Part 14

“I distrusted you when you first agreed to our engagement. I knew you despised me. I knew that all your flattery was humbug. Say it straight out like a man.”

Canon Spratte shrugged his shoulders, and spoke slowly and gravely.

“Mr. Railing, I solemnly ask you to give up my daughter. After mature reflection I have come to the conclusion that the marriage is impossible, and I will never give my consent to it.”

“We will do without it; we’re free, both of us, and we don’t care a button for you. Winnie has promised to marry me, and, by God, she shall.”

“Do you absolutely disregard my express wishes?”

“The matter concerns us alone, and no one else in the whole world.”

Canon Spratte thoughtfully examined his finger-nails.

On a sudden he had an inspiration. He had learned a fact from Mrs. Railing, which he thought at the time might prove useful, and here was the opportunity.

“Well, Mr. Railing, it’s very painful to me to have to talk to you in this manner. It is true that some time ago I gave a provisional sanction to your engagement with Winnie, and I can perfectly understand that it should seem strange if I now resolutely forbid it. I have no doubt this is a great disappointment to you, and for that reason I excuse your heated language, which has been certainly wanting in courtesy. I am sure that when you are calmer you will regret some of the expressions you have seen fit to use. But I will tell you at once that I bear you on this account absolutely no ill-will.”

“I’m much obliged to you, but I’m not aware that I’ve used any expression which I’m in the least likely to regret,” said Bertram, sharply.

“Then, if I may say so, as a man much older than yourself, and as a clergyman, you show both your want of Christian charity and your ignorance of social amenities.... I beg you not to interrupt me,” he added, when he saw that Railing was about to make a rejoinder. “You will understand that I am not the man to wrangle like a fishwife.”

“Will you tell me shortly what new objection you have to me, Canon Spratte?”

“That is what I am about to do. It has come to my knowledge that your eldest sister is unfortunately in a lunatic asylum. I need not tell you that I regret this misfortune, but my views on the subject are very decided. With insanity among your relations, I feel that an alliance between your family and mine is out of the question.”

“That’s absurd!” cried Railing. “Florrie had an accident when she was a child. She fell downstairs, and since then she’s been----”

“Not quite right in her head, as your mother expressed it, Mr. Railing. I should like you to observe, however, that every child falls downstairs, and the entire human race is not so imbecile as to need the restraint of a lunatic asylum.”

Bertram’s eyes were fixed steadily on Canon Spratte. He tried to discover what lay at the back of the man’s mind, but could not. He saw only that behind that calm face, amid this resonance of polished phrase, something was being hidden from him.

“I don’t believe a word you say. I’m not a child. I assure you it’s no good trying to hoodwink me. Tell me the simple truth.”

The Canon flushed at this appeal and was nearly put out of countenance. He wondered if he should fly into a passion and order Railing out of the house. But it was doubtful whether the Socialist would go. He was a little disconcerted, too, by the steadfastness with which Bertram had resisted him, and the scorn wherewith he brushed aside his specious reasons. Canon Spratte was hot with anger. The taunts to which he had calmly listened, rankled in his heart, and he would have been pleased to show that none could thus treat him with impunity. But he seldom lost his temper unadvisedly, and he realized now that calmness gave him a decided advantage over the angry and excited suitor.

“Are you quite sure that Winnie cares for you?” he asked, mildly.

“As sure as I am of my own name and of my own life.”

There was a pause. The Canon for a minute walked up and down the room; and then, holding himself very erect, stood still in front of Bertram. His voice was full of authority.

“Well, it is my painful duty to inform you that you are mistaken. Winnie recognizes that she misjudged the strength of her affection.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Railing, full of scorn.

“My patience must be inexhaustible. I am much tempted to kick you downstairs, Mr. Railing.”

“You forget that I’m a working-man and horny-handed, so it’s safer not to try.”

“It evidently hasn’t occurred to you that the manners of Peckham Rye are not altogether suitable to South Kensington,” smiled the Canon, blandly.

“Well?”

“Winnie has requested me to tell you that she finds she does not care for you enough to marry you. She regrets the inconvenience and unhappiness that she has caused, and desires you to release her.”

Bertram grew white and he gathered himself together as a wild beast might, driven to bay.

“It’s a lie!” he cried, furiously. “It’s a lie!”

The Canon replied with the utmost calm.

“You will have the goodness to remember that I am a minister of the Church and a son of the late Lord Chancellor of England.”

“If it’s true, you’ve forced her to give me up. I _know_ she loves me.”

“You may think what you choose, Mr. Railing. The fact remains that she wishes to break off her engagement with you. As a man of honour there is obviously but one course open to you.”

“You tell me I’m a man of honour and you treat me like a lackey. Do you think you can dismiss me like a servant? Don’t you know that my whole life’s happiness is at stake? She can’t send me away like that. It’s not true, it’s not true.”

“On my honour as a gentleman, I have told you the exact truth,” replied Canon Spratte, gravely. Bertram seized the Canon’s arm.

“Let her tell me herself. I must see her. Where is she?”

“She’s gone out.”

“But she knew I was coming here to-day. She expected me.”

“Doesn’t that show you that what I have said is the simple truth? I wished to spare you both a painful scene.”

Bertram hesitated. He could not tell whether Winnie was really out, but it seemed impossible to verify the statement. For a moment he looked straight into the Canon’s eyes, then without a word turned on his heel. Canon Spratte gave a sigh of relief.

“What an escape!” he muttered. “Good Lord, what an escape!”

XVII

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.

XVIII

Some days later Lord Spratte found himself dressed half-an-hour too early for the dinner-party to which he was going. He made up his mind to walk down Piccadilly. The evening was delightful, and he looked with amiable eyes upon the populous street. The closing day flooded the scene with gold that seemed flung from divine hands with a gesture large and free. The crowd, sweeping along the pavements, the gay ’buses and the carriages, were bathed in opulent splendour. They looked like magic things, all light and movement, seen by a painter who could work miracles. Lord Spratte congratulated himself that his fellow-men were all very well-to-do and had obviously no concern with sordid details. He braced himself to enjoy the charming world in general, and the festivity before him in particular.

“I’m feelin’ younger every day,” he murmured. “By Jupiter, if Theodore don’t mind his p’s and q’s I’ll marry and do him out of the title yet.”

So may the fancy of middle age in June turn lightly to amorous undertakings.

Suddenly he recognized Bertram Railing, who was walking quickly towards him. They met, and the Socialist, seeing him for the first time, flushed; then he fixed his eyes firmly on Lord Spratte and with much deliberation cut him. The elder man smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He wanted to speak with Bertram, and was entirely indifferent to his obvious disinclination. He turned round and with some trouble caught him up.

“Why the dickens do you walk at that rate?” he panted, somewhat out of breath.

He took Bertram’s arm familiarly. But the young man stopped and abruptly released himself.

“What do you want?”

“Merely to have a little chat. Let us stroll in the Park for five minutes.”

“I’m sorry, that’s impossible. I have an urgent engagement.”

“Nonsense!”

Lord Spratte again seized the unwilling arm, and in the most determined way made for the Park gates.

“I want to talk to you about your engagement with Winnie. I’m afraid you’ve been very unhappy.”

Bertram did not answer, but with firm-set jaws looked straight in front of him.

“You know, if I were you I would try not to take it too much to heart,” he went on. “In a little while you’ll understand that both you and Winnie would have been quite unnecessarily wretched.”

He paused and looked at Bertram sharply.

“Will you promise not to turn round and bolt if I stop to light a cigarette?”

“Yes,” said Bertram, smiling in spite of himself.

“You think she’s a very remarkable young woman, but she’s quite an average girl. Perhaps she’s a little prettier than most. I know very few young women of her particular station who wouldn’t have acted as she has.”

“Then Heaven help her particular station,” cried Bertram.

“I don’t suppose it’s struck you that it’s a very awkward one,” replied Lord Spratte, mildly. “A great family might have lived down a match of this sort, (I don’t want to hurt your feelings,) but we’re such very small fry. You think us snobs, and so we are. You can’t expect anythin’ else from people who’ve only just emerged from the middle-classes. You know, I have an impression that your grandfather and mine were great pals. I’m sure they used to hobnob and drink brandy and water together in seedy public-houses. Do you remember the Egyptian usurper who made a wine-cup into the image of a god, for the edification of his former boon-fellows? Well, we’re somethin’ like that astute monarch; we have to use all sorts of stratagems to persuade the world of our gentility. If this affair between you and Winnie had come to anything, do you know what she would have done? She would have tried all her life to live up to Mayfair, and it would have meant either that you were dragged away from your proper work, or that she would have been eternally dissatisfied. My dear boy, she would have reproached you every day for marrying her.”

He stopped, feeling that the words were not coming as he wished. He wanted to be kind, and there were a few useful things he thought Bertram ought to know. But he could not properly order what was in his mind. Bertram felt the intention and presently answered less bitterly:

“Why do you take the trouble to say all this?”

“I wish I had my brother Theodore’s eloquence. He’d say what I want to in the most beautiful language. He’s not a bad chap, although you probably don’t set much store on him. He’s so fortunate as to feel himself a person of importance; I don’t. I always wish I’d been the son of nobody in particular. It bores me to death to go about under the shadow of my father’s name. I can’t think why it is, but I go through life feeling as if I were perpetually wearin’ fancy-dress. I haven’t read your book. I believe it’s very instructive, and at my time of life I avoid instruction. But when Winnie said she was going to marry you, I went one day to hear you speak at a meetin’ in Holborn. I was never so surprised in my life.”

“Why?”