detail what he had done. It was delightful to
tell her, a woman so sympathising, so quick to understand, with that
approving, consoling, remonstrating action of her white hands which
seemed at the same moment to applaud and deprecate, with a constant
inference that he was too good, that really he ought not to be so good.
She laughed at his description of the Don, adding a graphic touch or two
to make the picture more perfect--till Colonel Kingsward was surprised
at himself to think how cleverly he had done it, and was delighted with
his own success. This gave a slightly comic character to his other
sketches of poor Charlie’s tradesmen, and scout, and an unutterable cad
of a young fellow who had met the Colonel leaving the college and had
told him of a small sum which Charlie owed him.
“The little beast!” the Colonel said.
“Worse!” cried Miss Lance, “I would not slander any gentlemanly dog by
calling him of the same species.”
Altogether, her interest and sympathy changed this not particularly
lively occasion into one of the brightest moments of Colonel
Kingsward’s life. He had not been used to a woman so clever, who took
him up at half a word, and enhanced the interest of everything. Had he
been asked, indeed, he would have said that he did not like clever
women. But then Miss Lance had other qualities. She was very handsome,
and she had an evident and undisguised admiration for him. She was so
very frank and sure of her position as a woman of a certain age--a
qualification which she appropriated to herself constantly, though most
women thought it an insult--that she did not find it needful to conceal
that admiration. When he thanked her for her kindness for the patient
hearing of all his story, and the interest she had shown, to which he
had so little claim, Miss Lance smiled and held out those white hands.
“I assure you,” she said, “the benefit is all on my side. Living here
among very young men, you must think what it is to talk to, to be
treated confidentially, by a man like yourself. It is like a glance into
another life.” She sighed, and added, “The young are delightful. I am
very fond of young people. Still, to meet now and then with someone of
one’s own age, of one’s own species, if I may say so--”
“You do me too much honour,” said Colonel Kingsward, feeling with a
curious elation, how superior he was. She went with him to the garden
gate, not afraid of the wintry air, showing no sense of the chill, and
though she had given him her hand before, offered it again with the
sweetest friendliness.
“And you promised,” she said, looking in his face while he held it,
“that you would send me one line when you got home, to tell me how you
find him--and that all is well--and forgiven.”
“I shall be too happy to be permitted to write,” Colonel Kingsward said.
“Forgiven,” she said, “and forgotten!” holding up a finger of the other
hand, the hand with the diamond. She stood for a moment watching while
he closed the low gate, and then, waving her hand to him, turned away.
Colonel Kingsward had never been a finer fellow, in his own estimation,
than when he walked slowly off from that closed door.