Next morning, when Winnie came down to breakfast, she found a letter
from Bertram. She opened it with trembling hands. It began abruptly and
consisted only of two lines.
_I shall wait for you to-day in Kensington Gardens at ten o’clock.
I beg you to come._
In the early days of their engagement, when Canon Spratte refused to
hear Railing’s name mentioned, they had been used to walk together every
morning. They met always at a particular spot. There were shady alleys,
the scene of many pleasant conversations, which Winnie could not help
remembering with delight. She dreaded the meeting he asked for, but felt
that it was not in her to refuse. She had thought all night over the
brief account her father had given of his interview with Bertram, and
wished with all her heart now to explain personally why she had taken
this step. She could not bear that he should think too hardly of her.
The wounds she made seemed inevitable, but perhaps she could do
something to make him see how impossible it was for her to act
otherwise.
Without saying a word to her father, Winnie went out immediately after
breakfast, and when she arrived at the appointed place, found Bertram
already there. He greeted her without a smile. He was very pale and she
felt her own face burn with shame under his sad, questioning eyes. For a
few minutes they talked of indifferent things, as though they could not
bring themselves to attack the subject that filled their hearts. They
sat down and for a while were silent. At last he turned round and looked
at her gravely.
“It’s true, then?” he said.
“I’m very sorry,” she murmured, turning her face away.
“When your father spoke to me I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. The
whole thing seemed too horrible. Even now, I can’t convince myself that
you really want me to give you up. I’ve not had it from your own lips
yet.”
“I want you to release me, Bertram. I can’t marry you.”
“But why, why? The other day you said you loved me better than any one
in the whole world. What have they done to turn you against me? Oh, I
thought better of you than that, Winnie; I trusted you.”
“I was mistaken when I thought I loved you,” she whispered.
“They’re forcing you to give me up?”
“No,” she answered, shaking her head. “No one has done anything to
influence me.”
“And yet, suddenly, with nothing to explain it, you send your father to
say you’ve made a mistake; and don’t want to marry me. Oh, it’s
shameful, it’s too cruel.”
“Oh, Bertram, don’t speak like that,” she cried, looking at him at last.
The unhappiness of his voice was very hard to bear and she could hardly
restrain a sob. He looked at her with puzzled eyes. He was so wretched
that his brain was all confused.
“You loved me the other day,” he cried. “Oh, don’t be so cold. Tell me
what there is to tell, Winnie. I love you so passionately. I can’t live
without you.”
“Forgive me. I’m awfully sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.”
“Are you afraid because I’m poor and of mean birth? But you knew that
before. Oh, I don’t understand; it seems impossible. I never dreamed
you’d do this. I trusted you ten times more than I trusted myself.”
“I’m not fit to be your wife,” she sobbed.
“How can you sacrifice all that we planned so joyfully, the life of
labour shoulder to shoulder and the fine struggle for our fellows?”
“I should hate it,” she answered, hoarsely.
He stared at her with surprise. He caught the immense vehemence of her
expression and the little shiver of disgust that crossed her shoulders.
They were silent again.
“Oh, Bertram, try to understand,” said Winnie, at last. “I don’t want
you to be unhappy, I want you to see that we’ve made a dreadful mistake.
I thank God that we’ve discovered it before it was too late. I’m not
made for the life you want me to lead. I should be utterly out of it.
And all those meetings, and the agitations for things I don’t care two
straws about! Oh, I loathe the very thought of it.”
He looked before him as though the very foundations of the world were
sinking. Winnie put her hand on his arm gently.
“Don’t trouble about me, Bertram. I’m not worth it. You thought me
different from what I am. You’ve never known me; you put another soul
into my body, and you loved that. If you really knew me, you’d only
despise me. You thought I could do heroic things, but I can’t. When I
was enthusiastic about labour and temperance and all the rest, it was
merely pose. I wanted you to think me clever and original. I was
flattered because you spoke to me as if you thought my opinion worth
having. But honestly I don’t like poor people; I hate grime and dirt; I
can’t look upon them as my fellows; I don’t want to have anything to do
with them. I dare say poverty and crime are very dreadful, and the
misery of the slums is heart-rending, but I don’t want to see it. I want
to shut my eyes and forget all about it. Can’t you see how awful it
would be if we married? I should only hamper you, and we’d both be
utterly wretched.”
“Your father said a carriage and pair was essential to your happiness. I
told him I would stake my life on you. I told him that you despised the
sham and the shallowness of Society.”
“I suppose papa knows me,” said Winnie.
“Oh, dearest, it can’t be true,” he cried, taking her hand. “You can’t
mind whether you go on foot or in a gaudy carriage. Life is so full and
there’s so much work to do. What can it matter so long as we do our
duty?”
“I know I’m a cad, but I must have decent things, and servants, and nice
clothes. It’s vulgar and hateful and petty, but I can’t help it. I want
to live as all my friends live. I haven’t the courage to give up all
that makes life beautiful. It’s not just one act of heroism that it
needs; it’s strength to be heroic day after day in a sort of dull,
sordid fashion. And there can never be any escape from it; one has to
make up one’s mind that it will last for ever. I see myself living in a
shabby house in a horrid pokey street, with two dirty little maids, and
I could almost scream. Oh, I couldn’t, Bertram.”
“I thought you cared for me.”
She did not answer.
“It’s different for you,” she pleaded. “You’ve been brought up without
all these things, and you don’t miss them. I daresay it’s utterly
snobbish, but I can’t help it. I’ve been used to luxuries all my life;
it’s just as impossible for me to go without them as it would be for you
to go without a coat in winter. You think it’s very easy for me to do
housework and to mend linen as your mother does, but d’you think it’s
any easier than it would be for you who’ve worked with your brains, to
mend roads from morning till night? I know girls who’ve done that sort
of thing. I’ve seen the shifts with which they keep up appearances and
the awful struggle to make both ends meet. I’ve seen their faces pinched
with anxiety, and I’ve seen the wrench it causes when they must spend a
shilling. I couldn’t stand it, Bertram. You’re quite right; I am
afraid.”
“But I love you, Winnie,” he said. “You’re the whole world to me. Tell
me what you want me to do and I’ll try to do it. I can’t lose you.”
“What can you do? How can you change yourself? Don’t you see that it’s
impossible, and that we’re utterly unsuited to one another? Really we’ve
not got a single thought or aim or idea in common. You can’t want to
make me so unhappy as to wish to marry me.”
“Then it’s good-bye?” he asked.
Winnie looked up. To her surprise she saw her father ride past with
Gwendolen Durant. Instinctively she drew back, seeking to hide herself;
but they were too deeply engrossed in conversation to notice her.
Railing’s eyes met hers sadly.
“I don’t know how I shall live without you,” he said.
“You must try and forgive me for all the wretchedness I’ve caused you.
And soon I hope that you’ll forget all about me.”
“Is there no chance that you’ll ever change your mind?” he asked,
brokenly.
She hesitated, for there was something on her heart which she felt
strangely impelled to confess. It seemed that she owed it to him.
“I think I ought to tell you that Lord Wroxham has asked me to marry
him.”
“And are you going to?” he gasped.
“I’ve known him ever since I was a child, and I’m very fond of him. I’m
frightened. I wanted you to know from my own lips rather than from a
newspaper. You probably can’t despise me more than you do already.”
“What do you mean by saying you’re frightened? Are you frightened of
me?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is good-bye indeed,” he answered, after a long silence.
He stood up and without another word left her. Winnie began to cry
silently. In that pleasure garden, fit scene for the careless trifling
of fair ladies in hoops and of gentlemen in periwigs, every one else
seemed happy and unconcerned. Children in their bright dresses played
with merry shouts and their nurses idly gossiped. A tremor passed
through Winnie’s body as she struggled in vain to restrain her sobbing.
* * * * *
In the afternoon Winnie told her father that she had seen Bertram. She
felt still as though her heart were breaking.
“Oh, father, I feel so ashamed,” she moaned.
Canon Spratte pursed his lips and nodded once or twice gravely. He did
not approve of this stolen interview, but presumed it would be the last.
He addressed her in grave, sonorous tones.
“You do well to feel ashamed, my child. I hope this will be a warning
and a lesson to you. You see what comes of disobeying your father, and
setting yourself obstinately and irreligiously against his better
judgment. In future I trust you will be more dutiful. Believe me, it is
always best to honour your parents; and if you don’t you’re sure to be
punished for it.”
“Oughtn’t I to tell Harry?” she asked.
“Tell him what?” cried the Canon, perfectly aghast.
“I think he ought to know that I was engaged to Bertram.”
“Certainly not,” he answered, with the utmost decision. “I entirely
forbid you to do anything of the sort, and I hope you’ve been
sufficiently punished for your wilful disobedience to obey me now.
Wroxham is very susceptible, and it’s your duty to give him no anxiety.
And whatever you do, don’t begin your married life by confessing
everything to your husband. It will only bore him to death. Besides, one
never can tell the whole truth, and it leads inevitably to deception and
subterfuge.”
“But suppose he finds out?”
Canon Spratte gave a sigh of genuine relief, for after all the fear of
discovery is the easiest form of conscience to deal with.
“Is that all you’re frightened of, my darling?” he said. “Leave it to
me. I’ll tell him all that’s necessary.”
And the next time he found himself alone with Wroxham, he took the
opportunity to set the matter right.
“By the way, Harry, Winnie wants me to tell you something that’s rather
worrying her. You know what girls are. They often have a sensitiveness
of conscience which is very charming but at the same time rather
ridiculous. I don’t suppose you ever heard of a young man called
Railing?’”
“You mean the Socialist? Winnie gave me his book to read.”
“I may say I was among the first to discover its striking merit. I
thought it my duty to encourage him, and I asked him to come and see us.
His father, it appears, was a coal-heaver, and I thought him a very
remarkable fellow. But he repaid my kindness by falling in love with
Winnie and asking her to marry him.”
“Why didn’t you kick him down-stairs?” laughed Wroxham, lightly.
“Upon my word, I had half a mind to. I will never befriend the lower
orders again; they always take liberties with you.”
At this juncture Winnie came into the room. Canon Spratte told her that
he had informed Wroxham of the unfortunate incident. She gave her
devoted lover an appealing glance; and the thought that she was so
fearful to offend him, increased a thousandfold his passionate
tenderness.
“You’re not angry with me, dear?”
“Because a madman wants to marry you? Why, I want to do that myself.”
“Capital! Capital!” laughed the Canon. “But seriously I don’t think he’s
quite right in his head. His sister is in a lunatic asylum, you know. I
hope you won’t receive any nonsensical letter from him.”
Wroxham was all eyes for Winnie, and scarcely listened to the trivial
topic.
“If I do, it shall go straight into the waste-paper basket,” he
answered, lightly.
“Quite right,” said the Canon. “Quite right!”
He tactfully left the lovers to themselves.