The New Warden

by Mrs. David G. Ritchie

Some eight or nine years ago, when he had first met May, he had as nearly fallen in love with her as his constitution permitted; and he had been nettled at finding himself in a financial position that was, to say the best of it, rather fluctuating. He knew he was going to have Chartcote, but aunts of sixty frequently live to remain aunts at eighty. May had never shown any particular interest in him, but he attributed her indifference to the natural and selfish female desire to acquire a wealthy husband. As it was impossible for him to marry at that period in his life, he adopted that theory of marriage most likely to shed a cheerful light upon his compulsory bachelorhood. He maintained that the natural man tries to escape marriage, as it is incompatible with his "freedom," and is only "enchained" after much persistent hunting down by the female, who makes the most of the conventions of civilisation for her own protection and profit. He was able, therefore, at the age of forty-two to look round him and say: "I have successfully escaped—hitherto," and to feel that what he said was true. But now he was no longer poor. He was an eligible man.

He was also less happy than he had been. He had lived at Chartcote for some interminable weeks! He had found it tolerable, only because he was well enough off to be always going away from it. But now he had again met May, free like himself, and if possible more attractive than she had been eight years ago!

He had met her and had found her at the zenith of womanhood; without losing her youth, she had acquired maturer grace and self-possession. Had there been any room for improvement in himself he too would have matured! The wealth he had acquired was sufficient. And now the question was: whether with all his masculine longing to preserve his freedom he would be able to escape successfully again? This was why he was giving a lingering glance in the mirror, where his external personality was, as it were, painted with an exactness that no artist could command.

Should this blond man with the beard and the stiff hair, below which lay a splendid brain, should he escape again?

Boreham stared hard at his own image. He repeated the momentous question, firmly but inaudibly, and then went away without answering it. Time would show—that very day might show!

Mrs. Greenleafe Potten had already arrived. Now Mrs. Greenleafe Potten was a cousin of Boreham's maternal aunt. She lived in rude though luxurious widowhood about a quarter of a mile from Chartcote, and she was naturally the person to whom Boreham applied whenever he wanted a lady to head his table. Besides, Mrs. Potten was a very old friend of Lady Dashwood's. Mrs. Potten was a little senior to Lady Dashwood, but in many ways appeared to be her junior. Mrs. Potten, too, retained her youthful interest in men. Lady Dashwood's long stay in Oxford had brought with it a new interest to Mrs. Potten's life. It had enabled her to call at King's College and claim acquaintance with the Warden. Mrs. Potten admired the Warden with the sentiment of early girlhood. Now Mrs. Potten was accredited with the possession of great wealth, of which she spent as little as possible. She practised certain strange economies, and on this occasion, learning that the Dashwoods were coming without the Warden, she decided to come in the costume in which she usually spent the morning hours, toiling in the garden.

The party consisted of the three ladies from King's, Mr. Bingham, Fellow of All Souls, and Mr. and Mrs. Harding.

Mr. Bingham was a man of real learning; he was a bachelor, and he made forcible remarks in the soft deliberate tone of a super-curate. He laughed discreetly as if in the presence of some sacred shrine. In the old pre-war days there had been many stories current in Oxford about Bingham, some true and some invented by his friends. All of them were reports of brief but effective conversations between himself and some other less sophisticated person. Bingham always accepted invitations from any one who asked him when he had time, and if he found himself bored, he simply did not go again. Boreham had got hold of Bingham and had asked him to lunch, so he had accepted. It was one of the days when he did not go up to the War Office, but when he lectured to women students. He had to lunch somewhere, and he had bicycled out, intending to bicycle back, rain or no rain, for the sake of exercise.

Then there were Mr. and Mrs. Harding. Harding, who had taken Orders (just as some men have eaten dinners for the Bar), was Fellow and Tutor of a sporting College. His tutorial business had been for many years to drive the unwilling and ungrateful blockhead through the Pass Degree. His private business was to assume that he was a "man of the world." It was a subject that engrossed what must (in the absence of anything more distinctive), be called the "spiritual" side of his nature. His wife, who had money, lived to set a good example to other Dons' wives in matters of dress and "tenue," and she had put on her best frock in anticipation of meeting the "County." Indeed, the Hardings had taken up Boreham because he was not a college Don but a member of "Society." They were, like Bingham, at Chartcote for the first time. It was an unpleasant shock to Mr. Harding to find that instead of the County, other Oxford people had been asked to luncheon. Fortunately, however, the Oxford people were the Dashwoods! The Hardings exchanged glances, and Harding, who had entered the room in his best manner, now looked round and heaved a sigh, letting himself spiritually down with a sort of thump. Bingham his old school-fellow and senior at Winchester, was, perhaps, the man in all Oxford to whom he felt most antipathy.

Mrs. Harding very much regretted that she had not come in a smart Harris tweed. It would have been a good compromise between the Dashwoods and the pretty girl with them, and Mrs. Greenleafe Potten with her tweed skirt and not altogether spotless shirt. But it was too late!