CHAPTER XXXI
A FAREWELL
When May went back again to the drawing-room she did not sit downimmediately but walked round, taking up the books that were lying about.Some she had read, and the book she had taken up by accident beforedinner did not interest her. She took up one after another and read thetitle, and then, seeing a small soft yellow volume full of verse, shecarried it with her to her chair. She might be able to read and followsomething slight; she could not concentrate herself on anything thatneeded thought.
She opened the volume. It was an anthology of Victorian verse. She beganlooking through it. She read and read--at least she turned over pageafter page, following the sense here and there. Books could not distracther from painful thoughts about herself; hard work with hands and eyes,work such as hers would be able to distract her. She was relying upon itto do so; she felt that her work was her refuge. She was thankful thatshe had a refuge--very thankful, and yet she was counting how many morehours she still had before her in Oxford. There she showed her weakness;she knew that every hour in Oxford meant pain, and yet she did not wantto go away! At last she had turned over all the pages and had come tothe last page. There her eyes were caught, and they held on to someprinted words. She read! The words were like the echo of a voice, avoice that thrilled her even in memory!
"And the Glory of the Lord shall be all in all."
She read the poem through and through again. It took hold of her.
She sat musing over it. The clock struck ten. To sit on and on was likewaiting for him! She resented the thought bitterly. She rose from herchair, meaning to take the book up with her to her room. To have itbeside her would be a little consolation. She would read it throughagain the last thing before trying to sleep. She was already walking tothe door, very slowly, her will compelling unwilling limbs.
"You are just going?" said the Warden's voice. He had suddenly openedthe door and stood before her.
"I was going," she said, and held on to the book, open as it was at thelast page. "Have you just come back from dinner?"
"I have just come back," he said, and he closed the door behind him. Buthe stayed near the door, for May was standing just where she had stoodwhen he came in, the book in her hand. "I regretted very much that youshould be alone this last evening of your stay----" He paused and lookedat her.
"I ought to have asked some one to dine with you. I am so littleaccustomed to guests, but I ought to have thought of it."
"I am used to being alone in the evening," said May, now smoothing thepage of her book with her free hand. "Except on Saturdays and Sundays,when I go to friends of mine, I am usually alone--and generally glad tobe, after my day's work. Besides, I have been with Aunt Lena thisevening. I only left her an hour ago."
He came nearer and stood looking at her and at the book in her hands. Heseemed suddenly to recognise the book, and saw that it was open at thelast page.
"I ought not to have quoted that to you," he said in a low voice; "thosewords of that poem--there under your hand."
"Why not?" she asked, shutting the book up and holding it closed betweenher hands. "Why shouldn't you have quoted it?" and she looked at thebook intently, listening for his voice again.
"Because it savoured of self-righteousness, and that was not becoming ina man who had brought his own troubles upon himself."
May did not look up at him; she felt, too keenly the poignancy of thatbrief confession, dignified in its simplicity, a confession that aweaker man would have been afraid to make, and a man of lessintelligence could not have made because he would not have understoodthe dignity of it. May found no words with which to speak to him; shecould only look at the carpet stupidly and admire him with all thepulses in her body.
"Your interpretation of 'the Glory of the Lord' is the right one; Ithink--I feel convinced of it."
He stood before her, wearing a curiously pathetic expression ofdiffidence.
That moment passed, and then he seemed to force himself back into hisold attitude of courteous reserve.
"You were just going when I came in," he said, moving and putting outhis hand to open the door for her. "I am keeping you."
"I was going," said May, "but, Dr. Middleton----"
He let his arm drop. "Yes?" he said.
"You have, I am afraid, a totally wrong idea of me."
He stared straight into her face as she spoke, but it was his veiledstare, in which he held himself aloof for reasons of his own.
"I don't think so," he said quickly.
"I talked about 'my interpretation' of the words you quoted," she said,"just as if I spoke from some special knowledge, from personalexperience, I mean. I had no intention of giving you that idea; it wasmerely a _thought_ I expressed."
How could she say what her heart was full of without betraying herself?He was waiting for her to speak with a strained look in his eyes.
"And, of course, any one can 'think.' I am afraid----Somehow--I find itimpossible to say what I mean--I--I am horribly stupid to-night."
She moved forward and he opened the door, and held it open for her. Shewent out with only a brief "Good-night," because no more words wouldcome. She had said all she was able to say, and now she walked alongtrying to get her breath again. In the corridor she came upon Louise,who seemed to have sprung suddenly from nowhere.
"Can I assist Madame?" said Louise, her face full of unrestrainedcuriosity. "Can I brush Madame's hair?"
May made one or two more steps without finding her voice, then shesaid--
"No, thank you, Louise." And feeling more than seeing the Frenchwoman'sardent stare of interrogation, she added: "Louise, you may bring back mytravelling things, please, the first thing to-morrow morning. I shallwant them."
Louise was silent for a moment, just as a child is voiceless for amoment before it bursts into shrieks. She followed May to her door.
"I shall pack everything for Madame," she exclaimed, and her voicetwanged like steel. She followed May into her bedroom. "I shall packeverything when Madame goes truly." Here she glanced round the room, andher large dark eyes rested with wild indignation on the little stainedfigure of St. Joseph standing on the table by the bed.
The small pathetic saint stood all unconscious, its machine-made facelooking down amiably upon the branch of lilies in its hands.
"I want them early," said May, "because I prefer to pack myself, Louise.You are such a kind creature, but I really prefer waiting upon myself."
"I shall pack for Madame," repeated Louise.
May went to the toilet table and put down the book that she wascarrying.
"Good night, Louise," was all she said.
Louise moved. She groaned, then she took hold of the door and began towithdraw herself behind it.
"I wish Madame a good repose. I shall pack for Madame, comme il faut,"she said with superb obstinacy, and she closed the door after her.
Good repose! Repose seemed to May the last word that was suitable. Fallasleep she might, for she was strong and full of vigour, but repose----!
She read the poem once again through when she was in bed. Then she laidthe book under the pillow and turned out the light.
How many hours had she still in Oxford? About seventeen hours. And evenwhen she was back again at her work--sundered for ever from the placethat she had learned to love better than any other place in theworld--she would have something precious to remember. Even if they nevermet again after those seventeen hours were over, even though they neversaw each other's faces again, she would have something to remember:words of his spoken only to her, words that betrayed the fineness of hisnature. Those words of his belonged to her.
* * * * *
And it was in this spirit of resignation, held more fully than before,that she met him again at breakfast. She was in the breakfast-roomfirst and seized the paper, determined to behave as cheerfully as if shehad arrived, and not as if she was going away. She was going to make asuccessful effort to start her new
life at once, her life with Oxfordbehind her. She was not going to be found by him, when he entered,silent and reminiscent of last evening.
When the Warden came in she put down the paper with the air of one whohas seen something that suggests conversation.
"I suppose," she said, starting straight away without any preliminarybut a smile at him and an inclination of her head in answer to hisold-fashioned courteous bow as he entered--"I suppose when I come backto Oxford--say in ten years' time, if any one invites me--I shall findthings changed. The New Oxford we talked of with Mr. Bingham will be infull swing. You will perhaps be Vice-Chancellor."
The Warden did not smile. "Ah, yes!" he remarked, and he lookedabstractedly at the coffee-pot and at the chair that May was about toseat herself in. "Ah, yes!" he said again; then he added: "Have I keptyou waiting?"
"Not a bit," said May.
"I ran in to see Lena," he explained.
May took her place opposite the coffee. He watched her, and then wentand sat down at the opposite end of the table in his own seat. Then hegot up and went to the side table.
Try as they would they were painfully conscious of each other'smovements. Everything seemed strangely, cruelly important at that meal.May poured out the Warden's cup, and that in itself was momentous. Hewould come and take it, of course! She moved the cup a little. He waitedon her from the side table and then looked at his coffee.
"Is this for me?" he asked.
"Yes," said May; "it is yours."
He took up the cup and went round with it to his place, as if he wascarrying something rare and significant.
They sat opposite each other, these two, alone together, and for thelast time--possibly. They talked stiffly in measured sentences to eachother, talk that merely served as a defence. And behind this talk bothwere painfully aware that the precious moments were slipping away, andyet nothing could be done to stay them. It was only when the meal wasover, and there was nothing left for them to do but to rise and go, thatthey stopped talking and looked at each other apprehensively.
"You are not going till the afternoon?" he questioned.
"Not till the afternoon," she answered, but she did not say whether shewas going early or late. She rose from the table and stood by it.
"The reason why I ask," he said, rising too, "is that I cannot be athome for lunch, and afterwards there is hospital business with which Iam concerned."
May had as yet only vaguely decided on her train, though she knew thetrains by heart. She had now to fix it definitely, it was wrung fromher.
"I may not be able to get back in time to go with you to the station,but I hope to be in time to meet you there, to see you off," he said;and he added: "I hope to be in time," as if he doubted it nevertheless.
"You mustn't make a point of seeing me off," said May. "And don't youthink railway-stations are places which one avoids as much as possible?"She asked the question a little tremulously and smiled, but did not lookat him.
"Ours is pretty bad," he said, without a smile. "But I hope it won'thave the effect of making you forget that there is any beauty in our oldcity. I hope you will carry away with you some regret at parting--somememory of us."
"Of course I shall," said May; and detecting the plaintiveness of herown voice, she added: "I shall have to come and see it again--as Isaid--perhaps ten years hence, when--when it will be different! It willbe most interesting."
He moved slowly away as if he was going out, and then stopped.
"I shall manage to be in time to see you off," he said, as if somealteration in his plans suddenly occurred to him. "I shall manage it."
"You mustn't put off anything important for me," May called softly afterhim. "In these days women don't expect to be looked after; we aregetting mighty independent," and there was much courage in her voice.
He wavered at the door. "You don't forbid me to come?" he questioned,and he turned and looked at her.
"Of course not," said May, and she turned away quickly and went to thewindow and looked out. "I hope I am not brazenly independent!" She addedthis last sentence airily at the window and stared out of it, as ifattracted by something in the quadrangle.
She heard him go out and shut the door.
She waited some little time doing nothing, standing still by thewindow--very still. Then she went out of the room, up the staircase andinto the corridor towards her aunt's bedroom.
She knocked and went in.
Lady Dashwood turned round and looked at her. Something in May's facearrested her.
"A lovely morning, May. Just the day for seeing Oxford at its best."
And this forced May to say, at once, what she was going to say. She wasgoing away in the afternoon.
Lady Dashwood received May's news quietly. She gave May a look of meekresignation that was harder to bear than any expostulation would havebeen.
"Everybody is going," she said slowly, and lying back on her pillowswith a sigh. "I must be going directly, as soon as I am up and about. Ican't leave your Uncle John alone any longer, and there is so much thateven an old woman can do, and that I had to put aside to come here."
May was standing at the foot of the bed looking at her very gravely.
"I can't imagine you not doing a lot," she said.
"I shall be all right in a couple of days," said Lady Dashwood. "Whatwas wrong with me, dear, was nerves, nerves, nothing but nerves, and Iam ashamed of it. When I am bouncing with vigour again, May, I shall go.I shall leave Oxford. I shall leave Jim."
"I suppose you will have to," said May, vaguely.
"Jim will be horribly lonely," said Lady Dashwood.
"I'm afraid so," said May, slowly.
"Imagine," said Lady Dashwood, "Jim seeing me off at the station andthen coming back here. Imagine him coming back alone, crunching over thegravel and going up the steps into the hall. You know what the hall islike--a sweet place--and those dim portraits on the walls all lookingdown at him out of their faded eyes! All men!"
May looked at her Aunt Lena gravely.
"Then see him look round! Silence--nobody there. Then see him go up thatstaircase. He looks into the drawing-room, that big empty room. Nobody,my dear, but that fast-looking clergyman over the fireplace. That's notall, May. I can see him go out and go to his library. Nobodythere--everything silent--books--the Cardinal--and the ghost."
"Oh!" said May. She did not smile.
"Now, my dear," said Lady Dashwood, "I'm not going to think about itany more! I've done with it. Let's talk of something else." That,indeed, was the last that Lady Dashwood said about it.
When lunch time came May found herself seized with a physicalcontraction over her heart that prevented food from taking its usualcourse downward. She endured as long as she could, but at last she gotup from the long silent table just as Robinson was about to go for amoment into the pantry. She threw a hurried excuse for going at his thinstooping back. She said she found she "hadn't time," and she examinedher watch ostentatiously as she went out of the room.
"I'm going to take my last farewell of Oxford," May said, looking for amoment into Lady Dashwood's room. "I'm going for a walk. I am going tolook at the High and at Magdalen Bridge."
Lady Dashwood smiled rather sadly. "Ah, yes," she said.
May found Louise packing with a slowness and an elaborate care that wasa reproof somehow in itself. It seemed to say: "Ungrateful! All isthrown away on you. You care not----"
May put on her hat, and through the mirror she saw Louise rolling upSaint Joseph with some roughness in a silk muffler.
"Madame does not like Oxford?" said Louise, drily, as she stuffed thesaint into a hat.
"I care for it very much, Louise," said May, hastily putting on hercoat. "Oxford is a place one can never forget."
"Eh, bien oui," said Louise, enigmatically.
Then May went out and said farewell to the towers and spires and theancient walls, and went to look at the trees weeping by Magdalen Bridge.It was all photographed on her memory. In the squalid streets
of London,where her work lay, she would remember all this beauty and this ancientpeace. There would be no possibility of her forgetting it! She woulddream of it at night. It would form the background of her life.
* * * * *
Back again in the Lodgings, she found that she had only a few minutesmore to spare before she must leave. She took farewell of Louise, andleft her standing, her hand clasping money and her eyes luminous withreproach. There was, indeed, more than reproach, a curious incredulity,a wonder at something. May did not fathom what it was. She did not hearLouise muttering below her breath--
"Ah, mon Dieu! these English people--this Monsieur the Warden--thisMadame la niece. Ah, this Lodgings! Ah, this Oxford!"
In the drawing-room May found Lady Dashwood in a loose gown, seated on acouch and "Not at home" to callers.
Only a few minutes more!
"I'm afraid I've been very long," said May. "But it is difficult to partwith Oxford."
"Is it so difficult?" asked Lady Dashwood, then she suddenly pulledherself up and said: "Oh, May, a note was left just after you went outby Mrs. Potten. She wouldn't come in. Mark that, May! She had beenseeing Gwendolen off. The girl has gone to her mother. Marian wants meto lunch with her to-morrow. I telephoned her a few moments ago that Iwould go and see her later in the week. I wonder if she wants to speakto me about Gwen? I can't help wondering. Oh dear, the whole thing seemslike a dream now! Don't you think so?"
May was drinking a hurried cup of tea. "No, it seems very real to me,"she said.
Lady Dashwood looked at her silently. The Warden had not returned. Atleast there was no sign of his being in the house.
Robinson came in to announce the taxi.
"Is the Warden in?" asked Lady Dashwood, half raising herself.
No, the Warden was not in.
"He will meet you at the station," said Lady Dashwood, nodding her headslowly at her niece.
"He may not be able to," said May, going up to the sofa. She spoke as ifit were a matter of unconcern. She must keep this up. She had counselledGwendolen to be brave! This thought brought with it a little sob oflaughter that nearly choked her. "Good-bye, Aunt Lena," she said,throwing her arms round Lady Dashwood, and the two rested their headstogether for a moment in a silent embrace. Then they parted.
"Good-bye," said Lady Dashwood. "Look out for poor Jim on the platform.Look out for him!"
They kissed once or twice in formal fashion, and then May walked away tothe door and went out without looking back.
The door closed behind her and Lady Dashwood was left alone.
She lay back on the cushions. The sun was coming in through the windowsmuch as it had done that afternoon when she was reading the telegramfrom May.
"I can't do any more," she murmured half aloud; "I can't."
Her eyes wandered to the fire and up to the portrait over the fireplace.The light falling on the painted face obliterated the shadows at thecorners of the mouth, so that he seemed to be smiling.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE WARDEN HURRIES
The Warden was on his way to the station. For three days he had donewhat he could to keep out of May Dashwood's presence. He had invented noexcuses for seeing her, he had invented reasons for not seeing her.These three days of self-restraint were almost over.
He could have returned home in time to take her to the railway-stationhimself if he had intended to do so. His business was over and helingered, a desperate conscientiousness forcing him to linger. Heallowed himself to be button-holed by other men, not completely aware ofwhat was being said to him, because all the time in his imagination hesaw May waiting for him. He pictured her going down the staircase to thehall and getting into her taxi alone. He pictured this while some onepropounded to him plans, not only for successfully getting rid of partypolitics, but for the regeneration of the whole human race. It was atthat point that he broke away. Some one else proposed walking back toKing's with him.
"I'm going to the station," said the Warden, and he struck off byhimself and began to walk faster. He had run it too close, he riskedmissing her altogether. That he did not intend. He meant to arrive amoment before the train started. It was surely not part of his duty tobe absolutely discourteous! He must just say "Good-bye." He began towalk still faster, for it seemed likely that he might be too late evento say "Good-bye."
In Beaumont Street a taxi was in sight. He hailed it and got in. The manseemed an outrageously long time getting the car round and started. Heseemed to be playing with the curb of the pavement. At last he started.
The squalor of the approach to the station did not strike the Wardenthis afternoon. It always had struck him before unpleasantly. Just nowhe was merely aware of vehicles to be passed before he could reach thestation, and he had his eyes on his watch continually to see how themoments were going. Suppose the train moved off just as he reached theplatform? The Warden put his hand on the door ready to jump out. He hadthe fare already in the other hand. The station at last!
He got out of the taxi swiftly. No, the train was there and the platformwas sprinkled with people--some men in khaki; many women. He was just intime, but only just--not in time to help her, or to speak with her orsay anything more than just "Good-bye."
A sudden rage filled him. He ran his eyes along the whole length of theplatform. She was probably seated in a carriage already, reading, Oxfordforgotten perhaps! In that case why was he hurrying like this? Why washe raging?
No, there she was! The sight of her made his heart beat wildly. She wasthere, standing by an open carriage door, looking wistfully along theplatform, looking for him! A porter was slamming the doors to already.
The Warden strode along and came face to face with her. Under the largebrimmed hat and through the veil, he could see that she had turned ashypale. They stared for a moment at each other desperately, and he couldsee that she was trembling. The porter laid his hand on the door. "Areyou getting in, m'm?"
Only a week ago the Warden had committed the one rash and foolish actionof his life. He had done it in ignorance of his own personal needs andwith, perhaps, the unconscious cynicism of a man who has lived for fortyyears unable to find his true mate. But since then his mind had been litup with the flash of a sudden poignant experience. He knew now what hewanted; what he must have, or fail. He knew that there was nothing elsefor him. It was this or nothing. The sight of her face, her trembling,pierced his soul with an amazing joy, and it seemed as if the voice ofsome invisible Controller of all human actions, great and small,breathed in his ear saying: "Now! Take your chance! This is your truedestiny!"
There was no one in the carriage but a young girl at the further endhuddled behind a novel. But had there been twenty there, it would nothave altered his resolution. The Warden placed his hand on May's arm.
"I am travelling with this lady as far as Reading," he said to theporter, "but I have come too late to get a ticket. Tell the guard,please."
The Warden showed no sign now of haste or excitement; he had regainedhis usual courteous and deliberate manner, for the purpose of his lifewas his again. He helped her in and followed her. The door was bangedbehind them. There was May's little bundle of rug and umbrella on theseat. He moved it on one side so that she could sit there. The trainbegan to slide off.
May sank into her seat too dazed to think. He sat down opposite to her.They both knew that the moment of their lives had come.
Then he leaned forward, not caring whether he was observed or notobserved from the other end of the carriage. He leaned forward andgrasping both of May's hands in his, he looked into her eyes with hisown slow moving, narrow eyes that absorbed the light. The corners of hermouth were trembling, her eyelids trembling.
They never spoke a word as the train moved away and left behind thatfair ancient city enshrined in squalor and in raucous brick; left behindthe flat meadows, the sluggish river and the leafless crooked willows;but a strange glory came from the west and flooded the whole earth andthe carriage where t
hey sat.
THE END
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES,ENGLAND
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+--------------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Notes | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected, with the | | exception of those contained within letters, which are thought to | | be deliberate. | | | | The oe ligature has been replaced by oe. | | | | Where a word has been spelled inconsistently within the text (e.g. | | to-day and today), the spellings have been changed to the one more | | frequently used. | | | | All other spellings and punctuation are as in the original text. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------------+
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