Kitabı oku: «The New Warden», sayfa 6
CHAPTER VIII
THE LOST LETTER
The next morning it was still raining. It was a typical Oxford day, a day of which there are so many in the year that those who have best known Oxford think of her fondly in terms of damp sandstone.
They remember her gabled roofs, narrow pavements, winding alleys humid and shining from recent rain; her mullioned windows looking out on high-walled gardens where the over-hanging trees drip and drip in chastened melancholy. They remember her floating spires piercing the lowering sodden sky, her grey courts and solemn doorways, her echoing cloisters; all her incomparable monastic glory soaked through and through with heavy languorous moisture, and slowly darkening in a misty twilight.
It is this sobering atmosphere that has brought to birth and has bred the "Oxford tone;" the remorseless, if somewhat playful handling of ideas.
Gwendolen Scott was no more aware of the existence of an "Oxford tone," bred (as all organic life has been) in the damp, than was the maidservant who brought her tea in the morning; but she perceived the damp. She could see through the latticed windows of the breakfast-room that it rained, rained and rained, and the question was what she should do to make the time pass till they must start for Chartcote? No letter had yet come from her mother – and the old letter was still lost.
The best Gwen could hope for was that it had been picked up and thrown into the paper basket and destroyed.
Meanwhile what should she do? Lady Dashwood was always occupied during the mornings. Mrs. Dashwood did not seem to be at her disposal. What was she to do? Should she practise the "Reverie"? No, she didn't want to "fag" at that. She had asked the housemaid to mend a pair of stockings, and she found these returned to her room – boggled! How maddening – what idiots servants were! She found another pair that wanted mending. She hadn't the courage to ask Louise to mend it. If she tried to mend it herself she would only make a mess of it – besides she hadn't any lisle thread or needles.
She would look at her frocks and try and decide what to wear at lunch. If she couldn't decide she would have to consult Lady Dashwood. Her room was rather dark. The window looked, not on to the quadrangle, but on to the street. She took each piece of dress to the window and gazed at it. The blue coat and skirt wouldn't do. She had worn that often, and the blouse was not fresh now. That must go back into the wardrobe. The likely clothes must be spread on the bed, where she could review them.
She ran her hand down a stiff rustling costume of brown silk. It gave her a pleasurable sensation. It was dark brown and inconspicuous, and yet "dressy." But would, after all, the blue coat and skirt be more suitable, as Oxford people never dressed? Yes; but she might meet other sort of people at Chartcote! It was a difficult question.
She passed on to a thin black and white cloth that was very "smart" and showed off her dark beauty. That and the white cloth hat would do! She had worn it once before and the Warden had talked a great deal to her when she had it on. She took out the dress and laid it on the bed, and she laid the hat upon it. Mrs. Dashwood had not seen the dress! By the by, Mrs. Dashwood and the Warden had scarcely talked at all at breakfast! He had once made a remark to her, and she had looked up and said "Yes," in a funny sort of way, just as if she agreed of course! H'm, there was really no need to be afraid of that! Supposing and if she, Gwen, were ever to be Mrs. Middleton, what sort of new clothes would she buy? Oh, all sorts of things would be necessary! And yet – the Warden seemed to be quietly drifting farther and farther away from her. Was that talk in the library a dream? Then if not, why didn't he say something? Did he say nothing, because in the library he had said, "If you want a home, etc., etc.?" Did he mean by that, "If you come and tell me that you want a home, etc., etc.?"
Gwen was not sure whether he meant "If you come and say you want a home, etc., etc.," or only, "If you want a home, etc., etc." How tiresome! He knew she wanted a home! But perhaps he wasn't sure whether she really wanted a home! Ought she to go and knock at the door and say that she really did want a home? Was he waiting for her to come and knock on the door and say, "I really do want a home, etc., etc.," and then come near enough to be kissed?
But after what Mr. Boreham had said, even if she did go and knock at the door and say that she really did want a home, etc., etc., and go and stand quite near him, the Warden might pretend not to understand and merely say, "I'm sorry," and go on writing.
How did girls make sure that a proposal was binding? Did they manage somehow to have it in writing? But how could she have said to the Warden, "Would you mind putting it all down in writing"? She really couldn't have said such a thing!
Gwen could not quite make up her mind what to wear. She had put the brown silk and one or two more dresses on the bed without being able to come to any conclusion.
It would be necessary to ask advice. Having covered the bed with "possible" dresses, Gwen went out to search for Lady Dashwood.
She had not to go far, for she met her just outside the door.
"Oh, Lady Dashwood," began Gwen, "could you, would you mind telling me what I am to wear for lunch? I'm so sorry to be such a bother, but I'm – "
Here Gwen stopped short, for her eyes caught sight of a letter in Lady Dashwood's hand – the letter! If Gwen had known how to faint she would have tried to faint then; but she didn't know how it was done.
"I found this letter addressed to you," said Lady Dashwood, "in my room – it had got there somehow." She held it out to the girl, who took it, reddening as she did so to the roots of her hair. "I found it opened – I hope I didn't open it by mistake?"
"Oh no," said Gwen, stammering. "I – lost it – somehow. Oh, thanks so much! Oh, thanks!"
Tears of embarrassment were starting to the girl's eyes, and she turned away, letter in hand, and went towards her door like a beaten child.
Lady Dashwood gazed after her, pity uppermost in her heart – pity, now that Belinda and Co. were no longer dangerous.
Safely inside the door, Gwen gave way to regret, and from regret for her carelessness she went on to wondering wildly what effect the letter might have had on Lady Dashwood! Had she told the Warden its contents? Had she read the letter to him?
Gwen squirmed as she walked about her room. There was a look in Lady Dashwood's face! Oh dear, oh dear!
The dresses lay neglected on the bed; the sight of them only made Gwen's heart ache the more, for they reminded her of those bright hopes that had flitted through her brain – hopes of having more important clothes as the Warden's wife. Gwen had even gone as far as wondering whether Cousin Bridget might not give her some furs as a wedding present. Cousin Bridget had spent over a thousand pounds in new furs for herself that first winter of the war, when the style changed; so was it too much to expect that Cousin Bridget, who was the wealthy member of the family, though her husband's title was a new one, might give her a useful wedding present? Now, the mischance with this letter had probably destroyed all chances of the Warden marrying her!
She was glad that he had gone away to-day, so that she would not see him again till the next morning; that gave more time.
She did not want to go to Chartcote to lunch. She would not be able to eat anything if she felt as miserable as she did now, and she would find it impossible to talk to any one.
Even her mother's letter of advice might not help her very much – now that old letter had been seen.
Gwen walked about her room, sometimes leaning over the foot of her bed and staring blankly at the dresses spread out before her, and sometimes stopping to look at herself in a long mirror on the way, feeling very sorry for that poor pretty girl whose image she saw reflected there. When she heard a knock at the door she almost jumped. Was it Lady Dashwood? Gwen's answering voice sounded very soft and meek, as if a mouse was saying "Come in" to a cat that demanded entrance.
It was Mrs. Dashwood who opened the door and walked in.
"You want advice about what to wear for lunch?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "Lady Dashwood is finishing off some parcels, and asked me to come and offer you my services – if you'll have me?" and she actually laughed as she caught sight of the display on the bed.
"Very business-like," she said, walking up to the bed. She did not seem to have noticed Gwen's distracted appearance, and this gave Gwen time and courage to compose her features and assume her ordinary bearing.
"Thanks so much," she said, going to the foot of the bed. "I was afraid I bothered Lady Dashwood when I asked about the lunch."
"It really doesn't much matter what it is you wear for Chartcote," said May Dashwood slowly, as her eye roamed over the bed. She did not appear to have heard Gwen's last remark.
"People do dress so funnily here," said Gwen, beginning to feel happy again, "but I thought perhaps that – "
"I think I should recommend that dark brown silk," said Mrs. Dashwood, "and if you have a black hat – "
"Yes, I have!" cried Gwen, with animation, and she rushed to the wardrobe. After all she did like Mrs. Dashwood. She was not so bad after all.
May received the black hat into her hands and praised it. She put it on the girl's head and then stood back to see the effect.
Gwen stood smiling, her face and dark hair framed by the black velvet.
"The very thing," said Mrs. Dashwood.
"Do try it on. You'd look lovely in it," gushed Gwen. The expression "You'd look lovely in it" came from her lips before she could stop it. Her instinctive antagonism to Mrs. Dashwood was fast oozing away.
May took the hat and put it on her own head, and then she looked round at the mirror.
"There!" said Gwen. "I told you so!"
May Dashwood regarded herself critically in the mirror and no smile came to her lips. She looked at her tall slender figure and the auburn hair under the black velvet brim as if she was looking at somebody else. May took off the hat and placed it on the bed by the dark brown silk.
"Now, you're complete," she said. "Quite complete;" but she looked out of her grey eyes at something far away, and did not see Gwendolen.
"If only I had a nice fur!" exclaimed the girl. "Mine is old, and it's the wrong shape, of course," she went on confidentially. She found herself suddenly desirous of making a life-long friend of Mrs. Dashwood. In spite of her age and the fact that she was very clever and all that, and that the Warden had begun by taking too much notice of her, Mrs. Dashwood was nice. Gwen wanted at that moment to "tell her everything," all about the "proposal," and see what she thought about it!
Gwen's emotions came and went in little spurts, and they were very absorbing for the moment.
"Don't be ashamed of yours," said Mrs. Dashwood, and as she spoke she went towards the door. "I can't say I admire the sisterhood of women who spend their pence on sham or their guineas on real fur and jewellery just now."
Gwen stared. She was not quite sure what the remark really meant – the word "sisterhood" confused her.
"If I were you," said Mrs. Dashwood, smiling, "I should begin to dress; we are to be ready at one punctually."
"Oh, thanks so much," said Gwen. "I know I take an age. I always do," she laughed.
As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had gone Gwen found it necessary to sit down and think whether she really liked Mrs. Dashwood so very much, or whether she only "just liked her," and this subject brought her back to the letter and the Warden, and all her lost opportunities! Gwen was startled by a knock at the door which she knew was produced by the knuckles of Lady Dashwood's maid.
"Oh, Mademoiselle!" cried Louise. "You have not commenced, and Madame is ready."
"The brown one," exclaimed Gwen, as Louise rushed towards the bed.
Louise fell upon the bed like a wild beast and began dressing Gwen with positive ferocity, protesting all the time in tones of physical agony mingled with moral indignation, her astonishment at Mademoiselle's indifference to the desires of Madame.
"I didn't know it was so late," said Gwen, who was not accustomed to such freedom from a servant.
More exclamations from Louise, who was hooking and buttoning and pulling and pushing like a fury.
"Well, leave off talking," said Gwen, looking very hot, "and don't pull so much."
More exclamations from Louise and more pulling, and at last Gwen stood complete in her brown dress and black hat. While she was thinking about what shoes she should put on, Louise had already seized a pair and was now pulling and pushing at her feet.
Lady Dashwood was giving instructions to Robinson in the hall, when Gwen came precipitately downstairs. The taxi was at the door, and Mrs. Dashwood was already seated in it.
It was still raining. Of course! Everything was wretched!
Now, what about an umbrella? Gwen gazed about her and seized an umbrella, earnestly trusting that it was not one that Lady Dashwood meant to use. How hot and flushed and late she was, and then – the letter! Oh, that letter! How horrible to be obliged to sit opposite to Lady Dashwood!
She ran down the steps without opening the umbrella, and dashed into the taxi, Lady Dashwood following under an umbrella held by Robinson.
"Here we are!" said Lady Dashwood. She seemed to have forgotten all about the letter, and she smiled at Gwen.
They passed out of the entrance court of the Lodgings and into the narrow street, and then into the High Street. The sky and the air and the road and the pavements and the buildings were grey. The Cherwell was grey, and its trees wept into it. The meadows were sodden; it was difficult to imagine that they could ever stand in tall ripe hay. There was a smell of damp decay in the air.
Gwen stared fixedly out of the window in order to avoid looking at the ladies opposite her. They seemed to be occupied with the continuance of a conversation that they had begun before. Now, Gwen's mind failed and fainted before conversation that was at all impersonal, and though she was listening, she did not grasp the whole of any one sentence. But she caught isolated words and phrases here and there, dreary words like "Education," "Oxford methods," and her attention was absorbed by the discovery that every time Mrs. Dashwood spoke, she said: "Does the Warden think?" just as if she knew what the Warden would think!
This was nasty of her. If only she always talked about Gwen's hat suiting her, and about other things that were really interesting, Gwen believed she could make a life-long friend of her, in spite of her age; but she would talk about stupid incomprehensible things – and about the Warden!
The Warden was growing a more and more remote figure in Gwen's mind. He was fading into something unsubstantial – something that Gwen could not lean against, or put her arms round. Would she never again have the opportunity of feeling how hard and smooth his shirt-front was? It was like china, only not cold. As she thought Gwen's eyes became misty and sad, and she ceased to notice what the two ladies opposite to her were saying.
CHAPTER IX
THE LUNCHEON PARTY
Boreham was in his dressing-room at Chartcote looking at himself in the mirror. The picture he saw in its depths was familiar to him. Had he (like prehistoric man) never had the opportunity of seeing his own face, and had he been suddenly presented with his portrait and asked whether he thought the picture pleasing, he would have replied, as do our Cabinet ministers: "The answer is in the negative."
But the figure in the mirror had always been associated with his inmost thoughts. It had grown with his growth. It had smiled, it had laughed and frowned. It had looked dull and disappointed, it had looked flattered and happy in tune with his own feelings; and that rather colourless face with the drab beard, the bristly eyebrows, the pale blue eyes and the thin lips, were all part of Boreham's exclusive personal world to which he was passionately attached; something separate from the world he criticised, jeered at, scolded or praised, as the mood took him, also something separate from what he secretly and unwillingly envied. The portrait in the mirror represented Boreham's own particular self – the unmistakable "I."
He gave a last touch with a brush to the stiff hair, and then stood staring at his completed image, at himself, ready for lunch, ready – and this was what dominated his thoughts – ready to receive May Dashwood.
Some eight or nine years ago, when he had first met May, he had as nearly fallen in love with her as his constitution permitted; and he had been nettled at finding himself in a financial position that was, to say the best of it, rather fluctuating. He knew he was going to have Chartcote, but aunts of sixty frequently live to remain aunts at eighty. May had never shown any particular interest in him, but he attributed her indifference to the natural and selfish female desire to acquire a wealthy husband. As it was impossible for him to marry at that period in his life, he adopted that theory of marriage most likely to shed a cheerful light upon his compulsory bachelorhood. He maintained that the natural man tries to escape marriage, as it is incompatible with his "freedom," and is only "enchained" after much persistent hunting down by the female, who makes the most of the conventions of civilisation for her own protection and profit. He was able, therefore, at the age of forty-two to look round him and say: "I have successfully escaped – hitherto," and to feel that what he said was true. But now he was no longer poor. He was an eligible man.
He was also less happy than he had been. He had lived at Chartcote for some interminable weeks! He had found it tolerable, only because he was well enough off to be always going away from it. But now he had again met May, free like himself, and if possible more attractive than she had been eight years ago!
He had met her and had found her at the zenith of womanhood; without losing her youth, she had acquired maturer grace and self-possession. Had there been any room for improvement in himself he too would have matured! The wealth he had acquired was sufficient. And now the question was: whether with all his masculine longing to preserve his freedom he would be able to escape successfully again? This was why he was giving a lingering glance in the mirror, where his external personality was, as it were, painted with an exactness that no artist could command.
Should this blond man with the beard and the stiff hair, below which lay a splendid brain, should he escape again?
Boreham stared hard at his own image. He repeated the momentous question, firmly but inaudibly, and then went away without answering it. Time would show – that very day might show!
Mrs. Greenleafe Potten had already arrived. Now Mrs. Greenleafe Potten was a cousin of Boreham's maternal aunt. She lived in rude though luxurious widowhood about a quarter of a mile from Chartcote, and she was naturally the person to whom Boreham applied whenever he wanted a lady to head his table. Besides, Mrs. Potten was a very old friend of Lady Dashwood's. Mrs. Potten was a little senior to Lady Dashwood, but in many ways appeared to be her junior. Mrs. Potten, too, retained her youthful interest in men. Lady Dashwood's long stay in Oxford had brought with it a new interest to Mrs. Potten's life. It had enabled her to call at King's College and claim acquaintance with the Warden. Mrs. Potten admired the Warden with the sentiment of early girlhood. Now Mrs. Potten was accredited with the possession of great wealth, of which she spent as little as possible. She practised certain strange economies, and on this occasion, learning that the Dashwoods were coming without the Warden, she decided to come in the costume in which she usually spent the morning hours, toiling in the garden.
The party consisted of the three ladies from King's, Mr. Bingham, Fellow of All Souls, and Mr. and Mrs. Harding.
Mr. Bingham was a man of real learning; he was a bachelor, and he made forcible remarks in the soft deliberate tone of a super-curate. He laughed discreetly as if in the presence of some sacred shrine. In the old pre-war days there had been many stories current in Oxford about Bingham, some true and some invented by his friends. All of them were reports of brief but effective conversations between himself and some other less sophisticated person. Bingham always accepted invitations from any one who asked him when he had time, and if he found himself bored, he simply did not go again. Boreham had got hold of Bingham and had asked him to lunch, so he had accepted. It was one of the days when he did not go up to the War Office, but when he lectured to women students. He had to lunch somewhere, and he had bicycled out, intending to bicycle back, rain or no rain, for the sake of exercise.
Then there were Mr. and Mrs. Harding. Harding, who had taken Orders (just as some men have eaten dinners for the Bar), was Fellow and Tutor of a sporting College. His tutorial business had been for many years to drive the unwilling and ungrateful blockhead through the Pass Degree. His private business was to assume that he was a "man of the world." It was a subject that engrossed what must (in the absence of anything more distinctive), be called the "spiritual" side of his nature. His wife, who had money, lived to set a good example to other Dons' wives in matters of dress and "tenue," and she had put on her best frock in anticipation of meeting the "County." Indeed, the Hardings had taken up Boreham because he was not a college Don but a member of "Society." They were, like Bingham, at Chartcote for the first time. It was an unpleasant shock to Mr. Harding to find that instead of the County, other Oxford people had been asked to luncheon. Fortunately, however, the Oxford people were the Dashwoods! The Hardings exchanged glances, and Harding, who had entered the room in his best manner, now looked round and heaved a sigh, letting himself spiritually down with a sort of thump. Bingham his old school-fellow and senior at Winchester, was, perhaps, the man in all Oxford to whom he felt most antipathy.
Mrs. Harding very much regretted that she had not come in a smart Harris tweed. It would have been a good compromise between the Dashwoods and the pretty girl with them, and Mrs. Greenleafe Potten with her tweed skirt and not altogether spotless shirt. But it was too late!
Boreham was quite unconscious of his guests' thoughts, and was busy plotting how best to give May Dashwood an opportunity of making love to him. He would have Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Harding on each side of him at table, giving to Mrs. Potten, Harding and Bingham. Then May Dashwood and Miss Scott would be wedged in at the sides. But, after lunch, he would give the men only ten minutes sharp for their coffee, and take off May Dashwood to look over the house. In this way he would be behaving with the futile orthodoxy required by our effete social system, and yet give the opportunity necessary to the female for the successful pursuit of the male.
Only – and here a sudden spasm went through his frame, as he looked round on his guests – did he really wish to become a married man? Did he want to be obliged to be always with one woman, to be obliged to pay calls with her, dine out with her? Did he want to explain where he was going when he went by himself, and to give her some notion as to the hour when he would return, and to leave his address with her if he stayed away for a night? No! Marriage was a gross imposition on humanity, as his brother had discovered twice over. The woman in the world who would tempt him into harness would have to be exquisitely fascinating! But then – and this was the point – May Dashwood had just that peculiar charm! Boreham's eyes were now resting on her face. She was sitting on his left, next Mrs. Harding, and Bingham's black head was bent and he was saying something to her that made her smile. Boreham wished that he had put Harding, the married man, next her! Harding was commonplace! Harding was safe! Look at Harding doing his duty with Mrs. Potten! Useful man, Harding! But Bingham was a bachelor, and not safe!
And so the luncheon went on, and Boreham talked disconnectedly because he forgot the thread of his argument in his keenness to hear what May Dashwood and Bingham were saying to each other. He tried to drag in Bingham and force him to talk to the table, but his efforts were fruitless. Bingham merely looked absently and sweetly round the table, and then relapsed into talk that was inaudible except to his fair neighbour.
Gwendolen Scott watched the table silently, and wondered how it was they found so much to talk about. Harding did not intend to waste any time in talking to an Oxford person. He put his elbow on the table on her side and conversed with Mrs. Potten. He professed interest in her agricultural pursuits, told her that he liked digging in the rain, and by the time lunch was over he had solemnly emphasised his opinion that the cricket bat and the shot gun and the covert and the moderate party in the Church of England were what made our Empire great. Mrs. Potten approved these remarks, and said that she was surprised and pleased to hear such sound views expressed by any one from Oxford. She was afraid that very wild and democratic views were not only tolerated, but born and bred in Oxford. She was afraid that Oxford wasn't doing poor, dear, clever Bernard any good, though she was convinced that the "dear Warden" would not tolerate any foolishness, and she was on the point of rising when her movements were delayed by the shock of hearing Mr. Bingham suddenly guffaw with extraordinary suavity and gentleness.
She turned to him questioningly.
"It depends upon what you mean by democratic," he said, smiling softly past Mrs. Potten and on to Harding. "The United States of America, which makes a point of talking the higher twaddle about all men being free and equal, can barely manage to bring any wealthy pot to justice. On the other hand, Oxford, which is slimed with Toryism, is always ready to make any son of any impecunious greengrocer the head of one's college. In Oxford, even at Christ Church" – and here Bingham showed two rows of good teeth at Harding, – "you may say what you like now. Oxford now swarms with political Humanitarians, who go about sticking their stomachs out and pretending to be inspired! Now, what do you mean by Democratic?"
Mrs. Potten would have been shocked, but Bingham's mellifluous voice gave a "cachet" to his language. She looked nervously at Boreham; seeing that he had caught the talk and was about to plunge into it, she signified "escape" to Lady Dashwood and rose herself.
"We will leave you men to quarrel together," she said to Harding. "You give it to them, Mr. Harding. Don't you spare 'em," and she passed to the door.
For a moment the three men who were left behind in the dining-room glanced at each other – then they sat down. Boreham was torn between the desire to dispute whatever either of his guests put forward, and a still keener desire to get away rapidly to the drawing-room. Harding had already lost all interest in the subject of democracy, and was passing on the claret to Bingham. Bingham helped himself, wondering, as he did so, whether Mrs. Dashwood was in mourning for a brother, or perhaps had been mourning for a husband. It seemed to Bingham an interesting question.
"Good claret this of yours," said Harding. "I conclude that you weren't one of those fanatics who tried to force us all to become teetotallers. My view is that at my age a man can judge for himself what is good for him."
"That wasn't quite the point," said Bingham. "The point was whether the stay-at-homes should fill up their stomachs, or turn it into cash for war purposes."
"Of course," sneered Harding, "you like to put it in that way."
"It isn't any man's business," broke in Boreham, "whether another man can or can't judge what's good for him."
Boreham had been getting up steam for an attack upon Christ Church because it was ecclesiastical, upon Balliol because it had been Bingham's college, and upon Oxford in general because he, Boreham, had not been bred within its walls. In other words, Boreham was going to speak with unbiassed frankness. But this sudden deviation of the talk to claret and Harding's cool assumption that his view was like his host's, could not be passed in silence.
"What I say is," said Harding again, "that when a man gets to my age – "
"Age isn't the question," interrupted Boreham. "Let every man have his own view about drink. Mine is that I'm not going to ask your permission to drink. If a man likes to get drunk, all I say is that it's not my business. The only thing any of your Bishops ever said that was worth remembering was: 'I'd rather see England free than England sober.'"
Harding allowed that the saying was a good one. He nodded his head. Bingham sipped his claret. "You do get a bit free when you're not sober," he said sweetly. "I say, Harding, so you would rather see Mrs. Harding free than sober!"
Harding made an inarticulate noise that indicated the place to which in a future life he would like to consign the speaker.
"Every man does not get offensive when drunk," said Boreham, ignoring, in the manner peculiar to him, the inner meaning of Bingham's remark.
"That's true," said Bingham. "A man may have as his family motto: 'In Vino Suavitas'(Courteous though drunk, Boreham); but when you're drunk and you still go on talking, don't you find the difficulty is not so much to be courteous as to be coherent? In the good old drinking days of All Souls, of which I am now an unworthy member, it was said that Tindal was supreme in Common Room because 'his abstemiousness in drink gave him no small advantage over those he conversed with.'"
