"I'm not cold," said May. "But I will stir up the fire." She rose from her chair and went to the fire, and poked it up into a blaze.

"I'm afraid, Gwen, that you couldn't make it all right with Mrs. Potten, except by----"

"By what?" asked Gwen, becoming suddenly excited. "If only Dr. Middleton had not been away, I might have borrowed from him. Do you mean that?"

"No," said May, with a profound sigh, as she came back to the bedside.

"It was a question of honour, don't you see? You couldn't have made it right, except by being horrified at what you had done and feeling that you could never, never make it right! Do you understand what I mean?"

Gwen was trying to understand.

"That would have made Mrs. Potten worse," she said hoa.r.s.ely.

"No," said May, with a quiet emphasis on the word. "If you had really been terribly unhappy about your honour, Mrs. Potten would have sympathised! Don't you see what I mean?"

"But how could I be so terribly unhappy about such a mere accident?"

protested Gwen, tearfully. "I might have returned the money. I very nearly did twice, only somehow I didn't. It just seemed to happen like that, and it was such a little affair."

May sat down again and put her cool hand on the girl's brow. It was no use talking about honour to the child. To Belinda and Co. honour was, what was expected of you by people who were in the swim, and if Mrs.

Potten had made no discovery, or had forgiven it when it was made, Gwendolen's "honour" would have remained bright and untarnished. That was Gwendolen's sense of the moral situation! Her vision went no further. Still May's silence was disturbing. Gwendolen felt that she had not been understood, and that she was being reproved by that silence, though the reproof was gentle, very different from the kind of reproof that would probably be administered by her mother. On the other hand, the reproof was not merited.

"Would you," said Gwendolen, with a gulp in her throat, "would you spoil somebody's whole life because they took some trifle that n.o.body really missed or wanted, intending to give it back, only didn't somehow get the opportunity? Would you?"

"Your whole life isn't spoiled," said May. "If you take what has happened very seriously you may make your life more honourable in the future than it has been. Don't you see that if what you had done had not been discovered you might have gone on doing these things all your life. That would have spoiled your life!"

"But my engagement!" moaned Gwen. "I shall have to go to that horrid Stow, unless mother has got an invitation for me, and mother will be so upset. She'll be so angry!"

What could May say to give the girl any real understanding of her own responsibilities? Was she to drift about like a leaf in the wind, without principles, with no firm basis upon which she could stand and take her part in the struggle of human life?

What was to be done?

May did her best to put her thoughts into the plainest, simplest words.

She had to begin at the beginning, and speak as to a child. As she went on May discovered that one thing, and one thing only, really impressed Gwen, and that was the idea of courage. Coward as she was, she did grasp that courage was of real value. Gwen had a faint gleam of the meaning of honour, when it was a question of courage, and upon this one string May played, for it gave a clear note, striking into the silence of the poor girl's moral nature.

She got the girl to promise that she would try and take the misfortune of her youth with courage and meet the future bravely. She even induced Gwendolen then and there to pray for more courage, moral and physical, and she did not leave her till she had added also a prayer for help in the future when difficulties and temptations were in her path. They were vague words, "difficulties and temptations," and May knew that, but it is not possible in half an hour to straighten the muddle of many years of Belinda and Co.

"Have courage," she said at last, "I must go, Gwen. Good-night," and May stooped down to kiss the dark head on the pillow. "G.o.d protect you; G.o.d help you!"

"Good-night," sighed Gwen; "I'll try and go to sleep. But could you--could you put that umbrella into the wardrobe and poke up the fire again to make a little light?"

And May put the umbrella away in the wardrobe and poked up the fire.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE ANXIETIES OF LOUISE

The one definite thought in May's mind now was that she must leave Oxford before the Warden's return. A blind instinct compelled her to take this course.

It was not easy for her to say to Lady Dashwood quite unconcernedly: "You won't mind my running away to-morrow, will you? You won't mind if I run off, will you? All your troubles are over, and I do want to get back to-morrow. I have lots of things to do--to get ready before Monday."

It was not easy to say all this, but May did say it. She said it in the corridor as they were bidding each other good night.

Lady Dashwood's surprise was painful. "I do mind your running off," she said, and she looked a little bewildered. "Must you go to-morrow? Must you? To-morrow!"

Lady Dashwood had talked a great deal, both before May went into Gwendolen's room and afterwards, when May came back again to the drawing-room. May had told the reason for her long absence from the drawing-room, but in an abstracted manner; and Lady Dashwood, observing this, looked long and wistfully at her, but had asked no questions. All she had said was, "I'm glad you've been with the child," and she spoke in a low voice. Then she had begun talking again of things relevant and irrelevant, and in doing so had betrayed her excitement. It was indeed May now who was calm and self-contained, all trace of her "chill" gone, whereas Lady Dashwood was obviously over-excited.

It was only when May said good night, and made this announcement about going away on the following day, that Lady Dashwood's spirits showed signs of flagging.

That moment all her vivacity suddenly died down and she looked no longer brisk and brilliant, but limp and tired, a hollow-eyed woman.

"I do mind," she repeated. But she gave no reason for minding, she merely added: "Don't go!" and stared at her niece pathetically.

But May was firm. She kissed her aunt very affectionately, and was very tender in her manner and voice, but she was immovable.

"I must go, dear," she said; and then she repeated again: "Your troubles are over! Seriously, Aunt Lena, I want to go!"

Lady Dashwood sighed. "You have done a great deal for me, May," she said, and this grat.i.tude from her Aunt Lena shook May's courage more than any protest.

"I don't want to go," she said, "but I must go." That was her last word.

And May wanted to go early. Everything must be ready. She wanted to get away as soon as Gwendolen had gone. 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes, conscious of Oxford all the time, conscious of all that it meant to her!

It was a grey morning when she got up and looked out of narrow window's on to the quiet, narrow grey street. She heard no one moving about when she came down the broad staircase and into the hall, prepared to go, hardening herself to go, because to stop would be impossible.

In the breakfast-room she found Lady Dashwood. The two women looked at each other silently with a smile only of greeting. They could hear steps outside, and Gwendolen came in with swollen eyes and smiled vaguely round the room.

"Good morning," she said, and then gulped. Poor girl! She was making an effort to be brave, and May gave her a glance that said plainly her approval and her sympathy.

Lady Dashwood was almost tender in her manner.

Gwen ate hurriedly, and once or twice made spasmodic faces in trying not to break down.

Of course, no reference was made to anything that had happened, but it was necessary to talk a little. Silence would have made things worse. So Lady Dashwood praised Potten End, and said it was more bracing there than at Oxford; and May said she had not seen Potten End. Then both ladies looked at each other and started some other subject. They spoke at great length about the weather. At last breakfast was over, and Lady Dashwood rose from her chair and looked rather nervously across at Gwendolen.

"I'm ready," said Gwendolen, bravely. "At least, I've only got to put my hat on."

"There is no hurry, dear," said Lady Dashwood. "Let me see, you have nearly an hour." The car was to come at ten--an unearthly hour except in Oxford and at Potten End.

Gwendolen disappeared upstairs, and the two ladies lingered about in the breakfast-room, neither able to attend to the papers, though both read ostentatiously. At last the car was announced and they went into the hall.

Gwendolen came downstairs hastily. That horrible umbrella was in her hand, in the other hand was a handkerchief. She was frowning under her veil to keep herself from crying.

"Well, good-bye, Gwen," said Lady Dashwood, and she kissed the girl on both cheeks. "Good-bye, dear; give my love to Mrs. Potten."

"Thanks----" began Gwen, but her voice began to fail her. "Thanks----"