The New Warden Part 31

The umbrella, in short, had become now part of Gwendolen's future.

Virtue walking with an umbrella. Without that umbrella there would be a distinct blank in Gwendolen's life!

If she obeyed her second impulse on the moment, that umbrella would never become hers. She would for ever lose that umbrella. But neither Mr. Harding nor Mr. Bingham seemed to think of her, or her note. They were already rus.h.i.+ng off to lectures or chapels or something. The impulse died!

So the poor silly child pretended to search in the rooms at Christ Church with no less energy than Mrs. Harding and Mrs. Dashwood, and much more thoroughly than Boreham, who did nothing more than put up the lights and stand about looking gloomy.

The Warden was walking slowly with Lady Dashwood on the terrace below when the searchers came out announcing that no note could be found.

Boreham's arms were full of parcels, and these were distributed among the Warden, Lady Dashwood, and Mrs. Dashwood.

Mrs. Harding said "good-bye" outside the great gate.

"I shall bring Miss Scott home, after the work is over," she said; and Gwendolen glanced at the Warden in the fading afternoon light with some confidence, for was not the affair of the note over? What more could happen? She could not be certain whether he looked at her or not. He moved away the moment that Mrs. Harding had ceased speaking. He bowed, and in another moment was talking to Mr. Boreham.

May Dashwood had slipped her hand into her aunt's arm, making it obvious to Boreham that he and the Warden must walk on ahead, or else walk behind. They walked on ahead.

"I've got to fetch Mrs. Potten from Eliston's," he said fretfully, as he walked beside the Warden. All four went along in silence. They pa.s.sed Carfax. There, a little farther on, was Mrs. Potten just at the shop's door, looking out keenly through her gla.s.ses, peering from one side of the street to the other.

She came forward to meet them, evidently charmed at seeing the Warden.

"I'm afraid I made a great fuss over that note. Did you find it, Bernard?"

Boreham felt too cross to answer.

"We didn't," said May Dashwood. "I'm sorry!"

"No, we couldn't find it," said Lady Dashwood.

"You really couldn't," repeated Mrs. Potten. "Well, I wonder---- But how kind of you!"

Now, Mrs. Potten rarely saw the Warden, and this fact made her prize him all the more. Mrs. Potten's weakness for men was very weak for the Warden, so much so that for the moment she forgot the loss of her note, and--thinking of Wardens--burst into a long story about the Heads of colleges she had known personally and those she had not known personally.

Her a.s.sumption that Heads of colleges were of any importance was all the more distasteful to Boreham because May Dashwood was listening.

"Come along, Mrs. Potten," he said crossly; "we shall have to have the lamps lit if we wait any longer."

But they were not her lamps that would have to be lit, burning _her_ oil, and Mrs. Potten released the Warden with much regret.

"So the poor little note was never found," she said, as she held out her hand for good-bye. "I know it's a trifle, but in these days everything is serious, everything! And after I had scribbled off my note to you from Eliston's I thought I might have given Miss Scott two ten-s.h.i.+lling notes instead of one, just by mistake, and that she hadn't noticed, of course."

"I thought of that," said Lady Dashwood, "and I asked Mrs. Harding; but she said that she had got the correct notes--thirty s.h.i.+llings."

"Well, good-bye," said Mrs. Potten. "I am sorry to have troubled everybody, but in war time one has to be careful. One never knows what may happen. Strange things have happened and will happen. Don't you think so, Warden?"

"Stranger than perhaps we think of," said the Warden, and he raised his hat to go.

"Come, Bernard," said Mrs. Potten, "I must try and tear you away.

Good-bye, good-bye!" and even then she lingered and looked at the Warden.

"Good-bye, Marian," said Lady Dashwood, firmly.

"I am afraid you are very tired," whispered May in her aunt's ear, as they turned up the Broad.

"Rather tired," said Lady Dashwood. "Too tired to hear Marian's list of names, nothing but names!"

They walked on a few steps, and then there came a sound of whirring in the sky. It was a sound new to Oxford, but which had lately become frequent. All three looked up. An aeroplane was skimming low over steeples, towers, and ancient chimney stacks, going home to Port Meadow, like a bird going home to roost at the approach of night. It was going safely. The pilot was only learning, playing with air, overcoming it with youthful keenness and light-heartedness. They could see his little solitary figure sitting at the helm. Later on he would play no more; the air would be full of glory, and horror--over in France.

The Warden sighed.

When they reached the Lodgings they went into the gloom of the dark panelled hall. The portraits on the walls glowered at them. The Warden put up the lights and looked at the table for letters, as if he expected something. There was a wire for him; more business, but not unexpected.

"I have to go to Town again," he said. "A meeting and other education business."

"Ah!" said Lady Dashwood. She caught at the idea, and her eyes followed the figure of May Dashwood walking upstairs. When May turned out of sight she said: "Do you mean now?"

"No, to-morrow early," he said. "And I shall be back on Sat.u.r.day."

Lady Dashwood seated herself on a couch; her letters were in her hand, but she did not open them. Her eyes were fixed on her brother.

"Can you manage somehow so that I can speak to Gwendolen alone?" he asked. "I am dining in Hall, but I shall be back by half-past nine."

Lady Dashwood felt her cheeks tingle. "Yes, I will manage it, if it is inevitable." She dwelt lingeringly upon the word "inevitable."

"Thank you," said the Warden, and he turned and walked slowly upstairs.

Very heavily he walked, so Lady Dashwood thought, as she sat listening to his footsteps. Of course it was inevitable. If vows are forgotten, promises are broken, there is an end to "honour," to "progress," to everything worth living for!

At the drawing-room he paused; the door was wide open, and he could see May Dashwood standing near one of the windows pulling her gloves off.

She turned.

"I have to be in town early to-morrow and shall not return till the following day, Sat.u.r.day," he said, coming up slowly to where she was standing.

She glanced up at him.

"This is the second time I have had to go away since you came, but it is a time when so much has to be considered and discussed, matters relating to the future of education, and of the universities, and with the future of Oxford. Things have suddenly changed; it is a new world that we live in to-day, a new world." Then he added bitterly, "Such as was the morrow of the Crucifixion."

He glanced away from her and rested his eyes on the window. The curtains had not yet been drawn and the latticed panes were growing dim. The dull grey sky behind the battlements of the roof opposite showed no memory of sunset.

"Of course you have to go away," said May, softly, and she too looked out at the dull sky now darkening into night.

Should she now tell him that she had kept her word, that she had not seen the cathedral because she had not been alone. She had had a strong desire to tell him when it was impossible to do so. Now, when she had only to say the words for he was there, close beside her, she could not speak. Perhaps he wouldn't care whether she had kept her word--and yet she knew that he did care.

They stood together for a moment in silence.

"And you were not able to go with me to the cathedral," he said, turning and looking at her face steadily.

May coloured as she felt his eyes upon her, but she braced herself to meet his question as if it was a matter about which they cared nothing.

"I didn't want to waste your time," she said, and she drew her gloves through her hand and moved away.