XXX
I went to Walter that evening after dinner. I went out alone, and to his house. I asked to see him, and was afraid I should see his mother, but she was upstairs, in the drawing-room, and he came down alone.
He came into the dining-room; there was a smell of fish there, but the dinner was cleared away. There was gas alight in the room, over the table; the maid had lit it when she showed me in; it had lit with a loud report, like a gun.
He came up to me and took my hands.
‘What is it?’ he asked me quickly. ‘What has happened?’
I said:
‘It is all a mistake. I cannot marry you. I am sorry.’
He said:
‘Why not?’
I said:
‘What do you mean?’
‘It is all my fault. It is not fair to you either. I don’t love you enough or in the right way, at all.’
He said:
‘You will love me in time. I know you will. I know you don’t yet; not as I love you.’
I said:
‘I am afraid not. That is why I have come. I ought not to have let it go on so long. Somehow, I did not understand. I don’t think I shall marry any one, ever at all. I don’t think I ever could!’
And then I cried; it was stupid; it was the last moment in the world to cry, but a sob came in my throat, and then another, and I sobbed out loud, and Walter took me in his arms and comforted me.
And it was over. I had meant to be cold and firm, and I could not. I felt so frightened; frightened of life, and of myself, and he was very kind. He seemed much older than me, and much wiser; he seemed just then all I wanted him to be.
He took me back to Campden Hill Square, and said good-bye to me on the step as he had said it that evening in March, that seemed now, long ago.
He said:
‘It will be better when we are married. Only two weeks more to wait now.’
And I knew then that it was bound to come; that I must go through with it; and I did not know whether it was a mistake or not.