Chapter Chapter 31 · IN BATTERSEA PARK.

. IN BATTERSEA PARK.

Now although Lewisham had promised to bring things to a conclusion

with Miss Heydinger, he did nothing in the matter for five weeks, he

merely left that crucial letter of hers unanswered. In that time their

removal from Madam Gadow's into the gaunt house at Clapham was

accomplished--not without polyglot controversy--and the young couple

settled themselves into the little room on the second floor even as

they had arranged. And there it was that suddenly the world was

changed--was astonishingly transfigured--by a whisper.

It was a whisper between sobs and tears, with Ethel's arms about him

and Ethel's hair streaming down so that it hid her face from him. And

he too had whispered, dismayed perhaps a little, and yet feeling a

strange pride, a strange novel emotion, feeling altogether different

from the things he had fancied he might feel when this thing that he

had dreaded should come. Suddenly he perceived finality, the advent of

the solution, the reconciliation of the conflict that had been waged

so long. Hesitations were at an end;--he took his line.

Next day he wrote a note, and two mornings later he started for his

mathematical duffers an hour before it was absolutely necessary, and

instead of going directly to Vigours', went over the bridge to

Battersea Park. There waiting for him by a seat where once they had

met before, he found Miss Heydinger pacing. They walked up and down

side by side, speaking for a little while about indifferent topics,

and then they came upon a pause ...

"You have something to tell me?" said Miss Heydinger abruptly.

Lewisham changed colour a little. "Oh yes," he said; "the fact is--"

He affected ease. "Did I ever tell you I was married?"

"_Married_?"

"Yes."

"Married!"

"Yes," a little testily.

For a moment neither spoke. Lewisham stood without dignity staring at

the dahlias of the London County Council, and Miss Heydinger stood

regarding him.

"And that is what you have to tell me?"

Mr. Lewisham tamed and met her eyes. "Yes!" he said. "That is what I

have to tell you."

Pause. "Do you mind if I sit down?" asked Miss Heydinger in an

indifferent tone.

"There is a seat yonder," said Lewisham, "under the tree."

They walked to the seat in silence.

"Now," said Miss Heydinger, quietly. "Tell me whom you have married."

Lewisham answered sketchily. She asked him another question and

another. He felt stupid and answered with a halting truthfulness.

"I might have known," she said, "I might have known. Only I would not

know. Tell me some more. Tell me about her."

Lewisham did. The whole thing was abominably disagreeable to him, but

it had to be done, he had promised Ethel it should be done. Presently

Miss Heydinger knew the main outline of his story, knew all his story

except the emotion that made it credible. "And you were

married--before the second examination?" she repeated.

"Yes," said Lewisham.

"But why did you not tell me of this before?" asked Miss Heydinger.

"I don't, know," said Lewisham. "I wanted to--that day, in Kensington

Gardens. But I didn't. I suppose I ought to have done so."

"I think you ought to have done so."

"Yes, I suppose I ought ... But I didn't. Somehow--it has been hard. I

didn't know what you would say. The thing seemed so rash, you know,

and all that."

He paused blankly.

"I suppose you had to do it," said Miss Heydinger presently, with her

eyes on his profile.

Lewisham began the second and more difficult part of his

explanation. "There's been a difficulty," he said, "all the way

along--I mean--about you, that is. It's a little difficult--The fact

is, my life, you know--She looks at things differently from what we

do."

"We?"

"Yes--it's odd, of course. But she has seen your letters--"

"You didn't show her--?"

"No. But, I mean, she knows you write to me, and she knows you write

about Socialism and Literature and--things we have in common--things

she hasn't."

"You mean to say she doesn't understand these things?"

"She's not thought about them. I suppose there's a sort of difference

in education--"

"And she objects--?"

"No," said Lewisham, lying promptly. "She doesn't _object_ ..."

"Well?" said Miss Heydinger, and her face was white.

"She feels that--She feels--she does not say, of course, but I know

she feels that it is something she ought to share. I know--how she

cares for me. And it shames her--it reminds her--Don't you see how it

hurts her?"

"Yes. I see. So that even that little--" Miss Heydinger's breath

seemed to catch and she was abruptly silent.

She spoke at last with an effort. "That it hurts _me_," she said, and

grimaced and stopped again.

"No," said Lewisham, "that is not it." He hesitated.

"I _knew_ this would hurt you."

"You love her. You can sacrifice--"

"No. It is not that. But there is a difference. Hurting _her_--she

would not understand. But you--somehow it seems a natural thing for me

to come to you. I seem to look to you--For her I am always making

allowances--"

"You love her."

"I wonder if it _is_ that makes the difference. Things are so

complex. Love means anything--or nothing. I know you better than I do

her, you know me better than she will ever do. I could tell you things

I could not tell her. I could put all myself before you--almost--and

know you would understand--Only--"

"You love her."

"Yes," said Lewisham lamely and pulling at his moustache. "I suppose

... that must be it."

For a space neither spoke. Then Miss Heydinger said "_Oh_!" with

extraordinary emphasis.

"To think of this end to it all! That all your promise ... What is it

she gives that I could not have given?

"Even now! Why should I give up that much of you that is mine? If she

could take it--But she cannot take it. If I let you go--you will do

nothing. All this ambition, all these interests will dwindle and die,

and she will not mind. She will not understand. She will think that

she still has you. Why should she covet what she cannot possess? Why

should she be given the thing that is mine--to throw aside?"

She did not look at Lewisham, but before her, her face a white misery.

"In a way--I had come to think of you as something, belonging to me

... I shall--still."

"There is one thing," said Lewisham after a pause, "it is a thing that

has come to me once or twice lately. Don't you think that perhaps you

over-estimate the things I might have done? I know we've talked of

great things to do. But I've been struggling for half a year and more

to get the sort of living almost anyone seems able to get. It has

taken me all my time. One can't help thinking after that, perhaps the

world is a stiffer sort of affair ..."

"No," she said decisively. "You could have done great things.

"Even now," she said, "you may do great things--If only I might see

you sometimes, write to you sometimes--You are so capable

and--weak. You must have somebody--That is your weakness. You fail in

your belief. You must have support and belief--unstinted support and

belief. Why could I not be that to you? It is all I want to be. At

least--all I want to be now. Why need she know? It robs her of

nothing. I want nothing--she has. But I know of my own strength too I

can do nothing. I know that with you ... It is only knowing hurts

her. Why should she know?"

Mr. Lewisham looked at her doubtfully. That phantom greatness of his,

it was that lit her eyes. In that instant at least he had no doubts

of the possibility of his Career. But he knew that in some way the

secret of his greatness and this admiration went together. Conceivably

they were one and indivisible. Why indeed need Ethel know? His

imagination ran over the things that might be done, the things that

might happen, and touched swiftly upon complication, confusion,

discovery.

"The thing is, I must simplify my life. I shall do nothing unless I

simplify my life. Only people who are well off can be--complex. It is

one thing or the other--"

He hesitated and suddenly had a vision of Ethel weeping as once he had

seen her weep with the light on the tears in her eyes.

"No," he said almost brutally. "No. It's like this--I can't do

anything underhand. I mean--I'm not so amazingly honest--now. But I've

not that sort of mind. She would find me out. It would do no good and

she would find me out. My life's too complex. I can't manage it and go

straight. I--you've overrated me. And besides--Things have

happened. Something--" He hesitated and then snatched at his resolve,

"I've got to simplify--and that's the plain fact of the case. I'm

sorry, but it is so."

Miss Heydinger made no answer. Her silence astonished him. For nearly

twenty seconds perhaps they sat without speaking. With a quick motion

she stood up, and at once he stood up before her. Her face was

flushed, her eyes downcast.

"Good-bye," she said suddenly in a low tone and held out her hand.

"But," said Lewisham and stopped. Miss Heydinger's colour left her.

"Good-bye," she said, looking him suddenly in the eyes and smiling

awry. "There is no more to say, is there? Good-bye."

He took her hand. "I hope I didn't--"

"Good-bye," she said impatiently, and suddenly disengaged her hand and

turned away from him. He made a step after her.

"Miss Heydinger," he said, but she did not stop. "Miss Heydinger." He

realised that she did not want to answer him again....

He remained motionless, watching her retreating figure. An

extraordinary sense of loss came into his mind, a vague impulse to

pursue her and pour out vague passionate protestations....

Not once did she look back. She was already remote when he began

hurrying after her. Once he was in motion he quickened his pace and

gained upon her. He was within thirty yards of her as she drew near

the gates.

His pace slackened. Suddenly he was afraid she might look back. She

passed out of the gates, out of his sight. He stopped, looking where

she had disappeared. He sighed and took the pathway to his left that

led back to the bridge and Vigours'.

Halfway across this bridge came another crisis of indecision. He

stopped, hesitating. An impertinent thought obtruded. He looked at his

watch and saw that he must hurry if he would catch the train for

Earl's Court and Vigours'. He said Vigours' might go to the devil.

But in the end he caught his train.