Mrs. David G. Ritchie

“ There was no sound audible except the noise Boreham was making with his own feet on the strip of marble that met the parquetted floor of the hall. "It's a beastly distance from Oxford," he said, half aloud; "one can't just drop in on people in the evening, and who else is there? I'm not going to waste my life on half a dozen damned sport-ridden, parson-ridden neighbours who can barely spell out a printed book."
One thing had become clear in Boreham's mind. Either he must marry May Dashwood for love, or he must try and let Chartcote, taking rooms in Oxford and a flat in town. ”

“ And this Oxford is filled with the "sound of the forging of weapons," the desk has become a couch for the wounded, the air is full of the wings of war.
In this Oxford where the black gown has been laid aside and young men hurry to and fro in the dress of the battle-field—in this Oxford no man walked at times more heavily, feeling the grief that cannot be made articulate, than did the Warden of King's College [Page 3] as he went about his work, a lonely man, without wife or child and with poignant memories of the very blossom of young manhood plucked from his hand and gone for ever. ”

“ But if there are ghosts in Oxford," he went on, and now he turned to Bingham, as if he were answering his question—"if there are ghosts in Oxford they will be the ghosts of those who were, in life, bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh. I am thinking of those men who lived and died in Oxford, recluses who knew no other world, and of whom the world knew nothing—men who used to flit like shadows from their solitary rooms to the Lecture hall and to High table and to the Common room. ”

“ May could not help smiling a little, Bingham's voice was so smooth and soft; but she felt Boreham's loneliness again and ceased smiling.
"Or he might invent a new god," said Bingham, "a sort of composite photograph of himself and the old gods. He might invent a new creed to go along with it and damn all the old creeds. But he is incapable of construction, so he merely preaches the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, which is a soft job. Wherever he is, there is Sodom and Gomorrah! You see my point? Egotism is always annoyed at egotisms. An egotist always sees the egotism of other people. ”

“ That her emotions were shallow and her mind vacant did not occur to the Warden. She was like a flower—that was all! His business had been with men—young men. And just now, as one by one, these young men, once the interest and pride of his college, were stricken down as they stood upon the very threshold of life, the Warden's heart had become empty and aching.
And now, on this autumn evening, this sobbing girl seemed, somehow, all part of the awful tragedy that was being enacted, only in her case—he had the power to help. He need not let her wander alone into the wilderness of life. ”

“ Boreham laughed a little in his beard.
"I don't understand," stammered the girl. "You mean—she would refuse?"
"No," said Boreham. "It mightn't go as far as that—the whole thing is a matter of words—words—words. It's a part of a man's education to fall in love with Mrs. Dashwood!"
Gwen blinked at him. A piercing thought struck her brain. Spoken words—they didn't count! Words alone didn't clinch the bargain! Words didn't tie a man up to his promise. Was this the "law"? She must get at the actual "law" of the matter. She knew something about love-making, but nothing about the "law." ”

“ Then, as there came another pause, Gwendolen added, "I suppose it couldn't mean that he might die in a week's time—or six months perhaps?" and her voice was a little anxious.
"Death isn't the only disaster," said May, "that can happen to a man."
"Don't you think it's about the worst?" said Gwen. "Worse even than losing lots of money. You see, if you are once dead, there you are! But I needn't bother—there was no ghost."
"No, there was no ghost," said Mrs. Dashwood, and she laid her paper down on a side table. ”

“ And of the men who passed under his college gates and through the ivy-clad quadrangles, most were strangers—coming and going—learning the arts of war—busy under orders, and the few, a poor remnant of academic youth—foreigners or weaklings. And he, the Warden himself, felt himself almost a stranger—for into his life had surged new thoughts, anxious fears and ambitious hopes—for England, the England of the years to come—an England rising up from her desolation and her mourning and striving to become greater, more splendid and more spiritual than she had been before. ”

“ Why should men make ugliness and endure squalor?
"I thought you knew me better," said Boreham, reproachfully, "than to say that."
"If you do approve of originality," said May, "then why not let Oxford work out its own evolution, in its own way?"
"It needs entire reconstruction," said Boreham, stubbornly.
"You would like to pass everything through a mill and turn it out to a pattern," said May. "But that's not the way the world progresses. Entire reconstruction would spoil Oxford. ”

“ Come, Gwen!"
Although Gwendolen submitted to the commanding voice of Lady Dashwood and allowed herself to be placed in the chair, she still grasped the Warden's arm and hid her face in it.
"What frightened you, Gwen?" asked Lady Dashwood. "No harm can come to you—we are by you. Pull yourself together and speak plainly and quietly."
Gwen uttered some half-incoherent sounds—one only being intelligible to the two who were bending over her.
"A man!" said the Warden, glancing round with surprise.
"No man is in the room," said Lady Dashwood. ”

“ Gwen's spirits rose at the sight of a really young man, but she remembered her mother's admonition and did not make any attempt to attract his attention beyond opening her eyes now and then suddenly and widely and with an ecstasy of interest at some invisible object just above his head. Whether the youthful warrior's imagination was excited by this "passage of arms" Gwen never knew, because the Warden took his pupil off to the library after dinner, and did not even bring him into the drawing-room to bid farewell. ”

“ May said nothing; she was listening, her face bent but expressive even to her eyebrows.
"Neither do I," said Bingham, in an altered voice. "I don't believe in ghosts, and yet, what do we know of this world? We talk of it glibly. But what do we know of the forces which make up the phantasmagoria that we call the World? What do we know of this vast universe? We perceive something of it by touch, by sight, sound and smell. These are the doors through which its forces penetrate the brain of man. ”

“ And feeling more than seeing the Frenchwoman's ardent stare of interrogation, she added: "Louise, you may bring back my travelling things, please, the first thing to-morrow morning. I shall want them."
Louise was silent for a moment, just as a child is voiceless for a moment before it bursts into shrieks. She followed May to her door.
"I shall pack everything for Madame," she exclaimed, and her voice twanged like steel. She followed May into her bedroom. "I shall pack everything when Madame goes truly." ”

“ She must not risk meeting the Warden! He might return to lunch, she must go before lunch. She must not see him come back. She could not bear to be in the house when he read the letter from Gwendolen. That was what made her fly. To stay on and witness in cold blood his feelings at being rescued, to witness his humiliation, because he was rescued, would be an intrusion on the privacy of a human soul. She must go. So May packed up over night, slept uneasily and in snatches, conscious of Oxford all the time, conscious of all that it meant to her! ”

“ They merely looked at it—as one must look at something.
"Jim," sighed Lady Dashwood. "You don't know him, May."
"Is it he who is ill?" asked May.
"He's not ill. He is terribly depressed at times because so many of his old pupils are gone—for ever. But it's not that, not that that I mean. You know what learned men are, May?" Lady Dashwood did not ask a question, she was making an assertion.
May Dashwood still gazed at the portrait but now she lowered her eyelids, looking critically through the narrowed space with her grey eyes.
"No, I don't know what learned men are," she replied very slowly. ”

“ Friendship goes behind all that, doesn't it?" He asked this anxiously.
"I don't expect my friends to agree with me in all points," said May, smiling. "That would be very selfish!" She laughed. "I beg your pardon. I mean that my taste in friends is pretty catholic," and here Boreham detected a sudden coldness in her voice.
"Friendship—I will say more than that—love—has nothing to do with 'points of view,'" he began hastily. "A man may fall in love with a woman as she passes his window, though he may never exchange a word with her. ”

“ Something in her aunt's voice made May look round at her.
"Don't be sorrowful, dear," she said.
"Now that I've slanged Belinda," murmured Lady Dashwood, "I've begun to think about my own short-comings."
"Nonsense, dear aunt," said May. "You are not accustomed to think about yourself; it must be a sign that you are not feeling well. I shall ring for Louise." May spoke in a bantering voice, but her eyes did not smile. ”

“ How funny to have anybody so old for a sister-in-law! It was a good thing she had, after all, so little influence over Dr. Middleton.
"Good night, Gwen," said Lady Dashwood, without appearing to notice the girl's movement towards her. "Sleep well, child," she added and she turned her head towards May Dashwood.
Gwen hesitated a brief moment, and then walked away. "I always sleep well," she said, with a laugh. "I once thought it would be so nice to wake up in the night, because one would know how comfy one was. ”

“ He moved alertly into step with her and gazed at her profile.
"When that is said to a woman, well, a moderately young woman," remarked May, "a woman who is, say, twenty-eight—I am twenty-eight—it has no point I am afraid!"
"No point?" exclaimed Boreham.
"No point," repeated May. "How do you know that thirty years from now, when I am on the verge of sixty, that I shan't be withered—unless, indeed, I get too stout?" she added pensively.
"You will always be young," said Boreham, fervently; "young, like Ninon de l'Enclos." ”

“ Boreham wanted to say, "Be damned with your raisonné," but he limited himself to saying: "Can't you get some college chaplain, or some bloke of the sort to do it?"
"All are thick busy," said Bingham—"those that are left."
"It must be a new experience for them," said Boreham.
"There are plenty of new experiences going," said Bingham.
"And you won't deny," said Boreham, smiling the smile of self-righteousness, as he tried to assume a calm bantering tone, "that experience—of life, I mean—is a bit lacking in Oxford?" ”

“ When a man who is trained to think meets a new problem in politics he pauses to consider it; he takes time; and for this the crowd jeer at him! The so-called practical man rarely pauses; he doesn't see, unless he has genius, that he mustn't treat a new problem as if it were an old one. He decides at once, and for this the crowd admire him. 'He knows his own mind,' they say!"
The Warden spoke with a ring of sarcasm in his voice. It was a sarcasm secretly directed against himself. That letter in his pocket was the cause. ”

“ Or I should expect to see Laud pacing the streets, amazed at the order and discipline of modern Oxford. If personal attachment could bring a man from the grave," he went on, meeting Bingham's eyes with a smile, "why shouldn't that least ghostly of all scholars, your old master, Jowett—why shouldn't he walk at night when Balliol is asleep?"
"Then there was nothing in the rumour," said Bingham, "that your King's ghost has turned up?"
"The Warden doesn't believe in ghosts," said May, looking across the table eagerly. ”

“ She had not been able to make the Warden nasty.
Gwen stood watching May, and then said in a low voice to detain her: "I wish mother would come!"
"Do you expect her?" asked May, turning round and facing the girl.
"I do and I don't and I do," said Gwen. "That sounds jolly vague, I know, and please don't even say to Lady Dashwood that I mentioned it. You won't, will you? It jumped out of my mouth. Things do sometimes."
May smiled a little.
"Mother is so plucky," said Gwen; "I'm sure you'd like her—you really would, and she would like you. She doesn't by any means like everybody. ”