Their ways lay together. In resentful silence they paced the stones, past the ugly front of Balliol and the high iron gates of Trinity, past the fourteen-fold sneer of the Caesars and the top-heavy arch of the Clarendon Building, till they stood at the Junction of Cat Street and Holywell.
“Well,” said Mr. Pomfret, “if you don’t mind, I’d better cut along here. It’s just going twelve.”
“Yes. Don’t bother about me. Good-night… And thank you again very much.”
“Goodnight.”
Mr. Pomfret ran hurriedly in the direction of Queen’s College, pursued by a chorus of chimes.
Harriet went on down Holywell. She could laugh now if she wanted to; and she did laugh. She had no fear of any permanent damage to Mr. Pomfret’s heart; he was far too cross to be suffering in anything but his vanity. The incident had that rich savour of the ludicrous which neither pity nor charity can destroy. Unfortunately, she could not in decency share it with anybody; she could only enjoy it in lonely ecstasies of mirth. What Mr. Jenkyn must be thinking of her she could scarcely imagine. Did he suppose her to be an unprincipled cradle-snatcher? or a promiscuous sexual maniac? or a disappointed woman eagerly grasping at the rapidly disappearing skirts of opportunity? or what? The more she thought about her own part in the episode the funnier it appeared to her-She wondered what she should say to Mr. Jenkyn if she ever met him again.
She was surprised to find how much Mr. Pomfret’s simple-minded proposal had elated her. She ought to have been thoroughly ashamed of herself. She ought to be blaming herself for not having seen what was happening to Mr. Pomfret and taken steps to stop it-why hadn’t she? Simply, she supposed because the possibility of such a thing had never occurred to her. She had taken it for granted that she could never again attract any man’s fancy, except the eccentric fancy of Peter Wimsey. And to him she was, of course, only the creature of his making and the mirror of his own magnanimity. Reggie Pomfret’s devotion, though ridiculous, was at least single-minded; he was no King Cophetua; she had not to be humbly obliged to him for kindly taking notice of her. And that reflection, after all, was pleasurable. However loudly we may assert our own unworthiness, few of us are really offended by hearing the assertion contradicted by a disinterested party.
In this unregenerate mood she reached the College, and let herself in by the postern. There were lights in the Warden’s Lodgings, and somebody was standing at the gate, looking out. At the sound of Harriet’s footsteps, this person called out, in the Dean’s voice-
“Is that you, Miss Vane? The Warden wants to see you.”
“What’s the matter, Dean?”
The Dean took Harriet by the arm.
“Newland hasn’t come in. You haven’t seen her anywhere?”
“No-I’ve been round at Somerville. It’s only just after twelve. She’ll probably turn up. You don’t think-?”
“We don’t know what to think-it’s not like Newland to be out without leave. And we’ve found things.”
She led Harriet into the Warden’s sitting-room. Dr. Baring was seated at her desk, her handsome face stern and judicial. In front of her stood Miss Haydock, with her hands thrust into her dressing-gown pockets; she looked excited and angry. Miss Shaw curled dismally in a corner of the big couch, was crying; while Miss Millbanks the Senior Student, half-frightened and half-defiant, hovered uneasily in the background. As Harriet came in with the Dean, everybody looked hopefully towards the door and then away again.
“Miss Vane,” said the Warden, “the Dean tells me that you saw Miss Newland behaving in a peculiar manner on Magdalen Tower last May Day. Can you give me any more exact details about that?”
Harriet told her story again. “I am sorry,” she added in conclusion, “that I didn’t get her name at the time; but I didn’t recognize her as one of our students. As a matter of fact, I don’t remember ever noticing her at all, until she was pointed out to me yesterday by Miss Martin.”
“That’s quite right,” said the Dean. “I’m not at all surprised you shouldn’t have known her. She’s very quiet and shy and seldom comes in to Hall or shows herself anywhere. I think she works nearly all day at the Radcliffe. Of course, when you told me about the May-Day business I decided that somebody ought to keep an eye on her. I informed Dr. Baring and Miss Shaw, and I asked Miss Millbanks whether any of the Third Year had noticed that she seemed to be in any trouble.”
“I can’t understand it,” cried Miss Shaw. “Why couldn’t she have come to me about it? I always encourage my pupils to give me their full confidence. I asked her again and again. I really thought she had a real affection for me.”
She sniffed hopelessly into a damp handkerchief.
“I knew something was up,” said Miss Haydock, bluntly. “But I didn’t know what it was. The more questions you asked, the less she’d tell you-so I didn’t ask many.”
“Has the girl no friends?” asked Harriet.
“I thought she looked on me as a friend,” complained Miss Shaw.
“She didn’t make friends,” said Miss Haydock.
“She’s a very reserved child,” said the Dean. “I don’t think anybody could make much out of her. I know I couldn’t.”
“But what has happened, exactly?” asked Harriet.
“When Miss Martin spoke to Miss Millbanks about her,” said Miss Haydock, cutting in without respect of persons upon the Warden’s reply, “Miss Millbanks mentioned the matter to me, saying she couldn’t see that we could be expected to do anything.”
“But I scarcely knew her…” Began Miss Millbanks.
“Nor did I,” said Miss Haydock. “But I thought something had better be done about it. I took her out on the river this afternoon. She said she ought to work, but I told her not to be an idiot, or she’d crack up. We took a punt up over the Rollers and had tea along by the Parks. She seemed all right then. I brought her back and persuaded her to come and dine properly in Hall. After that, she said she wanted to go and work at the Radder. I had an engagement, so I couldn’t go with her-besides, I thought she’d think it funny if I trailed after her all day. So I told Miss Millbanks that somebody else had better carry on.”
“Well, I carried on myself,” said Miss Millbanks, rather defiantly. “I took my own work across there. I sat in a desk where I could see her. She was there till half-past nine. I came away at ten and found she’d gone.”
“Didn’t you see her go?”
“No. I was reading and I suppose she slipped out. I’m sorry; but how was I to know? I’ve got Schools this term. It’s all very well to say I oughtn’t to have taken my eyes off her, but I’m not a nurse or anything-”
Harriet noticed how Miss Millbanks’s self-assurance had broken down. She was defending herself angrily and clumsily like a schoolgirl.
“On returning,” pursued the Warden, “Miss Millbanks-”
“But has anything been done about it?” interrupted Harriet, impatient with this orderly academic exposition. “I suppose you asked whether she’d been up to the gallery of the Radcliffe.”
“I thought of that later on,” replied the Warden, “and suggested that a search should be made there. I understand that it has been made, without result-However, a subsequent-”
“How about the river?”
“I am coming to that. Perhaps I had better continue in chronological order. I can assure you that no time has been wasted.”
“Very well, Warden.”
“On returning,” said the Warden, taking up her tale exactly where she had left it, “Miss Millbanks told Miss Haydock about it, and they ascertained that Miss Newland was not in College. They then, very properly, informed the Dean, who instructed Padgett to telephone through as soon as she came in. At 11.15 she had not returned, and Padgett reported that fact. He mentioned at the same time that he had himself been feeling uneasy about Miss Newland. He had noticed that she had taken to going about alone, and that she looked strained and nervous.”