“That is how the matter stands before marriage,” went on Mrs. Carshaw, sure that she was kind in being merciless. “You can conceive how it would be afterwards. And society is all nature—it never forgives; or, if it forgives, it may condone sins, but never an indiscretion. Nor must you think that your love would console my son for the great social loss which his connection with you threatens to bring on him. It will console him for a month, but a wife is not a world, nor, however beloved, does she compensate for the loss of the world. If, therefore, you love my son, as I take it that you do—do you?”
Winifred’s face was covered. She did not answer.
“Tell me in confidence. I am a woman, too, and know—”
A sob escaped from the poor bowed head. Mrs. Carshaw was moved. She had not counted on so hard a task. She had even thought of money!
“Poor thing! That will make your duty very hard. I wish—but there is no use in wishing! Necessity knows no pity. Winifred, you must summon all your strength of mind, and get out of this false position.”
“What am I to do? What can I do?” wailed Winifred. She was without means or occupation, and could not fly from the house.
“You can go away,” said Mrs. Carshaw, “without letting him know whither you have gone, and till you go you can throw cold water on his passion by pretending dislike or indifference—”
“But could I do such a thing, even if I tried?” came the despairing cry.
“It will be hard, certainly, but a woman should be able to accomplish everything for the man she loves. Remember for whose sake you will be doing it, and promise me before I leave you.”
“Oh, you should give me time to think before I promise anything,” sobbed Winifred. “I believe I shall go mad. I am the most unfortunate girl that ever lived. I did not seek him—he sought me; and now, when I—Have you no pity?”