The New Warden Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  PASSIONATE PITY

  A tear fell upon the envelope in her hand, and one fell upon the redcarpet under her feet. She must try and not cry, crying made one ugly.She must go to her room as quickly as she could.

  Then came noiselessly out from the curtained door at Gwen's right handthe figure of Dr. Middleton. He was already dressed for dinner, his facecomposed and dignified as usual, but preoccupied as if the business ofthe day was not over. There were these letters waiting for him on thetable. He came on, and Gwen, blinded by a big tear in each eye, vaguelyknew that he stooped and swept up the letters in his hand. Then heturned his face towards her in his slow, deliberate way and looked. Sheclosed her eyes, and the two tears squeezed between the lids, ran downher cheeks leaving the delicate rosy skin wet and shining under theelectric light.

  Tears had rarely been seen by the Warden: never--in fact--until lately!He was startled by them and disconcerted.

  "Has anything happened?" he asked. "Anything serious?" It would need tobe something very serious for tears!

  The gentleness of his voice only made the desolation in Gwen's heart themore poignant. In a week's time she would have to leave this beautifulkindly little home, this house of refuge. The fear she had had before ofthe Warden vanished at his sudden tenderness of tone; he seemed nowsomething to cling to, something solid and protective that belonged tothe world of ease and comfort, of good things; things to be desiredabove all else, and from which she was going to be cruelly banished--toStow. She made a convulsive noise somewhere in her young throat, but wasinarticulate.

  There came sounds of approaching steps. The Warden hesitated but onlyfor a moment. He moved to the door of the library.

  "Come in here," he said, a little peremptorily, and he turned and openedit for Gwen.

  Gwen slid within and moving blindly, knocked herself against theprotruding wing of his book-shelves. That made the Warden vexed withsomebody, the somebody who had made the child cry so much that shecouldn't see where she was going. He closed the door behind her.

  "You have bad news in that letter?" he asked. "Your mother is not ill?"

  Gwen shook her head and stared upon the floor, her lips twitching.

  "Anything you can talk over with Lady Dashwood?" he asked.

  "No," was the stifled answer with a shake of the dark head.

  "Can you tell me about it? I might be able to advise, help you?"

  "No!" This time the sound was long drawn out with a shrill sob.

  What was to be done?

  "Try not to cry!" he said gently. "Tell me what it is all about. If youneed help--perhaps I can help you!"

  So much protecting sympathy given to her, after that letter, made Gwenfeel the joy of utter weakness in the presence of strength, of savingsupport.

  "Shall I read that letter?" he asked, putting out his hand.

  Gwen clutched it tighter. No, no, that would be fatal! He laid his handupon hers. Gwen began to tremble. She shook from head to foot, even herteeth chattered. She held tight on to that letter--but she leaned nearerto him.

  "Then," said the Warden, without removing his hand, "tell me what istroubling you? It is something in that letter?"

  Gwen moved her lips and made a great effort to speak.

  "It's--it's nothing!" she said.

  "Nothing!" repeated the Warden, just a little sternly.

  This was too much for Gwen, the tears rose again swiftly into her eyesand began to drop down her cheeks. "It's only----" she began.

  "Yes, tell me," said the Warden, coaxingly, for those tears hurt him,"tell me, child, never mind what it is."

  "It's only--," she began again, and now her teeth chattered, "only--thatnobody cares what happens to me--I've got no home!"

  That this pretty, inoffensive, solitary child had no home, was no newsto the Warden. His sister had hinted at it on the day that Gwen was leftbehind by her mother. But he had dismissed the matter, as not concerningthe college or the reconstruction of National Education. Since thenwhenever it cropped up again, he again dismissed it, because--well,because his mind was not clear. Now, suddenly, he seemed to be morecertain, his thoughts clearer. Each tear that Gwen dropped seemed todrop some responsibility upon him. His face must have betrayedthis--perhaps his hands also. How it happened the Warden did not quiteknow, but he was conscious that the girl made a movement towards him,and then he found himself holding her in his arms. She was weepingconvulsively into his shirt-front--weeping out the griefs of herchildhood and girlhood and staining his shirt front with responsibilityfor them all, soaking him with petty cares, futile recollections, meansubterfuges, silly triumphs, sordid disappointments, all the smallsqualid moral muddle that Belinda Scotts call "life."

  All this smothered the Warden's shirt-front and trickled sideways intothe softer part of that article of his dress.

  For the first few moments his power of thinking failed him. He wasconscious only of his hands on her waist and shoulder, of the warmth ofher dark hair against his face. He could feel her heart thumping,thumping in her slender body against his.

  A knock came at the door.

  The Warden came to himself. He released the weeping girl gently andwalked to the door.

  He opened it, holding it in his hand. "What is it, Robinson?" he asked,for he had for the moment forgotten that it was dinner time, and that aguest was expected.

  "Mr. Boreham is in the drawing-room, sir," said the old servant verymeekly, for he met the narrow eyes fixed coldly upon him.

  "Very well," said the Warden, and he closed the door again.

  Then he turned round and looked at Gwendolen Scott. She was standingexactly where he had left her, standing with her hands clutching at alittle pocket-handkerchief and her letter. She was waiting. Her weteyelashes almost rested on her flushed cheeks. Her lips were slightlyswollen. She was not crying, she was still and silent. She waswaiting--her conceit for the moment gone--she was waiting to know fromhim what was going to become of her. Her whole drooping attitude wasprofoundly humble. The humility of it gave Middleton a strange pang ofpain and pleasure.

  The way in which the desire for power expresses itself in a man or womanis the supreme test of character. The weak fritter away on nothings thedriving force of this priceless instinct; this instinct that has raisedus from primeval slime to the mastery of the world. The weak waste it,it seems to slip through their fingers and vanish. Only the strong canbend this spiritual energy to the service of an important issue, and thestrongest of all do this unconsciously, so that He, who is supremeMaster of the souls of men, could say, "Why callest thou _Me_ good?"

  The Warden in his small sphere of academic life showed himself to be oneof the strong sort. His mind was analytical rather than constructive,but among all the crowded teaching staff of Oxford only one otherman--and he, too, now the head of a famous college--had given as much ofhimself to his pupils. Indeed, so much had the Warden given, that he hadleft little for himself. His time and his extraordinarily wideknowledge, materials that he had gathered for his own use, all were atthe service of younger men who appealed to him for guidance. He graspedat opportunities for them, found gaps that they could fill, hecriticised, suggested, pushed; and so the years went on, and his ownbooks remained unwritten. Only now, when a new world seemed to him to bein the making--he sat down deliberately to give his own thoughtsexpression.

  Men like Middleton are rare in any University; a man unselfish enoughand able enough to spend himself, sacrifice himself in "making men." Andeven this outstanding usefulness, this masterly hold he had of the bestmen who passed through King's would not have forced his colleagues toelect him as Warden. They made him Warden because they couldn't helpthemselves, because he was in all ways the dominating personality of thecollege, and even the book weary, the dull, the frankly cynical amongthe Fellows could not escape from the conviction that King's would besafe in Middleton's hands, so there was no reason to seek furtherafield.

  But women and sentiment had played a very small p
art in the Warden'slife. His acquaintance with women had been superficial. He did notprofess to understand them. Gwendolen Scott had for several days sat athis table, looking like a flower. That her emotions were shallow and hermind vacant did not occur to the Warden. She was like a flower--that wasall! His business had been with men--young men. And just now, as one byone, these young men, once the interest and pride of his college, werestricken down as they stood upon the very threshold of life, theWarden's heart had become empty and aching.

  And now, on this autumn evening, this sobbing girl seemed, somehow, allpart of the awful tragedy that was being enacted, only in her case--hehad the power to help. He need not let her wander alone into thewilderness of life.

  For the first time in his life, his sense of power betrayed him. It wasin his own hands to mould the future of this helpless girl--so heimagined!

  He experienced two or three delicious moments as he walked towards her,knowing that she would melt into his arms and give up all her sorrowsinto his keeping. She was waiting on his will! But was this love?

  The Warden was well aware that it was not love, such as a man of histemperament conceived love to be.

  But his youth was passed. The time had gone when he could fall in loveand marry a common mortal under the impression that she was an angel.Was it likely that now, in middle life, he would find a woman who wouldrouse the deepest of his emotions or satisfy the needs of his life?

  Why should he expect to find at forty, what few men meet in the prime ofyouth? All that he could expect now--hope for--was standing therewaiting for him. Waiting with blushes, timid, dawning hope; full oftrust and so pathetically humble!

  He took her into his arms and spoke, and his voice was steady but verylow and a little husky.

  "There is no time to talk now. But you shall not go out into thewilderness of life, if you are afraid."

  She pressed her face closer to him--in answer.

  "If you want to, if you care to--come to me, I shall not refuse you ahome. You understand?"

  She did fully understand. Her mother's letter had made it clearer thanever to her that marriage with somebody sufficiently well off is a havenof refuge for a woman, a port to be steered for with all availablestrength.

  Suddenly and unexpectedly Gwen had found herself in harbour, and thestormy sea passed.

  "Run up to your room now," he said, "and bathe your face and come downto the drawing-room as if nothing had happened."

  He did not kiss her. A thought, such as only disturbs a man ofscrupulous honour, came to him. He was so much older than she was thatshe must have time to think--she must come to him and ask for what hecould give her--not, as she was just now--convulsed with grief; she mustcome quietly and confidently and with her mind made up. There must be noworking upon her emotions, no urgency of his own will over a weakerwill; no compulsion such as a strong man can exercise over a weak woman.

  He pushed her gently away, and she raised her head, smiling through hertears and murmuring something: what was it? Was it "Thanks;" but shedid not look him in the face, she dare not meet those narrow blue eyesthat were bent upon her.

  He stood watching her as she moved lightly to the door. There she turnedback, and even then she did not raise her eyes to his face, but shesmiled a strange bewildered smile into the air and fled.

  It was really _she_ who had conquered, and with such feeble weapons.

  She had gone. The door was closed. The Warden was alone.

  He looked round the room, at the book-lined walls, at his desk strewnwith papers, and then the whole magnitude and meaning of what he haddone--came to him!

  He took out his watch. It was twenty past eight--all but a minute. Inless than twenty minutes he had disposed of and finally settled one ofthe most important affairs of life. Was this the action of a sane man?

  During the last few days he had gradually been drifting towards this,just drifting. He had been dreaming of it all the time, dreaming in thatpart of his brain where the mind works out its problems underground,waiting until the higher world of consciousness calls for them, and theyare flung out into the open daylight--solved. A solution found withoutreal solid premeditation.

  Was the solution to his life's problem a good one, or a bad one? Was ittrue to his past life, or was it false? Can a man successfully live outa plan that he has only dimly outlined in a dream and swiftly finishedin a passion of pity?

  It was Middleton's duty as host to go into the drawing-room. He must goat once and think afterwards. And yet he lingered. She might not claimhim. She too might have been moved only by a momentary emotion! Butwhat right had he to be speculating on the chance of release? It was abad beginning!

  On the floor lay a letter. The Warden had not noticed it before. Hepicked it up. It was the letter that she had held in her tremblinghands.

  He stood holding it, and then suddenly he opened the flap and pulled thesheet from its cover. He unfolded it and looked at the signature. Yes,it was from her mother. He folded the paper again and put it back in theenvelope.

  Then as he stood for a moment, with the letter in his hand, he perceivedthat his shirt-front was stained--with her tears.

  He left the library and went towards his bedroom behind the curtaineddoor. He had the letter in his hand. He caught sight of Louise, LadyDashwood's maid, near the drawing-room door. The Warden held the letterout to her.

  "Please put this letter in Miss Scott's room," he said. "I found itlying on the floor;" and he went back into his room.

  Louise had gone to the drawing-room with a handkerchief forgotten byLady Dashwood. She took the letter and went upstairs to her mistress'sroom, gazing at the letter as she walked. Now Louise was not a Frenchwoman for nothing. A letter--even an open letter--passing between a maleand a female, must relate to an affair of the heart. This wasinteresting--exciting! Louise felt the necessity of thinking the matterout. Here was a pretty young lady, Miss Scott, and here was the Warden,not indeed very young, but _tres tres bien, tres distingue_! Very well,if the young lady was married, then well, naturally something wouldhappen! But she was "Miss," and that was quite other thing. Youngunmarried girls must be protected--it is so in _la belle France_.Louise pulled the envelope apart and drew out the contents. She openedthe letter, and searched for the missive between its folds which wasdestined for the hands of "Miss." There was none. Louise spread out theletter. Her knowledge of English as a spoken language was limited, andas a written language it was an unending puzzle.

  She could, however, read the beginning and the end.

  "Dear Gwen" ... and "Mother." _Hein!_

  The reason why the letter had been put into her hands was just becauseshe could not read it.

  What cunning! Without doubt, there were some additions added by theWarden here and there to the maternal messages, which would have theirsignificance to "Miss." Again, what cunning!

  And the Warden, so dignified and so just as he ought to be! Ah, my God,but one never knows!

  Louise folded up the letter and replaced it in its envelope.

  Doubtless my Lady Dashwood was in the dark. Oh, completely! That goeswithout saying. Louise had already tidied the room. There was nothingmore for her to do. She had been on the point of going down to theservants' quarters. Should she take the letter as directed to the roomoccupied by "Miss"? That was the momentous question. Now Louise wasbound hand and foot to the service of Lady Dashwood. Only for the sakeof that lady would Louise have endured the miseries of Oxford and thetaciturnity of Robinson, and the impertinence of Robinson's grandson,Robinson aged fifteen, and the stupid solemnity of Mrs. Robinson, thedaughter-in-law of Robinson and the widowed mother of the youngRobinson.

  Louise loved Lady Dashwood. Lady Dashwood was munificent and alwaysamiable, things very rare. Also Louise was a widow and had two childrenin whom Lady Dashwood took an interest.

  That Monsieur, the head of the College, should secretly communicate witha "Miss" was a real scandal. _Propos d'amour_ are not for young ladieswho are unmarried. The Warden
ought to have known better than that----Ah, poor Lady Dashwood!

  Torn between the desire to participate in an interesting affair and herduty not to assist scandals in the family of my Lady Dashwood, Louisestood for some time plunged in painful argument with herself. At lasther sense of duty prevailed! She would not deliver the letter. No, notif her life depended on it. The question was---- Ah, this would be whatshe would do. A brilliant idea had struck her. Louise went to thedressing-table. It was covered with Lady Dashwood's toilet things, allneatly arranged. On the top of the jewel drawers at one side lay twoenvelopes, letters that had come by the last post and had been put asidehurriedly by Lady Dashwood. Louise lifted these two letters andunderneath them placed the letter addressed to Miss Gwendolen Scott.

  "Good!" exclaimed Louise to the empty room. "The letter is now in thedisposition of the Good God! And the Warden! All that there is of themost as it ought to be! Ah, but it is incredible!"

  Louise went to the door and put out the lights. Then she closed the doorsoftly behind her and went downstairs.