The New Warden Part 32

"Bingham," he said, "knows more than I do, perhaps more than any man in Oxford, about mediaeval architecture."

"Ah yes," said May, and she walked slowly towards the fireplace.

"And he will have shown you everything," he persisted.

May was now in front of the portrait, though she did not notice it.

"I didn't go into the cathedral," she said.

The Warden raised his head as if throwing off some invisible burden.

Then he moved and came and stood near her--also facing the portrait. But neither noticed the large luminous eyes fixed upon them, visible even in the darkening room.

"I suppose one ought not to be critical of a drawing-room song," said the Warden, and his voice now was changed.

May moved her head slightly towards him, but did not meet his eyes.

"I was inclined," he said, "but then I am by trade a college tutor, to criticise one line of Tennyson's verse."

She knew what he meant. "What line do you object to?" she asked, and the line seemed to be already dinning in her ears.

He quoted the line, p.r.o.nouncing the words with a strange emphasis--

"'Love that can shape or can shatter a life, till the life shall have fled.'"

"Yes?" said May.

"It is a pretty sentiment," he said. "I suppose we ought to accept it as such."

"Oh!" said May, and her voice lingered doubtfully over the word.

"Have we any right to expect so much, or fear so much," said the Warden, "from the circ.u.mstances of life?"

May turned her head away and said nothing.

"Why demand that life shall be made so easy?" Here he paused again.

"Some of us," he went on, "want to be converted, in the Evangelical sense; in other words, some of us want to be given a sudden inspiring illumination, an irresistible motive for living the good life, a motive that will make virtue easy."

May looked down into the fire and waited for him to go on.

"Some of us demand a love that will make marriage easy, smooth for our temper, flattering to our vanity. Some demand"--and here there was a touch of pa.s.sion in his voice that made May's heart heavy and sick--"they demand that it should be made easy to be faithful."

And she gave no answer.

"Isn't it our business to accept the circ.u.mstances of life, love among them, and refuse either to be shaped by them or shattered by them? But you will accuse me of being hyper-critical at a tea-party, of arguing on ethics when I should have been thinking of--of nothing particular."

This was his Apologia. After this there would be silence. He would be Gwendolen's husband. May tried to gather up all her self-possession.

"You don't agree with me?" he asked to break her obstinate silence.

She could hear Robinson coming in. He put up the lights, and out of the obscurity flashed the face of the portrait almost to the point of speech.

"Do you mean that one ought and can live in marriage without help and without sympathy?" she asked, and her voice trembled a little.

He answered, "I mean that. May I quote you lines that you probably know, lines of a more strenuous character than that line from 'Becket.'" And he quoted--

"'For even the purest delight may pall, And power must fail, and the pride must fall, And the love of the dearest friends grow small, But the glory of the Lord is all in all.'"

They could hear the swish of the heavy curtains as Robinson pulled them over the windows.

"And yet----" she said. Here a queer spasm came in her throat. She was moving towards the open door, for she felt that she could not bear to hear any more. He followed her.

"And yet----?" he persisted.

"I only mean," she said, and she compelled her voice to be steady, "what is the glory of the Lord? Is it anything but love--love of other people?"

She went through the open door slowly and turned to the shallow stairs that led to her bedroom. She could not hear whether he went to his library or not. She was glad that she did not meet anybody in the corridor. The doors were shut.

She locked her door and went up to the dressing-table. The little oval picture case was lying there. She laid her hand upon it, but did not move it. She stood, pressing her fingers upon it. Then she moved away.

Even the memory of the past was fading from her life; her future would contain nothing--to remember.

She moved about the room. Wasn't duty enough to fill her life? Wasn't it enough for her to know that she was helping in her small way to build up the future of the race? Why could she not be content with that? Perhaps, when white hairs came and wrinkles, and her prime was past, she might be content! But until then....

CHAPTER XVIII

THE MORAL CLAIMS OF AN UMBRELLA

The ghost was, so to speak, dead, as far as any mention of him was made at the Lodgings. But in the servants' quarters he was very much alive.

The housemaid, who had promised not to tell "any one" that Miss Scott had seen a ghost, kept her word with literal strictness, by telling every one.

Robinson was of opinion that the general question of ghosts was still an open one. Also that he had never heard in his time, or his father's, of the Barber's ghost actually appearing in the Warden's library. When the maids expressed alarm, he reproved them with a grumbling scorn. If ghosts did ever appear, he felt that the Lodgings had a first-cla.s.s claim to one; ghosts were "cla.s.sy," he argued. Had any one ever heard tell of a ghost haunting a red brick villa or a dissenting chapel?

Louise had gathered up the story without difficulty, but she had secret doubts whether Miss Scott might not have invented the whole thing. She did not put much faith in Miss Scott. Now, if Lady Dashwood had seen the ghost, that would have been another matter!

What really excited Louise was the story that the Barber came to warn Wardens of an approaching disaster. Now Louise was in any case prepared to believe that "disasters" might easily be born and bred in places like the Lodgings and in a city like Oxford; but in addition to all this there had been and was something going on in the Lodgings lately that was distressing Lady Dashwood, something in the behaviour of the Warden!

A disaster! Hein?

When she returned from St. Aldates, Gwendolen Scott had had only time to sit down in a chair and survey her boots for a few moments when Louise came into her bedroom and suggested that Mademoiselle would like to have her hair well brushed. Mademoiselle's hair had suffered from the pa.s.sing events of the day.

"Doesn't Lady Dashwood want you?" asked Gwendolen.

No, Lady Dashwood was already dressed and was reposing herself on the couch, being fatigued. She was lying with her face towards the window, which was indeed wide open--wide open, and it was after sunset and at the end of October--par example!

Gwendolen still stared at her boots and said she wanted to think; but Louise had an object in view and was firm, and in a few minutes she had deposited the young lady in front of the toilet-table and was brus.h.i.+ng her black curly hair with much vigour.