Back again in the Lodgings, she found that she had only a few minutes more to spare before she must leave. She took farewell of Louise, and left her standing, her hand clasping money and her eyes luminous with reproach. There was, indeed, more than reproach, a curious incredulity, a wonder at something. May did not fathom what it was. She did not hear Louise muttering below her breath--

"Ah, mon Dieu! these English people--this Monsieur the Warden--this Madame la niece. Ah, this Lodgings! Ah, this Oxford!"

In the drawing-room May found Lady Dashwood in a loose gown, seated on a couch 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 part with Oxford."

"Is it so difficult?" asked Lady Dashwood, then she suddenly pulled herself up and said: "Oh, May, a note was left just after you went out by Mrs. Potten. She wouldn't come in. Mark that, May! She had been seeing Gwendolen off. The girl has gone to her mother. Marian wants me to lunch with her to-morrow. I telephoned her a few moments ago that I would go and see her later in the week. I wonder if she wants to speak to me about Gwen? I can't help wondering. Oh dear, the whole thing seems like 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. At least 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 head slowly at her niece.

"He may not be able to," said May, going up to the sofa. She spoke as if it were a matter of unconcern. She must keep this up. She had counselled Gwendolen to be brave! This thought brought with it a little sob of laughter that nearly choked her. "Good-bye, Aunt Lena," she said, throwing her arms round Lady Dashwood, and the two rested their heads together 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 to the 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 windows much as it had done that afternoon when she was reading the telegram from 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 the corners of the mouth, so that he seemed to be smiling.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

THE WARDEN HURRIES

The Warden was on his way to the station. For three days he had done what he could to keep out of May Dashwood's presence. He had invented no excuses 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-station himself if he had intended to do so. His business was over and he lingered, a desperate conscientiousness forcing him to linger. He allowed himself to be b.u.t.ton-holed by other men, not completely aware of what was being said to him, because all the time in his imagination he saw May waiting for him. He pictured her going down the staircase to the hall and getting into her taxi alone. He pictured this while some one propounded to him plans, not only for successfully getting rid of party politics, but for the regeneration of the whole human race. It was at that point that he broke away. Some one else proposed walking back to King's with him.

"I'm going to the station," said the Warden, and he struck off by himself and began to walk faster. He had run it too close, he risked missing her altogether. That he did not intend. He meant to arrive a moment before the train started. It was surely not part of his duty to be absolutely discourteous! He must just say "Good-bye." He began to walk still faster, for it seemed likely that he might be too late even to say "Good-bye."

In Beaumont Street a taxi was in sight. He hailed it and got in. The man seemed an outrageously long time getting the car round and started. He seemed 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 Warden this afternoon. It always had struck him before unpleasantly. Just now he was merely aware of vehicles to be pa.s.sed before he could reach the station, and he had his eyes on his watch continually to see how the moments were going. Suppose the train moved off just as he reached the platform? The Warden put his hand on the door ready to jump out. He had the fare already in the other hand. The station at last!

He got out of the taxi swiftly. No, the train was there and the platform was sprinkled with people--some men in khaki; many women. He was just in time, but only just--not in time to help her, or to speak with her or say anything more than just "Good-bye."

A sudden rage filled him. He ran his eyes along the whole length of the platform. She was probably seated in a carriage already, reading, Oxford forgotten perhaps! In that case why was he hurrying like this? Why was he raging?

No, there she was! The sight of her made his heart beat wildly. She was there, standing by an open carriage door, looking wistfully along the platform, looking for him! A porter was slamming the doors to already.

The Warden strode along and came face to face with her. Under the large brimmed hat and through the veil, he could see that she had turned ashy pale. They stared for a moment at each other desperately, and he could see that she was trembling. The porter laid his hand on the door. "Are you getting in, m'm?"

Only a week ago the Warden had committed the one rash and foolish action of his life. He had done it in ignorance of his own personal needs and with, perhaps, the unconscious cynicism of a man who has lived for forty years unable to find his true mate. But since then his mind had been lit up with the flash of a sudden poignant experience. He knew now what he wanted; what he must have, or fail. He knew that there was nothing else for 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 of some invisible Controller of all human actions, great and small, breathed in his ear saying: "Now! Take your chance! This is your true destiny!"

There was no one in the carriage but a young girl at the further end huddled behind a novel. But had there been twenty there, it would not have 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 the porter, "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 regained his usual courteous and deliberate manner, for the purpose of his life was his again. He helped her in and followed her. The door was banged behind them. There was May's little bundle of rug and umbrella on the seat. He moved it on one side so that she could sit there. The train began 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 not observed from the other end of the carriage. He leaned forward and grasping both of May's hands in his, he looked into her eyes with his own slow moving, narrow eyes that absorbed the light. The corners of her mouth were trembling, her eyelids trembling.

They never spoke a word as the train moved away and left behind that fair ancient city enshrined in squalor and in raucous brick; left behind the flat meadows, the sluggish river and the leafless crooked willows; but a strange glory came from the west and flooded the whole earth and the carriage where they sat.

THE END