The New Warden

  CHAPTER XV

  MRS. POTTEN'S CARELESSNESS

  There is little left in Christ Church of the simplicity and piety of theAge of Faith. It was rebuilt when the fine spiritual romanticism of ourarchitectural adolescence had coarsened into a prosperous and prosaicmiddle age.

  The western facade of the College is fine, but it is ostentatious forits purpose, and when one passes under Tom Tower and enters thequadrangle there is something dreary in the terraces that were intendedto be cloistered and the mean windows of the ground floor that wereintended to be hidden.

  "It is like Harding," said Bingham to himself, as he strolled in with aparcel under his arm. "He is always mistaking Mrs. Grundy for the HolyGhost. But Harding has his uses," he went on thinking, "and so has TomQuod--it makes one thankful that Wolsey died before he had time tofinish ruining the cathedral."

  An elderly canon of Christ Church, with a fine profile and dignifiedmanner, stopped Bingham and demanded to know what he was carrying underhis arm.

  "Nothing for the wounded," said Bingham. "I've bought a greentable-cloth and a pair of bedroom slippers for myself. I've just comefrom a Sale in which some Oxford ladies are interested. One of the manygood works with which we are going strong nowadays."

  The Canon turned and walked with Bingham. "Do you know Boreham?" heasked rather abruptly.

  Bingham said he did.

  "I met him a moment ago. He is taking some lady over the college. I methim at Middleton's, I think, not so long ago."

  "He's a connection of Middleton's," said Bingham.

  "Oh," said the Canon, "is he? A remarkable person. He gave me his viewson Eugenics, I remember."

  "He would be likely to give you his views," said Bingham. "Did he wantto know yours?"

  The Canon laughed. "He pleaded so passionately in favour of ourpreserving the leaven of disease in our racial heredity, so as to insureoriginality and genius, that I was tempted to indulge in the logicalfallacy: 'A dicto secundum quid ad dictum simpliciter,'" and the Canonlaughed again.

  "His father was a first-rate old rapid," said Bingham, "who ended in anasylum, I believe. His aunt keeps cats; this I know as a fact. Hisbrother, Lord Boreham, as everybody knows, has been divorced twice. Whatmatter? The good old scrap-heap has produced Bernard Boreham; what moredo you want?"

  Bingham's remarks were uttered with even more than his usual suavity oftone because he was annoyed. He had come to the Sale, he had bought thegreen table-cloth and the shoes, ostensibly as an act of patriotism, butreally in order to meet Mrs. Dashwood. He had planned to take her overChrist Church and show her everything, and now Boreham, who had alsoplanned the same thing, had turned up more punctually, had taken heroff, and was at this moment going in and out, banging doors and givingerroneous information, along with much talk about himself and his ideasfor the improvement of mankind.

  The two men walked very slowly along. Bingham was in no hurry. The Canonalso was in no hurry. In these gloomy days he was glad of a few minutes'distraction in the company of Bingham, whom nothing depressed. Theywalked so slowly that Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Potten, who had justentered the quadrangle, attended by Miss Scott laden with parcels, cameup to them, bowed and passed them on their way to the rooms of one ofthe Fellows who had begged them to deposit their parcels and rest, ifthey wished to.

  The two men went on talking, though their eyes watched the three ladies,who were looking for the rooms where they were going to deposit theirpurchases. Bingham took out his watch. It was half-past three. Theladies had found the right entrance, and disappeared. Then LadyDashwood's face was to be seen for a moment at a window. SimultaneouslyHarding appeared from under Tom Tower.

  He came up and spoke to the two men, and while he did so Binghamobserved Miss Scott suddenly appear and make straight for them, holdingsomething in her hand.

  "Bravo! What a sprint," murmured Bingham, as Gwendolen reached themrather breathless.

  "Oh, Mr. Harding," she panted, "Lady Dashwood saw you coming and thoughtyou wouldn't know where she and Mrs. Potten were. Have you got theBuckinghamshire collar?"

  Bingham burst into subdued laughter.

  "My wife sent me over with it," said Harding, who could not see anythingamusing in the incident. "She said Lady Dashwood had got Mrs. Pottenhere. That's all right," and he gravely drew from his sleeve a piece ofmauve paper, carefully rolled up, on which was stitched the collar inquestion.

  "Here's the money," said Gwen, holding out a folded paper.

  Harding took the paper.

  "Thirty shillings," said Gwen. "Is that right?"

  "Yes, thirty shillings," said Harding. "The price is marked on thepaper."

  "Extraordinarily cheap at the price," remarked Bingham. "There is noother collar equal to it in Buckinghamshire."

  The Canon turned and walked off, wondering in his mind who the verypretty, smartly dressed girl was. Harding unfolded the paper. It was apound note and inside was not one but two new ten-shilling notes--onlystuck together.

  "You've given me too much, one pound and two tens," he said, and heseparated the two notes and gave one back to Gwen. "You're a bit toogenerous, Miss Scott," he said.

  Gwen took the note, dimpling and smiling and Harding wrote "paid" inpencil on the mauve paper.

  "Here's your receipt," he said, handing her the paper, "the collar andall," and he turned away and went back to the sale room, with the moneyin his pocket.

  Meanwhile Gwendolen did not run, she walked back very deliberately. Shehad the collar in one hand and the ten-shilling note in the other. Sheheard the two men turn and walk towards the gate. The old gentleman witha gown on, by which she meant the Canon, had disappeared. The quadranglewas empty. Gwen was thinking, thinking.

  It wasn't she who was generous, it was Mrs. Potten, at least notgenerous but casual. She was probably casual because, although she wassupposed to be stingy, a ten-shilling note made really no difference toher. It was too bad that some women had so much money and some solittle. It was especially unjust that an old plain woman like Mrs.Potten could have hundreds of frocks if she wanted to, and that youngpretty women often couldn't. It was very, very unjust and stupid. Whyshe, Gwen, hadn't enough money even to buy a wretched umbrella. Itlooked exactly as if it was going to rain later on, and yet there wasno umbrella she could borrow. The umbrella she had borrowed before, haddisappeared from the stand: it must have been left by somebody and beenreturned. You can't borrow an umbrella that isn't there. It was all verywell for her mother to say "borrow" an umbrella, but suppose therewasn't an umbrella! The idea flashed into Gwen's mind that an umbrellacould be bought for ten shillings. It wouldn't be a smart umbrella, butit would be an umbrella. Then she remembered very vividly how, a yearago, she was in a railway carriage with her mother and there was onewoman there sitting in a corner at the other end. This woman fidgetedwith her purse a great deal, and when she got out, a sovereign was lyingon the floor just where her feet had been. Gwen remembered her mothermoving swiftly, picking it up, and putting the coin into her own purse,remarking, "If people are so careless they deserve to lose things," andGwen felt that the remark was keenly just, and made several littlethings "right" that other people had said were wrong. Now, as shethought this over, she said to herself that it was only a week ago shehad lost that umbrella: somebody must have got that umbrella and hadbeen using it for a week, and she didn't blame them; beside the handlehad got rather bashed. Another dozen steps towards the rooms made herfeel very, very sure she didn't blame them, and--Mrs. Potten deserved tolose her ten-shilling note. Now she had reached the doorway, an idea,that was a natural development of the previous idea, came to her verydefinitely. She slipped the note into the right-hand pocket of her coatjust as she stood on the threshold of the doorway, and then she ran upthe stone stairs. No one was looking out of the window. She had noticedthat as she came along. Now, she would see if Mrs. Potten was reallycareless enough not to know that she had given away two ten-shillingnotes instead of one.

  Gwendolen walked into the
sitting-room. There were Mrs. Potten and LadyDashwood sitting together and talking, as if they intended remainingthere for ever.

  "Here's your collar, Mrs. Potten," said Gwen, coming in with theprettiest flush on her face, from the haste with which she had mountedthe stairs.

  She handed the roll of mauve paper and stood looking at Mrs. Potten.Now, she would find out whether Mrs. Potten knew she had flung away herprecious ten-shilling note or not. If she was so stingy why was she socareless? She was very, very short-sighted, of course, but still thatwas no excuse.

  "Thanks, my dear," said Mrs. Potten. "I doubt if it is really as nice asthe one we saw that was sold. Thirty shillings--the receipt is on thepaper. It's the first time I've ever had a receipt at a bazaar or sale.Very business-like; Mr Harding, of course. One can see the handwritingisn't a woman's!" So saying Mrs. Potten, who had been peering hard atthe collar and the paper, passed it to Lady Dashwood to look at.

  "Charming!" said Lady Dashwood.

  Now Lady Dashwood knew Mrs. Potten's soul. Mrs. Potten had come intoOxford at no expense of her own. Mr. Boreham had driven her. She hadalso, so Lady Dashwood divined, the intention of helping the Sale asmuch as possible, by her moral approbation. Nothing pleased Mrs. Pottenthat she saw on the modest undecked tables. Then she had praised ashilling pincushion, had bought it with much ceremony, and put it intoher bag. "There, I mustn't go and lose this," she had said as sheclicked the fastening of her bag. Then she had praised a Buckinghamshirecollar which was marked "Sold," and in an unwary moment had told LadyDashwood that she would have bought that; that was exactly what shewanted, only it was unfortunately sold. But Lady Dashwood, who wasbusiness-like even in grief, had been equal to the occasion. "I knowthere is another one very like it," she had said in a slightly bullyingvoice; and when Mrs. Potten moved off as if she had not realised herluck, murmuring something about having to be somewhere almostimmediately, Lady Dashwood had swiftly arranged with Mrs. Harding thatthe other collar, which was somewhere in reserve and was being searchedfor, should be sent after them.

  This was why Lady Dashwood had conveyed the reluctant Mrs. Potten intothe quadrangle, and had made her climb the stairs with her into theserooms and wait.

  So here was Mrs. Potten, with her collar, trying to believe that she wasnot annoyed at having been deprived of thirty shillings in such anastute way by her dear friend.

  "Am I wanted any more?" asked Gwen, looking from one lady to the other.

  She took the collar from Lady Dashwood and returned it to Mrs. Potten.

  Mrs. Potten opened her bag disclosing the shilling pincushion (which nowshe need not have bought) and placed the collar within. Then she shutthe bag with a snap, and looked so innocent that Gwendolen almostlaughed.

  No, Gwen was not wanted any more. She turned and went. Mrs. Pottendeserved to lose money! "Yes, she did, and in any case," thought Gwen,"at any moment I can say, 'Oh yes, I quite forgot I had the note. Howstupid, how awfully stupid,' etc."

  So she went down the stairs and out into the terrace.

  A few steps away she saw Mr. Bingham, coming back again. This timealone.

  As soon as Gwen had gone Mrs. Potten remarked, "Now I must be going!"and then sat on, as people do.

  "Very pretty girl, Gwendolen Scott," she added.

  "Very pretty," said Lady Dashwood.

  "Lady Belinda wrote to me a day or two ago, asking me if Gwen could comeon to me from you on Monday."

  "Oh!" said Lady Dashwood, but she uttered the exclamation wearily.

  "I have written and told her that I'm afraid I can't," said Mrs. Potten."Can't!"

  Lady Dashwood looked away as if the subject was ended.

  "If I have the child, it will mean that the mother will insist on comingto fetch her away or something." Here Mrs. Potten fidgeted with her bag."And I really scarcely know Lady Belinda. It was the husband we used toknow, old General Scott, poor dear silly old man!"

  Lady Dashwood received the remark in silence.

  "I can't do with some of these modern women," continued Mrs. Potten."There are women whose names I could tell you that I would not trustwith a tin halfpenny. My dear, I've seen with my own eyes at a hotelrestaurant a well-dressed woman sweep up the tip left for the waiter bythe person who had just gone, I saw that the waiters saw it, but theydaren't do anything. I saw a friend of mine speaking to her afterwards!Knew her! Quite respectable! Fancy the audacity of it!"

  Lady Dashwood now rested her head on the back of her chair and allowedMrs. Potten to talk on.

  "I'm afraid there's nothing of the Good Samaritan in me," said Mrs.Potten, in a self-satisfied tone. "I can't undertake the responsibilityof a girl who is billeted out by her mother--instead of being given adecent home. I think you're simply angelic to have had her for so long,Lena."

  Lady Dashwood's silence only excited Mrs. Potten's curiosity. "Mostgirls now seem to be doing something or other," she said. "Why, oneeven sees young women students wheeling convalescent soldiers aboutOxford. I don't believe there is a woman or girl in Oxford who isn'tdoing something for the war."

  "Yes, but it is the busy women who almost always have time for morework," said Lady Dashwood.

  "Now, I suppose Gwendolen is doing nothing and eating her head off, asthe phrase goes," said Mrs. Potten.

  Lady Dashwood was not to be drawn. "Talking of doing something," shesaid, to draw Mrs. Potten off the subject, and there was a touch ofweariness in her voice: "I think a Frenchwoman can beat an Englishwomanany day at 'doing.' I am speaking now of the working classes. I have aFrench maid now who does twice the work that any English maid would do.I picked her up at the beginning of the war. Her husband was killed andshe was stranded with two children. I've put the two children into aCatholic school in Kent and I have them in the holidays. Well, Louisemakes practically all my things, makes her own clothes and thechildren's, and besides that we have made shirts and pyjamas till Icould cut them out blindfolded. She's an object lesson to all maids."

  Lady Dashwood was successful, Mrs. Potten's attention was diverted, onlyunfortunately the word "maid" stimulated her to draw up an exhaustiveinventory of all the servants she had ever had at Potten End, and shewas doing this in her best Bradshaw style when Lady Dashwood exclaimedthat she had a wire to send off and must go and do it.

  "I ought to be going too," said Mrs. Potten, her brain reeling for amoment at this sudden interruption to her train of thought. She rosewith some indecision, leaving her bag on the floor. Then she stooped andpicked up her bag and left her umbrella; and then at last securing bothbag and umbrella, the two ladies made their way down the stairs andwent back into St. Aldates.

  All the time that Mrs. Potten had been running through a list of themarriages, births, etc., of all her former servants, Lady Dashwood wascontriving a telegram to Lady Belinda Scott. It was difficult tocompose, partly because it had to be both elusive and yet firm, andpartly because Mrs. Potten's voice kept on interrupting any flow ofconsecutive thought.

  When the two ladies had reached the post-office the wire was completedin Lady Dashwood's brain.

  "Good-bye," said Mrs. Potten, just outside the threshold of the door."And if you see Bernard--I believe he means to go to tea at theHardings--would you remind him that it is at Eliston's that he has topick me up? There are attractions about!" added Mrs. Pottenmysteriously, "and he may forget! Poor Bernard, such a good fellow inhis way, but so wild, and he sometimes talks as if he were almost aconscientious objector, only he's too old for it to matter. I don'tallow him to argue with me. I can't follow it--and don't want to. Buthe's a dear fellow."

  Lady Dashwood walked into the post-office. "Thank goodness, I can thinknow," she said to herself, as she went to a desk.

  The wire ran as follows:--

  "Sorry. Saturday quite impossible. Writing."

  It was far from cordial, but cordial Lady Dashwood had no intention ofbeing. She meant to do her duty and no more by Belinda. Duty would behard enough. And when she wrote the letter, what should she say?
br />   "If only something would happen, some providential accident," thoughtLady Dashwood, unconscious of the contradiction involved in the terms.The word "providential" caused her to go on thinking. If there were suchthings as ghosts, the "ghost" of the previous night might have beenprovidentially sent--sent as a warning! But the thought was a foolishone.

  "In any case," she argued, "what is the good of warnings? Did any oneever take warning? No, not even if one rose from the dead to deliverit."

  She was too tired to walk about and too tired to want to go again intothe Sale room and talk to people. She went back to the rooms, climbedthe stairs slowly and then sat down to wait till it was time to go toMrs. Harding's. Perhaps May would soon have finished seeing ChristChurch and come and join her. Her presence was always a comfort.

  It was a comfort, perhaps rather a miserable comfort, to Lady Dashwoodbecause she had begun to suspect that May too was suffering, notsuffering from wounded vanity, for May was almost devoid of vanity, butfrom--and here Lady Dashwood leaned back in her chair and closed hereyes. It was a strange thing that both Jim and May should have allowedthemselves to be martyrised, only May's marriage had been so brief andhad ended so worthily, the shallow young man becoming suddenly compelledto bear the burden of Empire, and bearing it to the utmost; but Gwenwould meander along, putting all her burdens on other people; and shewould live for ever!